My NDA Entrance

Ever since I can remember, all I ever wanted was to become a fighter pilot. I learnt in my early teens that the surest and fastest route to becoming one was through NDA. And so, I joined the 73^rd NDA in the January of 1985.

 But then I am running ahead of myself. So please indulge in me as I lay the background for this.

 My first motivation to become a fighter pilot came from my father and his colleagues. Dad was a Navigator in the IAF and had flown eight combat missions on the venerable Canberra in 1965 Ops. Many an evening did I spend as a young boy listening to him and his mates recount their war stories. They, of course, scarcely needed the encouragement which I provided in abundance. The names of the Pak airbases that they struck were enshrined in my young mind forever. Mauripur, Sargodha, Peshawar (always pronounced with an Anglo-Indian accent as ‘PayshaWere’), Chor; I knew about them way before I knew most Indian cities.

 The fact that I wore the khaki uniform as a seven-year-old boy in Grade III of Stanes High School helped. It was the same colour and fabric as the then-IAF uniform. At age ten or eleven I would don my father’s overalls and pose for pictures which my sister would click. I even learnt to stand in the classic pose and swagger with the helmet on my hip. Dad’s mates loved it and would even loan me their precious Rayban Aviators.

 In my 8^th standard, I joined the Junior Wing of NCC. The trips to Kalaikunda were particularly exciting for we would see the mighty Sabre-Killer, the Gnat in action. All heady stuff. I enjoyed the entire training; the drill, firing the 0.22 and even the 0.303. I won a shooting competition as well and Dad gave me an air gun as a present.

 In time I joined Bangalore Military School. Again, the khaki beckoned, and I was on a roll. Life at BMS was a mixed bag. There was a lot of bullying, ragging, and some unmentionable stuff that goes on in boys boarding schools. But I am grateful that the school encouraged me to play all sports. I won medals in cross-country, football, athletics, and even book prizes in debate and elocution. I learnt and participated in boxing, a love that has lasted a lifetime. I will always have tremendous respect for our teachers and coaches at BMS. Students of the XI^th and 12^th standards regularly joined NDA. These seniors would come back to school and address all juniors in the Assembly Hall. It was mesmerizing. They spoke of the fantastic infrastructure, the immaculate layout, boxing, cross-country, games, and the amazing food; it was enough to make me besotted. My only desire from now onwards was to join NDA.

 For various reasons, I left BMS and joined Kendriya Vidyalaya Shillong. My father was serving as the Ops II C, handling helicopter operations in Eastern Air Command. If I recall correctly, he had to work a lot with the Command Ops Room. Young officers who had bounced fighter flying would man the Ops Room in shifts round the clock. Dad was always quite popular with them as he was a great host, and my mother always laid a superb table. Most of these officers were ex-NDAs and I would listen to their tales in rapt attention.

 Having finished my XI^th, I broached the subject of the NDA Entrance Examination. Incidentally, I wasn’t aware that I could have applied six months earlier. Nevertheless, I went ahead. Now, my mother was not at all inclined, but my father was delighted. A JWO who worked under my father got the application form; his son who was undergoing graduation too was going to appear. We filled it up and there I was ready to go. However, I hadn’t foreseen my father’s fervour. This JWO would recount to my father how his son was burning both ends of the candle whilst preparing for the exam. He would elaborate on the vast amount of material that his son had accumulated. How it was his third attempt and how tough the exam was going to be, and how stiff the competition was. In contrast, there was me. I had done nothing to prepare for the exam. My father would blow his top. He would see me and yell, “Awamanam!”. This is a pretty descriptive word to describe everything that a father feels for his prodigal son. Disappointment, the looming loss of face, societal embarrassment, I am sure you get the drift.  

 Now, please don’t get me wrong. I didn’t take the exam lightly. I simply didn’t know how to prepare. I had gone through the syllabus. It consisted of GK, which was a personal favourite. The academic syllabus of Math, Physics, Chemistry and very little Biology was of IXth and Xth grade standards. I had just cleared my Xth board with distinctions. So, I was quite confident. But this constant graphic description worried me. So off I was dispatched to the JWO’s residence where I met this veteran examinee. Looking at the amount of material he had, I was petrified. There were barely 2 weeks to go. He told me that my preparation was hopeless but was kind enough to motivate me with a “there is always a next time”. In desperation, I went with my father to the Command Reference Library and issued a book that had the question papers of the last five years. That was 10 sets of papers. I went through a few and found them not very daunting. I dismissed this as a case of luck. The papers asked what I knew. So I decided to give it a shot.  

The first exam of the three-day schedule was on 17 May 1984. As time went by, that day became significant for a good many reasons. If I remember correctly the KV School opened on 14 May. I went for three days and was to bunk school for the examination which was held in Shillong City. The venue was the State Auditorium near Ward Lake.

 I have always been quite an independent boy. I was brought up in boarding schools where there is zero mollycoddling. So, I worked out a way to go. The JWO’s son, two other seniors from the officer’s kids and I would walk up to the Five Mile Point. The Command Unit Ration LP Run was a 3-ton Shaktiman that would route along this place and drop us off at Shillong Bara Bazaar. From there it was a short 15 min walk to the Auditorium. Now, my parents had gone to Nepal a week before. They shopped a lot at Dulabari. Crockery, cutlery, carpets, and all sorts of knick-knacks. They even got all three of us kids a pair of jeans each. I still remember the brand; it was called One-Nine. It looked the part. Brass studs, rivets, a brass zip.

 So, wearing the new jeans, I swung myself over the tailboard clambering aboard the truck. And it happened. The horror of horrors! The jeans split along the inner seam all the way from the bottom of one leg across the crotch all the way to the other. My 'friends' collapsed laughing. If I think back the situation was comical. But I was in tears, literally. I sat with my legs pressed close together to salvage what little I could of my dignity.

After getting off at Bara Bazaar I bought four packets of safety pins. I then stitched together the trouser flaps with the safety pins. I walked in that way all the way to the auditorium. My eyes were blinded by hot tears as I felt everyone laughing at me. Getting into the Exam Hall, I mumbled to the invigilators. I finished the identification procedure and somehow made my way to my seat and collapsed. A kingly invigilator brought a glass of water for me and consoled me. He tried to get me to relax and composed for the exam.

The first paper was ####. It went in a blur. I think there was a break of about an hour. With my friend, I dashed to the market and found a tailor. The tailor gave me a rag to tie around my waist in a vain attempt at hiding my modesty. He then stitched the jeans. I put them on and tested them for strength by squatting and swinging my legs around. They held and I breathed sighs of relief. 

We then got back to the exam hall. The second paper was like the first. I was unable to concentrate. But I finished the paper and submitted it quite ahead of time. After the others finished up we headed back home. The Shaktiman trundled up and again I swung myself gingerly over the tailboard. The blessed jeans held and I silently but profusely thanked the tailor.

My father was there at home as I walked in. He took one look at my red and swollen eyes and feared the worst. I held back my tears as I related the day's happenings. He had little sympathy as I guess he was maybe more anxious than me about my performance. After a few rounds of 'awamanam', we were done. The next day had two papers on Mathematics. I went through the mechanics having been disappointed with the earlier day's mishappenings. Listening to the other colleagues and their descriptions of the questions and answers, I was very disheartened. The NDA dream just disappeared in a pool of streaming tears and ripped tears.   

My father soon got posted to Baroda(present-day Vadodara) and we left for that city. I was in my XIIth and was quite distraught at having to change my school. But the domestic problems of staying without my father, my sister being already in a hostel in Vadodara etc made the move inevitable. I joined Kendriya Vidyalaya Harni. The school was boring as compared to Shillong. I gave up on the NDA dream as there was little support at home. 

A month into Vadodara I was aboard yet another Shaktiman that was our school bu. A classmate was waving a copy of the Economic Times that had the NDA entrance exam results. The paper was nearly a month old. . I tried to act casual as I asked for the paper. Since I didn't remember my Candidate Number, I took the paper home. To my absolute delight, I cleared the exam. On making a few enquiries with some ex-NDA officers at the base I realised that I had not received my SSB call letter. They advised me to write to Dholpur House with the details. I received a prompt reply that they had sent two call letters to our Shillong Address that had not been replied to. A last and final call letter was enclosed asking me to report to SSB at Varanasi.

To cut to the chase, I cleared the SSB and the medicals and made it to the merit list getting Air Force as my first choice.

The rest as they say is history. 

On the Use of Punitive Air Strikes

Yes, Pakistan's Army especially its senior leadership needs to be punished. Severely.

It is my ardent belief that our military leadership and our rank and file have always understood this. My first few years in the IAF coincided with the commencement of the ‘War of a Thousand Cuts' (WOATC). My CO was a well-read, articulate officer and an exceptional professional. The Boss had been through a unique career. As No 1 on the list of ETPs to become an astronaut, an ECG abnormality detected in Russia during the training, moved him out of fighters. He then proceeded to command two helicopter units, an Airborne FAC Flight and IAF’s sole Mi-35 Sqn.  He was very Catholic about the need for young officers to develop an understanding of the macro picture. Ruthless about the need for us young ‘Piloos’ to read, discussion on the strategy to counter this WOATC that we faced daily in the valley, was a daily affair. But more about Chakku Mulay some other time.


Our Helicopter Flight subscribed to IDSA and Vayu. Late Air Cmde Jasjit Singh’s books and articles were discussed in great detail and reviews and ppts (the Blackboard Versions) were mandatory. One book that I read was Ravi Rikhye's ‘The War that Never Was’. While I have nothing complimentary to say about that book, the starting few pages made a lasting impression. He wrote an imaginary account of a Mi-25, cutting into Pakistan through Rajauri, with an SF team on board; the target being the Kahuta Nuclear Complex. 

While the fictional strike was a success, in reality, we lost a huge opportunity. Imagine!

This was the time when Col John A Warden published his seminal book ‘The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat’. While seldom acknowledged, this classic treatise on Air War Strategy laid the foundation for the USAF’s Shock and Awe campaign of Desert Storm.

I remember coming across the term Punitive Air Strikes around that time. It has taken us 30 years to use this. Despite seeing the first-hand result of a similar strike of 128 rockets on Government House in Dhaka in 1971.

The problem perhaps lies in our inability to convince the political leadership that the Indian military capability needs to be developed and utilised as an instrument of state policy. The bureaucracy that assists our polity in its constant ‘Election Mode Governance’ is perhaps the most sinister evil.

We too are blameworthy. Our legendary turf wars between the Army and the Air Force are responsible for a great deal of this. And these two squabbling siblings rarely acknowledge the Navy.

If we look into ourselves, we will find that we have always been reactionary to the Pak military’s upgradation programmes.

The MiG 29 and Mirage 2000 came after PAF acquired F-16.

When the Pakis acquired the AH-1 S, we got 2 x sqns of Attack Helicopters. We need perhaps 10 squadrons and we still have only two (even with the induction of the Apaches). The LCH equipped 116 HU is yet to be weaponised.

I remember Air Cmde Jasjit Singh advocating that the first use of heavy artillery by the Pakis should have been replied to by air strikes. This was way back in the early 90s.

This then is our tragedy.

And so we continue to lose young men, especially officers, who are forced to take unacceptable risks in order to keep our land free and our people secure.

That said, there is an increasingly distasteful trend of veterans foolishly succumbing to either a sickening so-called liberal thought or a distasteful anti-Muslim/Christian view. 

The bureaucracy is very quick to quote Georges Clemenceau saying war is too serious a matter to leave to soldiers. I have always countered with Gen Charles de Gaulle's quote saying politics is too serious a matter to be left to the politicians.

As serving officers, we were advised to always remain politically inactive but to be acutely politically aware. And the way to do that is by good staff work. Read the background on all these issues. Do not blindly believe in Mass Media. Research the issue. Social Media is another demon that needs to be tamed. Fake news is often spread like wildfire.

My request to all of us is to deliberately keep ourselves neutral. Avoid these smart quips. And do not label your brother offrs as Sanghis or bhakts or sickulars or CONgressis.

Jai Hind ki Sena

Grace and Supercession

 If you notice, I have opted for an older version of the spelling. This version is what has been most in vogue, at least in our part of the world. My research reveals that the reason for using this spelling is due to the association with similar words such as intercede or accede.

         If even the spelling of this word has so much of baggage and difference of acceptance, small wonder that supercession has a huge impact on the military. I have known about officers contemplating if not attempting suicide. I have seen Commanding Officers break down in the open. I have witnessed brave gallantry award winners look shell-shocked and lose all sense of purpose.

So have each one of you, those in the military.

         It is difficult for those not in the profession of arms to understand it. Let me try and put it across as simply as I can.

As soldiers, you are taught from the first day that we live, breathe and fight as a team; but always with a leader. You must be that leader. You want to become the Division Cadet Corporal in your first term in NDA Wing. You must become the Squadron Sergeant and you are God if you lead the Passing out Parade as Wing Cadet Captain as a callow lad, all of seventeen.

At the lowest end of the combat chain is the single aircraft multi-crew team, with the captain as the leader. Like the two-man sniper team, with the senior as the leader. All throughout fighting formations and peace establishments right to the Fifth Floor Corner Room with a view of the Rajpath at Vayu Bhawan, there is a team at each stage and there is a leader. You as an officer have to be that leader. At every stage, as you go through your life, you will be a leader.

As you go through your career, the fauj gives you several chances. You make it to a Coy cdr, you get four-ac lead, and you command that patrol boat. Then comes the big daddy of all these jumps. Command of a Combat Unit!

It differs across the three services. For the Army, the cliff edge is the Select Colonel Rank, which will give you command of your battalion. In the Air Force, you have a Command Board as a Wing Commander, and you will be selected to that cherished command of that Mirage Squadron. In the Navy, your superior performance amongst your peers will give you ‘sea-time’ that will pave the way to command a fighting ship. Heady stuff!

But there are limited seats on this bus. If you don’t make it to the next stage, you will not be a leader. That doesn’t mean that you are not good enough. It just means that there was only one gold medal and you didn’t get it. Now you will get a few more chances but the gold medal is not for you. Unfortunately, it also means that you lose the respect associated with being a leader. Passed-over officers get staff jobs, and they do not bring you the respect that is your life breath. It is a curious thing; this respect. It translates into everything in your military life. The jobs you will be entrusted with, the ranks you wear, where you sit, what orders you pass, and most importantly how your juniors look at you.

         In the olden days, once you got superceded, you put in your papers and went home. You walked your dog and if your parents had left you an inheritance, you tilled that land and managed to make ends meet. When you returned for the Battalion Battle Honours Day, the youngsters greeted you with respect. You had left with your honour intact.

However, as life got increasingly complex and expensive, once you got superceded, you continued till you got a pension and then you went home. It was still okay at the Annual Dinner on Air Force Day. After all, you needed that pension.

It wasn’t greener pastures, and it will rarely be greener.

Ask any of the guys who quit early in service, even without a pension. They are the most active in our course groups. They pitch in the maximum for OROP and Veteran Welfare and know that they won’t gain a naya paisa. Several of my coursemates are dollar millionaires, one counts his millions in pounds sterling. They are winners and not sorry losers. They commanded repect for hanging up their boots when they got disillusioned.

You leave the fauj because you can’t bear being treated as an also-ran. Ask an officer the difference of pay between a Flt Lt or a Sqn Ldr, or a Colonel and a Brigadier, or a Rear Admiral and a Vice Admiral. Most officers don’t know their basic pay. Okay, ask an officer’s spouse. He or she wouldn’t know it at all, they just know the amount that gets credited each month's end.  Ask her about the difference in rank and privileges, and she may tell you about the difference in Aiguillettes also. That is because the fauj is all about rank and appointment and honour and responsibility and leadership.

It was not and never will be about pay.

         I admit that there was a period, especially during the end 90s. That was the time when there was an aviation boom in the country when a reasonable number of transport and fighter pilots contemplated Premature Separation from Service. (Yes ma’am, that is the correct nomenclature, not VRS and not PMR) Statistics exist to show that those who left were again, officers who knew they were not making it due to a variety of factors. Rare was the High Alpha Shooting Star Fighter Pilot who quit command of a Mirage Squadron and went off to fly an ATF for Kingfisher. The larger numbers were transport and helicopter pilots who had not been cleared for command and who were not going to become Group Captains.

So if you got superceded, you quit and it was the deep hurt of not being able to put on your next rank or get your next command- and not then, not now not ever, about your paygrade.

         And if you left, it was to bow out gracefully, almost always.

         That brings me to the vexing question. Surely you don’t want a substantially large number of passed-over, demotivated officers holding onto ranks till they superannuate. Then do you not want them to retire gracefully? Or would you rather that they hold onto the rank of a select Colonel or Gp Capt for another seven years after being superceded.

         Faced with seven years more to superannuation to get that elusive OROP, to me his decision is a given. I am certain he will doff his hat and bid adieu to the OROP that he may get on superannuation, hang up his uniform and fade away. The only issue is, that you, in the service and you in the government took unfair advantage of his state of despair.

Let them retire gracefully and with OROP.

         

A Thousand Words

Life was oh so cool that time! I was flying Mi-17 helicopters with the Siachen Tigers in good ol’ Bari. With air maintenance tasks nearly over for the month, the only thing to do was pick teeth after a gigantic breakfast. So that very innocuous task to “Just, sling that darn engine out of a rice field”, was welcome.

Little did I know!

Sometime earlier in that November of 2003, a MiG 21 trainer aircraft on downwind at Bagdogra had flamed out. Making sure that the aircraft would crash in an uninhabited area, both pilots ejected safely. Some superb reflexes and high-quality training apart, thank God for that!

The Court of Inquiry blamed the HAL serviced engine. Something that the HAL suits fiercely disagreed. They asked for a strip examination of the engine at Koraput (I think). Now, the R-3 engine weighs one and a half tons. It was sunk in a flooded rice field. No crane could go into that slush to pick it up. The station offered to drag it over the 30 odd metres to the road. The suits agreed only too readily. Luckily, the Presiding Officer smelt a rat. Digging into earlier files, he found out that this was an oft used ploy. After testing, the suits would argue that the engine was damaged by the dragging. The test would be inconclusive and the HAL would be home and free.

The Cheetah Commanding Officer (CO) at Baghdogra suggested that he could fly over to the site, hover and sling the engine out. A quick call to the Command and they said, "Sure thing". When he attempted to sling it out, he was in for a rude shock. The darn engine was too close to the trees and electrical wires. A few game attempts and he gave up wisely.

And that’s how this shitload sortie landed up on our plate.

Our crew composition was good. While I held an A MG, I was pretty new to the east. So to compensate, there was my Co Joe, a rustic Jat lad with bags of experience in the Eastern Air Force. His hands could make a helicopter dance. Co Joe loved to talk and in a language peppered with delightful and quaint swear words with that typical harsh accent. The Flight Engineer was a fearless Bong. Psycho and I had served together in Kargil. He thought nothing of crawling onto the saddle of a Mi-17, with the ROTORS ROTATING! Finally, as Flight Gunner, I had an experienced Sergeant. The Glacier, deserts, the East, Toughie had operated everywhere.

We had a small powwow. Let’s plan wheels-roll at sunrise, I said. Ferry to Baghdogra and do a ground recce the same evening. Fly the under-slung sortie the next day. Wrap it up and dash back home for the weekend. That’s when the CO’s orderly came to me. In that typical mysterious way with that typical horrible sinister smile, something all CO’s Orderlies get trained in a special course in some secret darn place, he told me that the old man had enquired if I may be inclined to find the time to see him. 

Inclined? Find the time? Fucking, when the CO calls, you fucking hop, run and jump, and all at the same time. 

Now our CO was an all-knowing, benevolent, and battle-hardened decorated old warhorse. He’d been everywhere and done everything. He asked me about my plan. I laid it out straight and simple. He smiled and asked, “Would you like to take another Gunner, one of those rookies?” I bobbed my head and said that it was the most brilliant piece of advice anyone had ever received, including the verses of the Holy Book. Deep inside I thought, damn, why another guy? 

I realized the value of this piece of advice later on.

Co Joe made sure we got to Baghdogra uneventfully. We saw land the odd time en route to Guwahati. We even managed to avoid rain in some places. All pretty humdrum for the place and time of the year. 

The station was all geared up. The Chief Operations Officer was a Jalebi Jock. A nice guy, but pretty sceptical since he had seen the Cheetah’s failed attempt. The Station Flight Safety Officer was a mud crawler, like us. He briefed us and then suggested a ground recce. 

We went in a Gypsy and saw the place and damn, reality hit us. The engine was lying on the edge of a flooded field, surrounded by trees and squeezed tighter than a rat’s ar*e by wires. I sat down on the nearby road, dumbstruck. Co Joe too for once is silent when Psycho Bong says, “I think it can be done”. I raise my eyebrows. Toughie adds, “Yeah we could make an approach from the side and do a real high hover. I’ll then talk you down”. Rookie chips in with, “Sure thing, I can crawl to that place and hook up the sling when you get down.” Psycho then says, “Could be just a little tight, but it’s a doable thing”. 

Co Joe now finds his voice and says, “BC, G may danda dalwaney ka shauk hain to phir mota patla kya dekhna”. There is no way that I can accurately translate this piece of typical Haryanavi philosophy. It means that if you love to shove a stick up your ar*e, why worry about the thickness. I nodded furiously and squeezed out a, “Yeah, that’s the Josh, guys”.

It was dark by the time we got back. Downed the customary two large, ate the standard scramble eggs with Paruts (that’s the cool way to describe parathas). The air conditioning in the rooms was noisy but effective. We fought back with lusty snoring for those eight hours of beauty sleep. The next day we chatted some more about the sortie seriously, very very seriously. Then we got airborne.

A picture, they say is worth a thousand words. The word count is now exactly that. Let these ten pictures talk. 

We set up a hover a*se-ways to the damn wires because of strong winds. Rookie is sitting at the white spot in the centre.

Rookie comes crawling through slush under the downwash and attaches the sling to the cables wound around the engine. The blessed engine up, I turn cross for a circuit.

Gingerly, I approach the truck, Co Joe is whistling while looking for poles, wires, damn everything.

Steady now, says Toughie

Steady now, says Toughie

DCO

The engine is back at the base.

Exactly on the tires, not bad, huh?

Hmm, not bad at all.

How to get your Application Attested by Judicial Magistrate First Class

The battle for getting your application attested by a Judicial Magistrate First Class starts with having to buy a Rs 100 affidavit.
Head across Rajiv Chowk through the underpass to a small dirty little market opposite the Mini Secretariat. There are a hundred small little shops that sell these stamp papers. You need to fill in details such as name, father's name, address and purpose. The vendor will then download a form, stamp it and you are off.
After printing the matter on your Rs 100/- Affidavit, now head to the lawyer bazaar on the premises of the Dist and Sessions court adjacent to the Mini Sectt. Get hold of a lawyer (they sit in huddles under the Tin Shelter. One of them will identify you for a steep steal of Rs 100/-.
Then head to the Counter Hall on the first floor opposite Room No 121 which is the Office of the Badshahpur Naib Tehsildar. Go to COunter No 1 (Registration Clerk). For a sum of Rs 25/- he will take a digital picture and stamp and sign your affidavit.
Incidentally, the Naib Tehsildar is the Executive Magistrate.

Old School

My parents are old school. And so are yours, I am sure. After all, if you are Indian and reside here and are still reading this, you are in the 74 % literate community and the 125 million that have access to the net. So the likelihood of you having parents who went to a school is 100 %.

But what I mean by old school is the no-nonsense variety. My Dad was a Menon - translate to tough malayali guy. Add second generation military. Result - A father who solved issues immediately with a thick black IAF leather belt. In fact, I feel that the behaviour of Air Force brats has been severely damaged by the change of the IAF uniform belt. My mom a devout Iyer, felt this was the correct manner in which severe crimes were to be dealt with. The ordinary issues were dispensed with a quick slap. Children were to be seen rarely and never heard.

This system of immediate justice was reserved almost exclusively for me; being the elder son. My brother, younger by almost three years was a cute kid. Very naughty, but super cute. So he escaped this legal system. My father by exercise of his ultimate authority had exempted my elder sister from this punishment. "Real men don't hit girls". (In my teenage years he explained to me while we don't hit girls, we ALWAYS hit on girls)

Now before we go ahead, please don't get me wrong. Dad was great; actually make that present continuous tense- Dad Is Great. It was his quick fire method of dealing with any and every of the weird things that the three of us would keep doing. Chopping up the entire banana grove in a game of 'chor-pooleece' - BAM, eating an entire bottle of Pork Pickle on mom's Santoshi Ma Friday fast - WHACK,  bunking school and going swimming - THWACK, outside the house in bathroom slippers - major crime - KA BANG.

The thing that I remember the most is there was no difference between the rules for us two boys and my elder sister. Restrictions were plenty and across the board with no gender bias. Kids will be home before dark - all of you. Likewise, all kids will wipe the kitchen counter, dry the dishes, set the table. My brother and I were taught to do the dishes, make tea, set beds, broom, mop - everything. Housework was OURS, and it better be done well - punctuated with a loving cuff on the ears.

That is why when some neo liberal lady says her husband helps her with HER housework, I see red. If some guy condescendingly says he makes the tea on f&%*ing Sundays, my blood boils. There is a couple i know; the guy proudly claims to have boiled eggs, all while grinning like Mr Bean - his wife listens to this with that glowing smile. Excuse me, I need a barf bag. And with the guy who says he takes his kid for a walk in the pram on the fourth Thursday of  every month, I wanna get violent.

Because, that is so damn wrong. I mean she is your wife. That is your kid. I used to hate Poha and I detest Sabusana Khichadi. But my wife and sons love this stuff. So I learnt it from my chef brother and made it. My mom taught us kids to do the bathrooms. The result is that today my wife knows that I have a very sound post retirement job as a safai kaaramchari. I cook, cut, clean chop, dust, wipe and mop like a professional. And it is no big deal. 

There are several who think that by this kind of house work stuff makes them a little un-macho . To them I say fuck you. The people who know me, can tell that I am an Alpha male. So was my dad. So is my younger brother. But our women mean the world to us.

As I said, my parents are old school.

Woman - Life to this Earth

My ode to women on 08 March 2012 - Womens Day

In this our world of today,

If you women decide to stand fast,

There is nothing that you cannot achieve.

With you tough times don’t last.

You can run that grueling marathon, 

test fly a chopper or a plane.

You can climb the highest mountain.

You are stars and you will win fame.

You are who gives life to this earth.

There is strength in your sinews.

Compassion, beauty, thought and wisdom,

Families are because of you.

So to you all my lovely women friends,

Nieces, sisters, mother and my wife,

On this Woman’s Day as on every day,

Thank you for the beauty in life.

I Fear a Fear

I wrote these lines in a flood of emotion in December 2012, when a young  girl was brutally raped in Delhi. She died subsequently having been assaulted with rods. The family and society continue to wait for justice. It is as relevant now as it was then.  

I Fear a fear

Does it have a name, this rage?

Anger so cold 

That is yet burning me.

As I struggle to make sense,

seek answers to questions

a torrent of doubts is drowning me.

I am gasping for breath.

There is a lump in my chest,

a sorrow that is choking me. 

The brutes, the man that does ravage,  

stays hidden, 

even kith and kin, 

yet inside a savage. 

Fathers and brothers, uncles be they may

shame them for being this way.

For smothering our lives, that should have been free 

for crushing us so brutally. 

They must be given a face

For only then will this surface. 

Only then will I become a cause

One that will bring a pause

In our mindless race

Towards lust, greed and disgrace.

I pray for a catharsis

A fire that will burn 

The evil amidst us

to never return.

But there is this lurking cynic

The demon, the serpent, the one  

That always mocks me. 

The one that brings me this fear,

A fear that is numbing me.

That you will forget 

soon as my soul ebbs away from me

Seedy Tales

There was this time in Staff College when our syndicate was tasked with a major research project. The stuff that we dug out through research papers, books and interviews was to be crammed into a multi-media presentation.

Yours truly was sort of detailed to compile the presentation. I had a pretty decent PC and was quite clued up on MS Power Point.  but I guess the real reasons were that I was single, had a very nice house, served authentic filter coffee and had a pretty maid (actually a maiden).

So the syndicate decided that every body would gather at my pad for making the slides. All through the day, the guys kept dropping. Somebody brought a hard drive, another guy brings in a CD, some people got their research on a  thumb drive or a pen drive. That was the time of floppies too. All day long went this geeky stuff.

Around four in the afternoon the bell rang yet again. Somebody sprawled over a sofa yelled "Come in". No reply. Again the bell and this time a long press. Pissed off, I got up and opened the door. There was a Tamil guy. He said in thickly accented Hindi, " Saar, mereygo Seedi chahiye". (I want a CD). I asked him " Ok, but which one". He said " the long one". Tired as I was, and now irritated, I asked him, " Are you crazy?".  He looked at me strangely, and then said," I am the cable guy. I want a seedi, seedi, SEEDI" Then with his hands he acted as if he was climbing. I fell down laughing. Rolling on the floor, there were tears in my eyes.

He meant a सीडी , the f***ing ladder. 

Twenty Years

Yep, It's been twenty years of service. Two decades donning the blues (and the FR OG overalls). Lots of time driving the whirly birds, over 4k hrs in the air going chop-a-cop-a-chop. Been quite a few places and done some things. Many a friend has gone to meet the maker; some with their flying boots on. We held a chattanoga for them recently. Will try and post a few pix.

I fly a desk these days. yuck !!!