Blame it on Steinbeck and Chekhov

Unpredictable are the ways stories find their authors.

Of the many blunders I have committed, two stand out because, together, they almost cost me my sanity.

The first was taking Anton Chekhov’s words seriously. When asked how he got ideas for his short stories, he is believed to have said, “Put your cigarette on this ash-tray and I’ll write a story about it.” I was naïve enough to believe that everything had a story; all one needed was the mind’s eye to find it, read it and reproduce it.

It sounded so simple that, unmindful of the quality of output, I began writing on everything that crossed my imagination. From military life to mosquitoes; from a railway platform in Uttar Pradesh to a cemetery in Sweden; from Champagne to golf and from Trump to China, my pen spared none.

One writes to be read. So, I kept thrusting my posts on friends who, I thought, didn’t mind being inundated by the ink I spilled. As if that was not enough for a peacefully re-attired life, I made the second big blunder of reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley in Search of America and believing that I could travel and write in India as freely and easily as he did in America.

With raw inspiration from Steinbeck and Chekhov, and nothing else for a backup, this Don Quixote — you might call me one — decided to conquer the literary world. I was oblivious that my chosen mission would demand the daredevilry of an absolute fool. I resolved to travel to the most crowded parts of Delhi — Chandni Chowk and Sadar Bazaar — in search of the authentic pulse of the old city and write about it.

That spelt my doom.

To begin with, the going was good, or at least I thought so. The writer in me was buoyant with the many stories that stewed in my small head, the scalp of which had not seen a crop in years. As I carried on, I clicked hundreds of pictures, for I believe that each picture is worth a thousand words.

Then disaster struck.

It was a Sunday in June. Most of the main shops in Sadar Bazaar were closed, but the pavements and ledges outside had been taken over by street vendors selling everything from imitation jewellery to bridal dresses, toys to suitcases, polythene bags to gift-wrapping paper — it was an endless list. Rickshaws, hand-pulled carts, motorcycles and honking cars, all vied with pedestrians for whatever road space remained. Skeletons of men carrying loads twice their size reminded me of the skeletal robots performing miraculous feats at a Robotics Exhibition in China.

***The sheer intensity of human activity in *that* environment reinforces one’s faith in the 84,000-odd Indian gods.***

I shuddered at the sight of electric cables criss-crossing the pathways—a potential fire hazard, I thought. Peepal plants sprouted from cracks in the walls of a dilapidated building. A massive banner displaying the face of a prominent political leader, surrounded by a dozen party workers and proclaiming “Happy Eid-ul-Fitr”, seemed to be the only thing preventing the adjoining wall from crumbling. Older posters still wished people “Happy Holi” and “Happy Diwali”. Several others conveyed birthday greetings to beloved leaders.

There was momentary panic when the vendors suddenly began winding up their wares and closing their shops.

“Committee is coming! Committee is coming!” A boy on the run had energised the street.

The chaos settled as the team of Municipal Committee members—supposedly there to stop the vendors from encroaching on the roads—turned into another by-lane. It was business as usual thereafter.

The sheer intensity of human activity in that environment reinforced my faith in the 84,000-odd Indian gods.

I ventured further and entered a narrow lane to get a ‘different’ feel. Even at 3 p.m. on that sunny afternoon, it was pretty dark. Hawkers had spread their wares on either side of the narrow passage, making walking past them something like manoeuvring through a minefield. I kept moving, but soon the combination of the asphyxiating smell of an open drain, rotting fruit on the floor, cow dung infested with flies and a lavatory somewhere in the distance began to nauseate me. Further up, the passage was choked with people.

I turned back; I thought I had had enough for the day. In minutes, I would discover how misplaced my assessment was. I hadn’t had enough; there was more to follow.

After clicking the last picture in that lane, I slipped my iPhone into the side pocket of my cargo troussers. I maintain that cargos are ideal for travelling in crowded places, with their box pockets secured by flaps.

Just then, I felt a push on my right flank. I turned around. A boy, in a hurry — he must have been a teenager—was trying to find his way. I gave him a look that said, “Behave yourself.”

Before he could extend the apology, I thought he was trying to convey with his eyes, I was pushed from the left. Another youngster; late teens, perhaps. Then came another push, this time from a third direction. And then, two more.

Those pushes threw me off balance. In the split second that I took to regain my footing; my instinct told me that something was amiss. I felt my pockets — cargo pockets, six of them, secure pockets with flaps — not once, twice, thrice, but many times.

The horse had bolted.

Those five devils! They had taken away my iPhone. In a flash, I realised what else had gone with it. Data apart, my notes and pictures, around which I was weaving stories, were gone—one of my loved worlds had shattered like an Austrian wine glass struck by a Vande Bharat. They had stripped me of my secret pride.

It was an emergency akin to a parachute failure I had experienced years ago. I had seconds to act if I was to get my phone back. Running behind those boys in the dark alley would have been a wild-goose chase. Besides, my ageing knees would have given up the chase sooner rather than later. So, I did the next best thing. I hobbled to the nearest police assistance booth on the main road, introduced myself to the officer on duty and told him that my phone had been snatched.

He sent a police constable with me to ascertain the exact spot where it had happened. To my good fortune, the location was partly covered by a CCTV camera.

Back at the police booth, the cops sifted through the last few minutes of the CCTV footage. Lo and behold, there I was, surrounded by the little devils, signalling to one another and exchanging meaningful glances. Although the actual snatching was not caught on camera, the cops assured me that if those boys had taken my mobile phone, they would get it back.

“We’ll take it out of their belly if they swallow it,” one of them assured me. He identified one of the boys as an old offender.

A constable sent to the boy’s house returned with the information that he had not returned home.

“Please don’t visit our home. Cops visiting us brings disrepute to the family. Arrest the boy if he has committed any crime,” an elderly lady of the house had urged the constable.

“Sir, these people take undue advantage of the laws governing treatment of juvenile delinquency,” the police sergeant apprised me of the difficulty they face dealing with teenaged miscreants.

In the meantime, the smart alecks who had taken my mobile had powered it off. It couldn’t be reached when my number was dialled several times from different mobiles.

“Please rest assured your phone will be recovered.”

Those were the parting words of the police officer when I left Sadar Bazaar that day.

As a first step, on reaching home I blocked my SIM and used my Apple account to declare my phone ‘lost’. This would prevent misuse of my device by anyone. Apple’s Find My option gave the last known location of the device as Sadar Bazaar, where it was snatched.

Thereafter turning on my MacBook and trying to determine the current location of the lost mobile became a mania with me. I tried it several times through the following night, hoping that someone would switch it on and I’d be able to lock its location.

Thanks to the Telecom Department, along with strict regulations to prevent fraud, there is also the convenience of getting another SIM across the counter. The procedures are simple; and the representatives of the service providers, helpful. I got mine in a jiffy the very next day, when there were still no signs of recovery of my phone.

It was surprisingly difficult to use an old phone that I had discarded years ago. Installation of essential apps, including banking apps, entailed long-drawn processes involving passwords, debit-card details and OTPs. How I went about installing the apps—and the loss of all my messages during the reinstallation of WhatsApp—exposed my technological illiteracy and how poorly organised I was. Many of the lost messages were actionable; they were my commitments which, sadly, I would never even recall, let alone fulfil.

Hassled by the goings-on at my end, I had no time to read, act on, or respond to messages on social media. So, over the following two days, I publicised that I was going on a digital detox and would rejoin in due course. I did this partly because ‘digital detox’ sounded ‘hap’ and partly under the influence of Johann Hari, of Stolen Focus fame. It was my opportunity to stay away from avoidable noise for a while.

It didn’t surprise me a bit when none asked why I was going silent.

It was my conclusion that people are too burdened to bother about another’s life. A genuine soul calling or messaging to enquire about someone’s welfare could be seen as an intrusion or as someone trying to seek a favour.

A break from social media, which ultimately lasted for about a month for different reasons, was a boon. It let me indulge in some of my loved activities and hobbies. A return to calligraphy, sculpturing, caricaturing, serious reading, writing and even walking and cycling was godsent.

Nothing encouraging happened on the second day. The confidence in the police camp dwindled.

“Sir, if your phone is sold while we are trying to trace it, I am afraid it will become impossible to find,” the officer warned.

I discovered that stolen Apple phones are generally not resold for use; they are cannibalised — dismantled, with their parts passed on to repair shops. The outer cases, screens, microphones, speakers and camera lenses fetch decent returns.

I crossed my fingers.

On the third day, Apple’s Find My feature spotted my phone in a residential area near Sangam Vihar. A prominent landmark, Boozer’s Bar, was a block away.

I informed the cops and then, assuming I was smart, drove 30 kilometres to the general area with my dear wife and a team of two tough men — just in case.

When I think of it today, it was a funny sight. The four of us moved stealthily, laptop open, through the locality. It reminded me of an Indian film in which the protagonists, dressed as street singers, with a harmonium dangling from the hero’s neck, go around singing to find a kidnapped child.

Our search that day ended in a fiasco when the batteries of our devices drained and we realised that the location we were chasing was two days old. Once in the vicinity, Google Maps went bonkers. After a three-hour adventure, we, the self-styled sleuths, returned home empty-handed.

The probability of finding the phone receded with each passing day. It dipped to almost zero, and my heart sank when on a following day, Find My spotted the phone at a location in Gaffar Market, notorious for sale of stolen gadgets.

On impulse, I thought, I would pose as a buyer of an old iPhone 15 Pro and look for my phone. In my heart of hearts, I was prepared to buy my own phone. My primary aim was not saving money, but recovering my valuable data.

I gave up that ‘brilliant’ idea when I realised that the Gaffar Market location was also two days old. With the villains switching the phone on and off as they pleased, and scooting all the time, it would be impossible to catch up with them in the normal course.

Initially, I did not lodge an FIR because if the stolen device were recovered after filing one, I would have to get it through the court—a long bureaucratic hassle. On the third day, I lodged an eFIR reluctantly to stake my claim on the mobile if it were to be found at a later date.

I lumped every torture as a necessary evil and kept going. After four days, I even stopped nagging the cops but continued staring at Find My on my computer screen.

All along, sanity kept eroding. Yoga didn’t help regain peace of mind, but staying away from social media and pursuing hobbies did.

More than a week later, I spotted the device at a location in Sadar. When I called the cops, I was told that they had recovered the phone. I identified it by its ‘night blue’ colour. To avoid the circuitous procedure of getting it back through the court, I withdrew the eFIR. I thanked the cops profoundly and didn’t pester them to tell me how they had recovered it.

When it was handed over to me, I switched it on and tried to ‘open’ it using Wi-Fi. In my excitement, I skipped some steps and lost all the unsaved data on the device.

Recovery of the phone turned out to be a Gift of the Magi for me.

Aware of the futility of pursuing a case against the juvenile delinquents, I didn’t pursue the matter. I was too exhausted to do so. Besides, in some corner of my heart, I had developed a kind of admiration for their skill and teamwork.

I had sympathy for them, for we as a society, had failed to channelise their energies.

It certainly was not a case of Stockholm Syndrome.

In the following three weeks, I lost my remaining sanity trying to re-activate the eSIM in my phone. The police had done their job; the Telecom Department had unblocked the IMEI, but in the records of the service provider it was still BLOCKED.

Out-of-the-way assistance of a buddy, Major General Lav Chand, and an Airtel associate helped remove the glitch and finally ended my ordeal.

It all started with me wanting to look for stories and write them. Instead, I ended up being one.

I blame Steinbeck and Chekhov for it.

O Khajuraho!

“Some paths trodden by Gen Z do not pass through Jantar Mantar.”

There is something quaintly amusing about my visits to the Khajuraho temples. My first trip, more than forty years ago, was a 75-minute whirlwind tour, including the journey from the airport to the site and back. The circumstances in which I saw the sculptures were far more memorable than the monuments. I have written about that trip in an earlier post: “The Unforgettable Throttle Dutt and his Flying Machine.”

My second trip to the heritage site last weekend likewise became memorable for a reason quite apart from the grandeur and beauty of the place. A chance meeting and interaction with a rare specimen of Gen Z gave my excursion an entirely unexpected significance and meaning.

It happened when the train stopped at Gwalior Railway Station and I got up from my seat to stretch my legs.

“Sir, please hurry up if you are getting down here. The train will start any minute,” Sonu Diwaker said to me with deep concern. He was seated alone at a window seat—the seat next to him was vacant.

His stubbled chin, uncombed hair, listening pods stuffed into his ears, floral shirt, cargo trousers, sports shoes, the glow in his eyes and, above all, his body language made me take him for one of those Gen Z youngsters who had made news a month ago.

How wrong I was! He wasn’t it. He wasn’t one of them. Rather, in the ensuing interaction, I discovered a focussed gem of Gen Z in him.

I looked him in the eyes and said without the words leaving my lips, “Yes son! Talking to me?”

When he saw that his words didn’t inject any urgency in me, he removed his ear-pods and spoke again, a bit subdued this time, “The train is about to leave, Sirr…” He stopped midway, sensing that I had no intention of disembarking.

“How do you know, I have to get off the train? Do you read minds?” I grinned.

Now it was his turn to chuckle. He said excitedly, “Of course, Sir, I am a mentalist. I read minds, predict choices and influence decisions.”

“O my God! Can you read my mind?” I asked him and sat down next to him.

An audience is as important to performing arts as a believer is to a miracle. Through the following hour, I was Sonu’s cherished believer. For me, he was a coveted book I wanted to read.

He took out a pack of cards and in minutes stole 60 years from me and turned me into an ecstatic child of seven who wondered, “Is he the reincarnation of Mandrake the Magician.”

I have been enthralling grandchildren in my clan-like large family with similar tricks and have maintained that I cannot be tricked. But here was this twenty-something foxing me beyond my imagination with his words and sleight of hand.

As we went along, he satisfied my natural curiosities.

He enlightened me about what exactly mentalism was. Until I met him, everything was frivolous street-magic to me. He had left studies to pursue his dream of becoming a mentalist. At a time when young people his age are thronging Jantar Mantar over paper leaks and reservation in educational institutions; I found the decision of this son of a man who provides ironing service to people daring. Very daring!

He completed homework and wrote assignments for other children to manage the fees for his guru, Mr Shankar Bakshi to whom he gives 50% credit for his being a successful mentalist. To cut cost, Sonu taught himself and developed tricks on his own too. Today, he mesmerises people from Connaught Place and Select City Walk to Dubai. He is also pursuing a law degree.

“Some paths trodden by Gen Z do not pass through Jantar Mantar.”

We could have gone on and on, but it was time to part when the train reached Jhansi. I had set out for Khajuraho expecting to be fascinated by the 1100-year-old sculptures. Instead, the chance encounter on the train introduced me to an equally fascinating specimen of Gen Z. My biggest takeaway from our meeting was his willing acceptance of me as his pupil—and his invitation to be part of his team someday.

The Unforgettable Throttle Dutt and his Flying Machine

Thanks to Throttle Dutt, how we got to see the heritage site became more memorable than the temples.

C-119 Fairchild Packet…

Legend has it that after the Korean War the Americans didn’t want to take that aircraft back to the US and offered it to India at a paltry Rs 5,000/- an aircraft; some say, the aircraft were passed on for a mere one USD each. A number of them were certainly donated by the US, to address India’s dire need. Interesting indeed! An aircraft de- commissioned by the US became a workhorse for the IAF.

Packet aircraft remained the mainstay of the IAF’s transport aircraft fleet from the mid- 1950s (around the time when its production stopped) until she was finally given a place of honour in the Air Force Museum at Palam (March 31, 1986). Whether it was to serve the UN in Congo or to airlift relief supplies to Egypt and Hungary; whether it was to land guns and men at Chushul (India-China War, 1962) or to paradrop troops over Tangail (Liberation of Bangladesh, 1971); whether it was to ferry Prime Minister Nehru on a state visit across the Iron Curtain to Moscow or to ship Lieutenant General AAK Niazi from Dacca to Nagpur (1972)––Packet did it all, and did it in style and with élan. The Packet fleet also undertook air maintenance task and paratrooping training as a matter of routine.

***…defying gravity and the principles of flight.***

A look at that aircraft would make one marvel at its ability to defy the laws of gravity and the Principles of Flight. In appearance it was quite un-aircraft-like — its designers called it a Flying Boxcar. Others, less kind in their treatment of the workhorse, gave it the epithet of Flying Coffin. One wonders, “With not-so- appealing (streamlined) features, how a Packet aircraft used to (at all) get unstuck, let alone get airborne and stay afloat?” Well! Packet aircraft had a wingspan of 110 feet. Its engines were the most powerful engines ever built in piston engine era. They produced 3500 horsepower for a weight of 3350 pounds, that is, more than a horsepower per pound of weight. With that brute power, the aircraft could land at Daulat Beg Oldie, the highest airfield in the world. That was in the years 1962 to 1965––more than half a century before the first C-130J Super Hercules landed there. The great Indian Jugaad of installing a jetpack atop the fuselage gave Packet aircraft the added power needed to achieve marvellous feats. Interestingly, Packet was the only aircraft, which had both, piston engines and a jet engine to provide thrust.

My first acquaintance with the aircraft was in February 1982 when I flew for an air experience. And, before I could get the real feel I had boarded the aircraft a second time, for my first parachute descent. In the following 35 years, as a Parachute Jump Instructor (PJI) I have jumped from nearly a dozen different types of transport aircraft of the IAF––from the vintage Dakota and the Caribou to the state-of-the-art Special Operations aircraft, C-130J Super Hercules. But the memory of the jumps made from Packet aircraft is indelible.

As the mind perambulates between now and those days, I recall that it was the magnificent men who flew that machine that really made jumps and life so memorable. I feel that Packet used to fly not because of its overly powered engines, but because of the willpower of the men in blue. Volumes can be written about those memorable days and those heroes. Today I’ll recall just one.

We called him Throttle Dutt.

As the name suggests, he was indeed throttle-happy––ever eager to hop into the cockpit and fly off. Rex Raymond, his course-mate thought, that nickname suited SK Dutt also because of his resemblance to the thin (read, “slim”) shaft of the throttle of a Piper Cub aircraft, which they flew as youngsters. We, the Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) knew that if there was an airworthy aircraft on the tarmac and Throttle was around, we’d get our fill of jumps––he would stop only after the task was completed.

Whenever Wing Commander SK Dutt dropped us, we would land in the Drop Zone, evenly scattered on either side of the centre; his name spelt confidence. He would often come to our crew room and, over a cup of tea discuss almost everything under the sun. He was a voracious reader. No wonder, some of his buddies called him Professor.

That day I was anxious about the jump; I had reasons to be in that state of mind. It was my first outstation jump as an independent spotter. Wing Commander GJ Gomes, our Chief Instructor at the Paratroopers Training School had detailed me to take charge of the Skydiving Demonstration at the ASC Centre at Gaya. It meant that I would be required to work out the release point depending on the prevailing winds and advise the pilot to drop the jumpers. To achieve that, I would be required to lean out of the open door of the aircraft in flight and advise the captain on the intercom to steer the desirable course, with last minute corrections. Skill of the skydivers apart, a good understanding between the pilot and the spotter is the key to pinpoint drops.

I had lined up the skydivers on the tarmac at Gaya Airport and had just completed the pre-jump briefing, when a smiling Throttle Dutt and Squadron Leader Venkiteswaran (the pilots) arrived and signalled us to emplane. They wished me good luck and were about to board the aircraft when Captain Anil Kumar, one of the jumpers walked up to Throttle Dutt and said, “Sir, Khajuraho will be on our way when we fly back to Agra after the demonstration jump…” Then, with wickedness swirling in his eyes, the young officer added, “How about flying a little low over the temples. May be we’ll get a glimpse of the beautiful statues.” He laid extra stress on ‘the beautiful statues’.

Throttle chuckled equally slyly and nudged him towards the aircraft ladder as if to say, “Son, first go and do a good jump.”

The demonstration went off very well. All the skydivers landed in the designated target area in front of the spectators. Wing Commander Gomes was pleased; the crew complimented me when we reached the tarmac after a lavish lunch and fanfare, which are synonymous with such demonstrations. Incidentally, with that jump I completed another century of safe landings. Very soon we were airborne again, heading for Agra. There would be a refuelling halt en route, at Allahabad.

Partly the fatigue, and partly the odd beer or a gin and lime cordial that people had downed at lunch, started taking its toll. Wickets fell one after the other. Within minutes of our departure from Gaya, more than half of us were asleep; the other half were fast asleep. None kept track of time. The chit–chit in the ears caused due to the aircraft’s descent and the mild thud associated with the landing, jostled people from their deep slumbers. Rubbing the eyes and trying to get the bearings right, someone asked, “Allahabad? How much time will we take to refuel?” That question went unanswered as more and more people got up and started looking out of the windows. Sleepiness and the fogging caused by their breaths on the cold Perspex conspired to keep them from getting their dead reckoning. It actually didn’t matter because: Throttle Dutt would ensure our return home by dinner.

As was customary, people waited for the captain of the aircraft to come out of the cockpit and deplane first. Then, they would form a beeline to the nearest rest room. The fastest would get relief first. “Guys!” Throttle Dutt said as he clapped twice and drew the attention of the people still shuffling restlessly in their seats. “I am giving you exactly one hour and fifteen minutes,” he looked at his wristwatch and continued,” It is three now. Be back by four fifteen. We are in Khajuraho; the temples are not far. You can have a look as I get the aircraft refuelled.” He exchanged a meaningful glance with the young officer who had made the suggestion at Gaya Airport.

Throttle Dutt had chosen to refuel at Khajurao instead of Allahabad––it was his way of keeping the morale of the people around him high without, of course, compromising operations. Four thirty was the closing time for that less used civil airport. For the next ninety minutes Throttle would have a tough time handling the airport staff.

It took the greater part of a long minute for the import of Throttle’s communication to sink into the heads of the jumpers. And when it did make sense, they got into action; they couldn’t afford to waste another minute. It was precisely a three-minute, all male striptease inside the aircraft, at the end of which men were in smart casuals. They couldn’t have gone out in the streets in overalls and dungarees.

In the next few minutes two scores of crew-cut men were out in the narrow streets invading the sleepy little town of Khajuraho. They caught hold of any means they could––cycle rickshaw, auto-rickshaw, tonga and some even jogged to reach the tourist attractions.

Meanwhile at the airport…

A worried air traffic controller begged Throttle Dutt to clear the tarmac. He said there wasn’t enough space to accommodate an Air India B 737 aircraft scheduled to land in a while. Throttle assured him that he would move his aircraft further back and create enough space on the tarmac for the incoming B 737. Then, Throttle got into the cockpit, started up the engines and used reverse thrust to create manoeuvring space for the B 737 in full view of a spellbound Airport Staff. It was a sight, they had never seen––they had never seen any aircraft, let alone a massive one of the size of Packet, moving backwards under its own power.

And although that act of reversing the aircraft on that small manoeuvring surface impressed the controller, it did not allay his anxiety. He now urged the crew to get airborne by four thirty; that was when the watch hours at Khajuraho Airport would cease. Throttle assured them that we’d leave in time.

Back at the Temple site––they went; they saw; and they felt conquered! How the jumpers felt after their visit to the Temples could be the subject of another piece. Suffice it to say that they did not talk about it. Perhaps, how Throttle Dutt made it possible for the bunch of those curious men, and the effort it took to reach the heritage site, was more interesting and memorable than the beauty and the artwork people got to witness there. Period. The entire lot was back at the airport in time for the take off. They lined up and got into the aircraft hurriedly. Throttle Dutt gave an impish smile to a beaming Anil Kumar as he climbed the ladder to take off for Agra.

Brother Officer

Service camaraderie travels farther than one can imagine.

Wing Commander Ranjit Singh Mann left early. But he knew of his inevitable early departure. Very thoughtfully, he had prepared his family, Mrs Mann in particular, for life after he was gone. He trained her and left her an unwritten SOP to go by. So, when he finally departed, there was only the vacuum to be dealt with, most other aspects of life had been taken care of. Mrs Mann stayed in their flat in Gurugram for a few years before she moved to Bathinda to occupy their house which was being eyed by vultures in the absence of the owner. She did well on that front; had a good grip on evolving situations in which most people would buckle. Life moved on.

When faced with a health concern that could be addressed better in Delhi than in Bathinda, she sought an appointment in Max Saket and travelled to Delhi. What followed was not covered in her SOP. I was a silent witness to it.

Conscious of the heavy traffic and parking woes, we started from my home with sufficient cushion time. That consideration paid off because we found a parking slot far away from the main building. I felt sorry for Mrs Mann who had to walk a long distance on a dusty, uneven pathway between haphazardly parked cars. Nearing noon, the sun was adding to her woes.

Mrs Mann was to travel to the US shortly. Back in Bathinda she had been advised to undergo surgery related to varicose veins. Since she didn’t have much time in hand, she wanted to seek a second opinion and undergo the surgery if mandated by the specialist at Max Hospital.

When we reached the reception just about in time, we were told that it was not Dr Kumud Rai’s OPD day. The Principal Director of Vascular Surgery Department was not seeing patients.

“But I have a confirmed appointment with him,” said Mrs Mann, a bit rankled.

“If that be so, you can see him in the adjoining building,” advised the receptionist.

Unaware of the golf cart facility available at Max, we trudged about half a kilometre, part in the sun and part through winding corridors in the hospital buildings to reach the location. There, at another reception, was a long queue of patients registering their names to meet different specialists. I could see mercury rising in Mrs Mann’s head as we kept crawling forward. We were more than half an hour behind the slotted time with Dr Kumud Rai.

Mrs Mann exploded when our turn came and the receptionist told us that the registration for the ECHS Card holders was at a different location. Going there, registering and then reporting to the specialist would mean that we would be late by more an hour.

“We have been running from pillar to post for more than 40 minutes. Somebody should have guided us through this maddening maze.” Mrs Mann raised her voice.

The receptionist stood silent. Her eyes seemed to say, “I am sorry Ma’am. But that’s the way it is. Registration for ECHS is where it is… for your own convenience.”

Agitated, she dialled Dr Kumud Rai directly to give the specialist a piece of her mind. I smelt trouble and requested her to hand me her mobile. I was expecting a female voice at the other end.

“Hello, Dr Kumud Rai here.” I took a long second to realise that Kumud could be a male name too.

Then without wasting another moment, I delivered the monologue, which I had prepared seconds before and rehearsed too.

“Good afternoon, Dr Rai, I am Group Captain Chordia. I have come with Mrs Mann to Max. She had an appointment with you about half an hour ago. We were in the hospital premises on time but we have been wandering around cluelessly, still trying to register. I’ll be grateful if you could help us out.”

“Okay, I am handing the phone to my assistant. Please tell him where you are. He’ll send someone to assist you.” Dr Rai was busy as we could see.

Very soon, one of the hospital staff came and helped us clear the red tape and, before I could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ we were face to face with Dr Rai.”

Mrs Mann had carried the baggage of our recent experience into the doctor’s chamber. “We have been running from pillar to post for an hour…” she let out a volley when she got an opportunity to speak to the doctor.

Dr Rai poured a bucket of freezing cold water on her, “Ma’am, please calm down. Group Captain Chordia has told me in great detail about the torture you seem to have gone through. Those were procedural requirements. Unfortunately, you were inconvenienced. Now, please tell me what your medical problem is?”

Mrs Mann narrated her condition and showed him her medical history. “Dr, I want to know if surgery is necessary as advised by the doctors in Bathinda. If yes, how soon can it be done? I want to leave for the US within next two months.”

Dr Rai scrutinised Mrs Mann’s reports and said, “Get that person to me who says you need surgery. You don’t need it. You can leave for the US fearlessly. I’ll only advise you to use compression stockings.”

“I am already using compression stockings,” said Mrs Mann.

“Custom-made ones are better. If you wish, you can order them here and they can be delivered to you in Bathinda in two days.” [Note: After we were done with Dr Rai, we met a specialist who took measurements and the compression stockings were delivered to Mrs Mann in Bathinda.]

Dr Rai was interrupted a few times while he dealt with Mrs Mann. He disposed of each matter summarily and with intent. He was multitasking efficiently without ignoring the patient in front of him.

“Anything else?” enquired Mrs Mann.

“I suggest an ultrasound to help us determine an even clearer course of action.”

“Can I get the ultrasound done today?” asked Mrs Mann.

“I am afraid, ultrasounds are done with appointment and there is a queue there too… wait, let me see.”

He dialled a number on his mobile and spoke to someone in the X-Ray and Ultrasound department. “How busy are you? Can you help me with an ultrasound? It’s a brother officer’s wife…”

I don’t remember what he said after that. But that last bit—‘It’s a brother officer’s wife…’—stayed in my head; kept echoing till he completed his call.

When he was through, I asked him if he had a service background.

“I took premature retirement as a Colonel,” he said.

For Mrs Mann and me, the atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The drudgery of the hour gone by was replaced by fresh fragrant mountain breeze.

I have always felt proud of my uniform—my service. Some occasions instil extra pride. This moment with Dr Kumud Rai was one of them.

Dr Rai not only saw Mrs Mann and examined her papers but also helped us get a priority appointment for the ultrasound. Mrs Mann didn’t have visit Max again to discuss the report with Dr Rai. The gentleman doctor saw the report and advised her on the phone.

A brother officer!

Golfing with Ashok*

Does handicap matter?

Last Monday, I had a remarkable round of golf. I played just nine holes and that, too, after a break of about six months. I had no pars, no birdies; four bogeys and some double bogeys. Besides, I lost two new balls during the round. Despite these apparent setbacks, what made the game immensely enjoyable was the company. I played with my own young self of 35 years ago. Let me call him ‘Ashok*’, for he was so different from me, the Ashok of today. Air Vice Marshal Sudhanshu Rath and Brigadier Dixit were the others who completed our four-ball.

Teeing off at six on a Monday morning at the Air Force Golf Course has a distinct advantage beyond the beautiful weather and calm of the early morning. There is less rush—the serving officers are back to work and many a golfer takes a break after a weekend of partying. As a spin-off, caddies are more easily available than on other days. There is that feeling of ownership of the golf course.

Ashok* gave me a questioning look when I teed up with a new Callaway golf ball on the first tee. Later, he asked me, “Why did you tee up with a new ball? Wasn’t that your putting ball?”

“I tee off with the best ball in my bag and I use the same for putting,” I told him.

“But that way, there is a greater possibility of losing a new ball.”

He wasn’t convinced when I told him that the aerodynamics of an old, worn-out ball are unpredictable and affect one’s game adversely in ways that one doesn’t even realise. I suggested he read my post on the putting ball. He gave me an I-told-you-so smile when, in the very next shot, I sent my ball into a palm tree, not to be seen again.

In contrast, Ashok* hit an old, chipped ball, hard and straight, down the long fairway. It veered to the right towards the end of its 220-yard flight and landed in the rough. The little extra time his caddie—a rookie who had begun caddying just three months ago—took to locate his ball annoyed him. “It seems I am caddying for this guy rather than he caddying for me,” Ashok* grumbled.

The rains had endowed the course with lush fairways, but they had also rendered the rough and the bunkers difficult to play. So, we had mutually agreed to play preferred lies through the course. Rath, Dixit and I improved our lies whenever we felt the need, but Ashok* was determined to play the ball as it lay—he wanted to stick to the rule book. His stickler-for-rules attitude cost him strokes and frustrated him. To vent his anger, he cursed his caddie for not knowing his job.

On the fifth green, lying about 10 feet from the pin, I asked my caddie, ritualistically, how the green was.

“Sir, it is medium.”

That answer made me laugh because, since I started playing golf in 1991, very few of my caddies have reported the greens to be slow or fast. ‘Medium’ is the safest bet. With that ‘tip’, I landed well short of the hole and took a peaceful three strokes to putt. I overheard Dixit’s caddie also reporting the green to be ‘medium’. Dixit, too, landed short and took two to putt. With another ‘medium’ report, Rath was able to execute a 6-foot putt. Seeing the two of us fall short and miss our putts, while Rath got his, Ashok*’s caddie was confused. He told him that, for the young golfer, the green was ‘slow’. So, our man hit hard, ended up well past the pin, and took four to putt. Obviously, Ashok* was utterly cheesed off, and rightly so—he was using a new putting ball with a line marked with a permanent marker for alignment.

Kabhi khushi, kabhi gham continued until we began walking to the ninth tee. Three of us were enjoying ourselves, but Ashok* was serious about his game and score. Lost in his thoughts, he inadvertently distracted another four-ball by walking across their fairway.

***…and don’t miss Ashok* in the pic.***

The tee shots of all three of us for the ninth hole were good. For the second shot, there was a water hazard between me and the green—about 150 yards from me. I was going to use a 7-wood, which gives me about 170 yards to land beyond the water hazard. Ashok*, standing next to me, suggested that I play safe: take an 8-iron and drop short of the hazard. I thanked him for the advice but didn’t heed it. My ball landed well beyond the water hazard. I missed out on a par and ended up with a bogey.

Rath and Dixit wanted to continue—play the back nine. Ashok*, rattled by the caddie, looked for another caddie for the back nine. He too decided to leave when he didn’t find a ‘good’ caddie.

In the parking area, when I bade goodbye to Ashok*, he responded with the usual niceties and asked me, “How long have you been playing golf?”

“Nearly 35 years.”

“Hmm…” He paused, gave me an inscrutable look, and continued, “And what’s your handicap?”

“My honesty,” I said, without batting an eye.

I am sure my younger self of 35 years ago, wouldn’t have understood me, for he continued, in a tone which sounded sermonising and cheering at the same time, “Although your scores aren’t anything to write home about, you play calmly, and you dare to experiment and choose difficult shots. How does that come so naturally to you?”

“Maybe because I belong to Generation Jones and learn from Gen Z,” I said as I drove off.

More Golf on Road Much Travelled

The Second-Best Thing About Playing Golf

The Putting Ball

Golf and Gandak

Guru Nanakji & Golf

Parliament & Champagne

If only the Parliament could stand for Champagne.

Lest there be misunderstanding—Champagne is not the bubbly drink made in France; he is the stray who has made my doorstep his home— living there for a dozen years, wagging his tail and biting me twice during that period.

Lest there be a bigger misunderstanding—this parliament being talked about is not the parliament of owls as one would construe it to be from the mention of a stray dog right in the beginning. This is about the Parliament where the elected representatives of the people are expected to sit and conduct the affairs of the country. Just ‘expected.’

A word about Champagne. I love him for he loves me too. And I bet his love is unconditional and purer than mine, despite the two courses of Rabipur vaccine he thrust upon me. He guards my house against ill-intentioned strangers. I believe he keeps away evil spirits too. We read each other’s minds. I confess that I had stolen his thoughts to write his (autobiographical) story five years ago. On numerous other occasions, I have ‘used’ him to simplify and explain everything from international relations to a complex country like China.

He is valuable to me—he doesn’t let the ink in my pen dry up.

Recently, around the time Parliament was supposed to be meeting for its monsoon session—but was adjourned, apparently for reasons for which no one can be held accountable—Champagne was badly hurt in a hit-and-run incident. He is now admitted in Noida Animal Shelter and Hospital, struggling for life.

[Author’s Note: Readers with a heart may pause here and offer a prayer for Champagne’s speedy recovery.]

My visits to that complex have been an eye-opener. I have been only to the areas meant for dogs. There are hundreds of them—mostly sick or wounded—barking, fighting. There is dirt; there is stench. The buildings are dilapidated; equipment and the very basic amenities and facilities are either damaged, in beyond-repair condition, or just not there. My impression was that the shelter was understaffed too. But during the time I spent at the shelter looking up Champagne on my several visits, I was amazed by the dedication of those on duty. In my assessment they were more dedicated and conscientious than the representatives mandated to work in the cosy comfort of the temple of democracy. Despite the dismal conditions, those people went about their duties. To me, they were as voiceless as the wretched curs they were serving and treating.

The monsoon session of the parliament got washed—certainly not by the rain. In the many debates taking place in the media, the cost of doing no-business is estimated at crores of rupees. If the same amount had been allocated to Noida Animal Shelter and Hospital, it’d have been better utilised—Champagne recovered, and we’d have said cheers!

PS: It being an animal matter, there was a suggestion to approach the cockroaches and ask them to rise in support of Champagne and others of his ilk. The brilliant idea had to be given up as soon as it was mooted, because the plates of the arthropods were full and they had become choosy—they had just rejected the idea of picking up the cudgels for the students of Bihar.

PPS: For readers interested, here are some posts in which I have exploited Champagne’s personal life for my motives…

Champagne

China’s Champagne Moment

Dealing with the Darned Dragon-V: Time to Kowtow?

Delhi’s Dogs of War

Stumbling on a Purpose at 60

About Condoms and Conflicts

Those born amid violence must inherit something better than its memory.

For long, very long indeed, I have maintained that in October 1947, it was the prompt action by the fledgling Indian Air Force, of airlifting the troops to Srinagar, that saved the Kashmir Valley from falling into the hands of the Pakistani raiders. Then, I came across the following view of Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins in “Freedom at Midnight”:

“Curiously, it was not so much to military genius or to the energy and determination of their soldiers that the Indians would owe their initial success in Kashmir, as to fourteen French, Scottish, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese nuns of the Franciscan Missionaries of Mary. By pausing to sack their convent in the little city of Baramullah only 30 miles from Srinagar, when they should have been driving on the capital of Kashmir and its vital airfield, the Pathan raiders would end Jinnah’s dream of joining Jehangir’s beloved Vale to his nation. All day, Monday, 27 October, while the First Sikhs secured their fragile hold on Kashmir’s only airport, the Pathans in Baramullah were giving vent to their ancient appetites for rape and pillage. They violated the nuns, massacred the patients in their little clinic, looted the convent chapel down to its last brass door-knob. That evening, clutching her crucifix. and praying for ‘the conversion of Kashmir’, the convent’s Belgian, Mother Superior, Sister Mary Adeltrude, died of her wounds. Her sacrifice and that of her sister nuns and patients would not shake the hold of Islam on its ancient Kashmiri stronghold at the foot of the Himalayas. But they had given the soldiers of Jawaharlal Nehru the critical hours they needed to install themselves in the Vale of Kashmir.”

I don’t buy this view entirely. But, having read it, I do acknowledge the role of animal instinct of humans to satisfy their need for physical intimacy even in critical times.

Look at Gaza… that small stretch of land has been under heavy bombardment since October 7, 2023. At a time when survival is at stake, babies are still being born. The Gazans, (un-)like the invaders of Srinagar, have been satisfying their physical need. There is a difference though: the Gazans are not raping Palestinian women.

A large number of these babies birthing in the war zone are getting orphaned at birth. Also, many children who were born in the few years before October 7, 2023 have likewise, either died in the bombings, or have got maimed, or orphaned. Those who have died will end up as statistics in history books to be written by the victors. It is difficult though, at this point, to say who’ll be the victors: US-Israel or, China-Russia? Or, is it possible that there’ll be only losers in this conflict?

Today, one doesn’t need to consult a crystal-ball gazer to foretell what will happen of the children of Gaza (Iran, likewise). They will grow up with haunting memories. Some of them will lug grudges to their adulthood and smuggle them to other parts of the world. Smartest of customs and security at border posts will not be able to detect the ill-will they’ll carry in their minds and hearts. 9/11 was executed by such people. Who knows, the architects of 9/11 (2.0) might already have been born.

Could there have been a different future for the Gazans, and the world? May be, yes.

Last year President Donald Trump claimed that he had blocked a USD 50 m aid to Gaza meant for supply of condoms. According to him, Gazans were using them as balloons to float incendiary devices or explosives. This assertion about ‘bomb-making condoms’ was part of a larger, widely debunked claim regarding US foreign aid spending, highlighted by Trump’s press secretary Karoline Leavitt and further circulated by the media.

Had this US aid to Gaza not been stymied, perhaps lesser number of destined-(read ‘doomed’)-to-be-sad people’ would have taken birth. A Gazan might even have used the condoms to carry drinking water and thanked the Americans for giving them a chance to survive. Under the existing circumstances, the very assumption that Gazans are still left with incendiaries and helium gas to give shape to Trump’s fears, seems far-fetched.

Around the same time a media report warned: “West Asia war threatens condom shortage in India.” Priyanka Sharma in the MINT opined that hold up of some shipments would affect production of condoms in India adversely. Someone was fast to comment: “If the US does not pull out in time, Indians will have to learn to pullout in time.”

In the end, it is worth mulling: “Would the world have been a more peaceful place today, had the parents of some of today’s leaders been practicing celibacy or using condoms.

To conclude these random thoughts: “War does not suspend human nature; it exposes it. And perhaps the deeper question is not whether life should continue in times of conflict, but how the world can ensure that those born amid violence inherit something better than its memory.”

Comments

Air Mshl PK Roy PVSM, AVSM, VM, VSM (Veteran): Thanks for a thought provoking reflection on the enduring human cost of conflict. Beyond strategy and geopolitics, wars leave their deepest scars on children, whose memories often outlive the battles. Lasting peace demands not only ending wars but also breaking the cycle of inherited trauma and hatred.

Wing Commander Vijay Ambre (Veteran): Your latest blog about ” Condoms and Coflicts” made for interesting reading. Wars do bring out the worst in human beings ; but there are always a few very noble acts by some others.
The indoctrination and conversion of young boys and girls into extremists/terrorists to avenge the conceived wrongs done to their religion/nation is now quite common.
Yes ! The world would have been a much better place to live in, had the parents of some leaders had gone in for contraception.
Thanks!🙏

The Parting Shot

“Worry cuts deeper than the executioner’s blade.”

(this will soon be a proverb, if it isn’t already)

The date matters little. Suffice it to say, it was a few months after the Babri Masjid had dominated the headlines the world over. Kadu and I sat nervously on wooden stools in the Officers’ Mess bar of Air Force Administrative College (AFAC) awaiting a summons from the Commandant. We must have committed a grave crime. Why else would Air Commodore N Sundarajan assemble his team of Air Force law experts before calling us over to his residence on a Sunday evening? My legs dangling helplessly from the high stool gave me the eerie feeling that I was already hanging from the gallows. Kadu, the more daring of the two of us, appeared cool.

***

To cut a long story short…

We belonged to a batch of officers who had passed the written test for the prestigious Staff Course at DSSC Wellington and had been detailed to undergo the two-month-long Junior Commanders’ Course at the AFAC to fulfil a mandatory requirement. The genesis of our present misery lay in a failed attempt, a day before, to gate-crash a dinner party of the instructors. When we, a handful of trainee officers, approached them with a friendly gesture, we were shown the door. Politely, of course, “Sorry gentlemen, course officers are not permitted.” That snub sounded something like “Dogs and Indians….” Wounded, we withdrew.

A couple of drinks in the bar helped flush down that feeling of hurt, and replaced it with a gnawing desire to party anyway. Seven (or, was it nine? I don’t remember now) of us at different levels of ‘happiness’ got into Kadu’s car—a Premier Padmini which he had borrowed from a friend for the duration of the course—and landed at a dhaba. Yes, a dhaba in Coimbatore. During the dinner, someone came up with a bright idea, “Let’s pay a familiarisation visit to Staff College!”

Soon, we were on the road to DSSC Wellington singing a discordant chorus, “Hum honge kamyab ek din…”

I was the only teetotaller in the packed car and sensed trouble as soon as the wheels rolled. Kadu rejected outright, my meek plea to abandon the notion of driving on the winding road in the night. “Bloody para jumper! open the door and bail out of the car if you are scared,” he dared me mockingly. I withdrew gracefully because I knew my NDA course mate behind the wheel was in absolute control. He was finely attuned to the bottle-throttle relationship and was well below his ceiling.

The singing continued and euphoric comments kept coming until Kadu accidentally scraped an unlit road divider and screeched to a halt. In the next instant without a debate, there was consensus on returning to base. The resolution was accepted as if it were a bill for the revision of the pay and perks of the Members of the Parliament. There was a chorused “AYE!” Kadu applied a course correction, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

The guard on duty at the AFAC gate greeted and saluted as was his habit. He also took note of officers packed like sardines in that match-box of a noisy car. It was well past midnight.

Nearing the mess, Kadu performed a manoeuvre for which none of us was prepared. He executed a steep 163° turn to the left and drove straight into the driveway of the Commandant’s house. As if the car had been struck by lightning, the kamyabi song stopped half way. Everyone froze when Kadu stepped out of the car and rang the doorbell. What was Kadu up to—trying to wake the Commandant at an unearthly hour? We watched with mixed feelings as he returned when the doorbell remained unanswered for a good part of a minute.

“The Commandant is fast asleep. Let’s go.” Kadu said matter-of-factly as he flicked the ignition key. In an effort to reverse the car, he drove over two clay flower pots and toppled three others. In another minute we were in the parking of the trainee officers block. Quick goodbyes and everyone returned to their rooms.

Peace appeared precarious. If the portents were not ominous, they weren’t benign either.

***

The next day, a laidback Sunday, turned anxious when Kadu and I were informed that the Commandant wanted to see us at 1730h at his residence. So, there we were, the two of us waiting for the Commandant’s orderly to announce our entry.

In the hours gone by, people had conjured the worst consequences of our previous day’s demeanour. Without using the exact words, some declared that it fringed on un-officerlike behaviour. There was an opinions galore: “They might be sent back to their units.” “They might be rated very low in the JCC merit.” “The Commandant might recommend against their selection for the next Staff Course.” The doomsday scenario had been painted to perfection. By the time the Commandant’s messenger came to call us, I had convinced myself that the worst corners of the hell had been reserved for us.

This visit of ours to the Commandant’s House in AFAC was so different from the tea I had attended at the Commandant’s House years ago as a cadet at the NDA. Nothing here seemed to be good or pleasant. The Commandant, the two law experts and our own course senior were seated in a kind of square in the drawing room. It revived my memory of the only court martial I had ever attended—they looked like the jury. The two law experts somehow gave me the impression, that given an opportunity, they’d vomit the relevant Acts of the Air Force Law and tear us apart.

Mindfully, we braced up and wished the Commandant and the others a good evening and continued to stand at attention. We were not offered seats.

“What happened last night,” the Commandant said without a prelude.

Silence.

I was in a different world worrying about the near future. In my mind’s court I had repeated the following pledge the tenth time—“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”—when the Commandant literally growled, “Tell me, what happened.”

“Sir, last evening we gate-crashed a party in the Officers’ Mess. It was in the healthy tradition of the Air Force. But, we were sent back unceremoniously,” the words just flowed out. I waited a few seconds for ‘the-healthy-tradition-of-the-Air-Force’ to sink in. Then continued, “Thereafter we went out to have dinner.”

I paused again and looked at Kadu. He took over, “On return, following the same healthy tradition, we drove to your residence to call on you for a cup of coffee. On getting no response, we returned to our rooms. While reversing, I drove over some flower pots along your pathway. The damage to property was unintentional.”

Silence.

For what seemed to be an epoch, Kadu and I stared at the Air Force Calendar hung at the eye-level on the opposite wall. While a stolen glance at the experts suggested that they were looking at loopholes in our statements. On the other side, we could almost listen to the rumbling in the Commandant’s head. When he did speak finally, it was a carefully worded statement.

“I wish you had stayed put for a while longer. I was coming to open the door,” he said.

A few more gap-filler statements were made in the following minutes before we were summarily disposed by the Commandant, “Dismiss!”

“Good night, Sir,” Kadu and I said in unison; turned about to leave.

At the door, I turned back to face the Commandant a last time, to share my parting thought, “Sir, next time we call on you for coffee, we’ll wait till you open the door.”

Had I struck the last nail in the coffin of our Staff Course prospects? We didn’t wait to watch the reaction of the court.

Needless to say, the air remained filled with anxiety till we completed the course. Finally, Kadu and I passed with above average grades and both of us were recommended to be instructors at the AFAC. Kadu was detailed for the Staff Course. I couldn’t make it; our AFAC adventure had nothing to do with it.

Not the lessons in Air Force Law, or the Military History, or Service Writing or the Air Force Administration—my most precious takeaway from the JCC was from the Commandant’s treatment of Kadu and I—not to attach meaning (particularly, evil meaning) to actions of your men when none is intended.

Comments

Air Commodore Minoo Vania SC, VM (Veteran): A bit of nostalgia for me ! As reading your story took me back to my two stints as Commandant and then further of my JC course and finally cadet days at AFAC.
I am convinced each Commandant at AFAC is destined to find atleast one ocassion of de javu coming up during his stay at the College and knows how to handle it , thanks to the past . Belying the saying…. A sped arrow , a spoken word and a missed
opportunity never return 🙏

Air Mshl PK Roy PVSM, AVSM, VM, VSM (Veteran): An excellent narrative capturing the unique bond between seniors and juniors in the IAF. You have a remarkable knack for turning experiences into engaging and enjoyable reading.
God bless you.

Wing Commander Vijay Ambre (Veteran): It goes to show that no matter the level of trouble one got oneself into, the Air Force Commanders always stood by you, as long as one was truthful and came clean. A very interesting story that kept me engrossed. Here’s wishing more power to your pen ! God bless!!🙏👍

Café 651: An Address Called Hospitality

“Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space has ceased,” says John Steinbeck in Travels with Charley. I read the book years ago, but got the sense of what the Nobel laureate implied when our family excursion to Jodhpur in late December 2025 began to feel like one. Now I don’t get tired of talking about it. Curiously, it was not our visits to monuments of historical significance and architectural grandeur which made the Jodhpur trip memorable. In fact, the enthusiasm with which we had visited those landmarks and taken photos in their foreground has dulled with time. As it stands those impressions are but tick marks on our completed itinerary.

My most cherished recollection of that trip is of our visit to Café 651.

Savouring authentic Rajasthani cuisine—dal, bati, churma, ker, sangri, kadhi and gatta—was, of course, on our wish list. But seeing the long wait at the restaurant of our choice, we decided to explore other options. Mudit and Anjali, our son and daughter-in-law (whom I fondly call “Muditanjali”), suggested that we try Café 651.

“Café 651?” I wondered aloud. “The name sounds a bit…”

“What’s in a name, Dad?” Anjali interrupted me with a chuckle. “The place is highly rated online. Besides, Maya isn’t a dal-bati enthusiast. She might find the food in other eateries a bit spicy. At 651, we’re sure to find something she’ll enjoy.”

So, there we were.

An unassuming signboard clinging to a roadside pole directed us to the Café, which was tucked away on the first floor. There was no lift, so we trudged up an open flight of stairs along the side of the building. Unimpressed, in my mind’s journal I began critiquing the place even before we reached the door.

Inside, things were different. Quite different. A busboy ushered us with a warm smile, and the air felt inviting. On display at the entrance were a large number of trophies and certificates of merit earned by the Café since it opened on Republic Day in 2018. Neatly framed paintings and posters of rock stars, landscapes and abstract art adorned the walls. As we learnt later, they belonged to local artists and were ‘FOR SALE.’ Muditanjali liked one of them and now own it.

Large glass windows gave a commanding view of the road below. The furniture was aesthetically laid out; one of the tables was occupied by young people engaged in animated discussion. In all probability, they were students. Nice people—they lowered their voices when they saw us.

A waiter served us bottled water, presented the menu and left us to take our time and make our choices. Then came a tall, smartly turned-out gentleman to take our orders.

Without ado, we decided to order pizzas and a plate each of noodles and pasta.

In our family party of five—which included my wife Chhaya, Muditanjali, our two-year-old granddaughter Maya, and myself—Maya and I were the curious kind, ever so keen to know about everything. No one minded Maya’s questions, but mine were often seen differently. Undeterred by that blatant discrimination, I kept seeking answers to my questions at Café 651.

The soft-spoken gentleman sought inputs for the “Make Your Pizza” option we chose—it was interesting choosing from two sauces and nine different toppings.

“I don’t eat mushrooms, and my husband doesn’t like bell pepper. Please put very little of them,” urged Chhaya.

Muditanjali, on the other hand, didn’t mind those toppings; in fact, they wanted mushrooms.

“Please don’t bother about that, I’ll restrict mushrooms and bell peppers to a part of the pizza; the remaining portion will be devoid of them. You’ll be able to pick and choose your slices,” assured our man.

In my assessment, the man scored high on attitude to elevate customer satisfaction. Impressed by his polished demeanour and fluency both in Hindi and English, I asked him, “How long have you been working here? And… what’s the significance of this name, Café 651?” Within me, I was rehearsing the good feedback I’d give about this guy to his boss.

Perhaps he was able to divine my thoughts, for he gave a Buddha-like smile and said, “Sir, I own this café. It’s our ancestral house, number 651. I gave the Café this name to bring recognition to the property.”

It is remarkable how a simple revelation changes our perception of a person. Already, we were looking at him through a different lens. Being served personally by the owner made us feel genuinely honoured.

Annant was his name. Annant Baheti.

“This little one likes the pasta in red sauce …also, it’ll be nice if you could make it a bit gooey for her,” requested Anjali.

“That will be possible. And, while your order gets ready, would you care for some drinks, snacks?” he enquired.

We ordered virgin mojito and coke for drinks, and some French Fries for snacks. Annant disappeared behind a door which seemed to be the kitchen.

He resurfaced after a few minutes. “I have placed the pizza bases in the oven. They’ll be ready in a short while,” he informed us.

“So, you bake your own pizza bases,” I mused.

“Yes, Sir, we bake our own pizza bases and breads. Not only that, we use our own herbs grown in the nursery run by my family on the ground floor of this building. To the extent possible, everything we serve is organic.”

“And you cook too, do you?” I asked curiously.

“Sir, I am a graduate of IHM Mumbai (2014); I have been a part of the specialty coffee industry for over eight years,” he said modestly. “I learnt cooking from my mother. My curiosity in food science eventually led me to pursue a career in hospitality. I have this small setup and a team of three employees.”

“How can you be cheffing around, and also manage all this with a team of just three?” I asked.

“My wife, Meenal, is a big support and an equal partner in all our endeavours. Our team remains committed to serving exceptional coffee and delicious food with warmth. We believe in “Atithi Devo Bhava” (the guest is God). Managing becomes possible because I enjoy spending time at the café, meeting and interacting with guests. We strive to create a memorable experience for every person who visits the Café’.”

Annant found time to show me around the Café; he even gave me a peek into the kitchen. It was one of the tidiest (restaurant) kitchens I had ever seen. When we were out of hearing distance of Muditanjali, I stumped him with a freak demand difficult to meet with his manpower limitation.

“Annant, I want to request you a big favour,” I began without a preface. “Please feel free to decline, if it is not possible. It is our son and daughter-in-law’s wedding anniversary today. Can you arrange a cake for them from a nearby bakery?”

I knew, I had put Annant in a difficult situation. With a team of just three on his staff, and so many guests to be looked after, mine was indeed a tall order. Yet, after a small pause, he nodded, “It’s not a bother, Sir. I’ll get it.”

Needless to say, the pizzas and the plate of pasta more than met our expectations. Each one of us got exactly what we wanted. We couldn’t have asked for more. We devoured the servings to our hearts’ content. The cake that followed was a bit of a surprise for everyone.

That day at Café 651, I experienced the acme of hospitality; all my senses and my heart felt it. A revisit to those memorable moments is always so refreshing.

Postscript

There is this heartwarming story of exceptional hospitality, sometimes attributed to The Ritz-Carlton (Bali). When a guest demanded a specific type of hamburger and standard French fries, which were not on the Hotel’s menu, the executive chef himself procured them from elsewhere and served them. That gesture set a benchmark in hospitality. With a small team, and no man to spare, what Annant did for us, has raised the bar.

Viva Café 651!

A Note to Readers: Visited regularly by students, armed forces officers, professionals, including doctors from AIIMS, and foreign as well as local tourists, Café 651 is the first specialty café of Jodhpur serving only SCA score 80⁺ coffees brewed in eight different ways. They serve variety of food, burgers, and garlic bread sticks. Pancakes are the bestselling.

Café 651 has earned following awards and recognition:

Best Cafe Debutant, Jodhpur Food Awards, 2018

Tripadvisor Travellers’ Choice 2020, 2021, 2022, 2024 Ratings: Zomato 4.9, Google 4.4, Tripadvisor 4.9

FIFA IS DEAD: LONG LIVE THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

Poem reproduced with permission from Air Commodore Minoo Vania, SC (IAF Veteran).

Trump , who hates to lose

Soon got into the act

To reverse a Red Card booking

Without checking facts

With Infantino , his Peace Prize pal

He made a laughing stock of FIFA

Who, for a hundred years

Allayed our fears

Of killing the beautiful game’s allure

And keeping it safe and secure

But the greed of two men

Buried FIFA’s glorious past.

Amen.