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.
“Till death do us part.”
Word-of-mouth publicity and a few flattering comments on Amazon are doing good to promote the sales of Chhaya’s book—UNSCRIPTED: A Dateless Diary. The concluding line of one of the reviews has popularised the book among the soon-to-be-married and the just-married people. Young women are gifting the book to their partners in the hope of some transformation. That one line, which whets curiosity, is: “Last but not least, it (the book) tells you what a husband should be like.”
Needless to say, Chhaya was very kind to me through the pages of her book. After reading that comment a match-making bureau requested me to guide their clients. Now, that’s a lie meant to humour my own self. The fact is that some youngsters did seek ‘the secret’ of a peaceful married life and I made a hash of it. It was like, a blind person trying to lead other blind people.
Oh God, forgive such naïve people for they know not that the role model who they wish to follow has been close to being divorced. Not once, twice!
Read on, if you must.
The first instance when our married life neared termination was within less than a year of our blissful togetherness. Exceptional chef that Chhaya is, she had already found her way to my heart through my tongue. She loved seeing me feast on her preparations with the joy of a child. I specially relished the different kinds of cakes she baked.
One day, she prepared a pineapple cake for me. Ah, a pineapple cake!
It had a lovable deep golden-brown crust. I got my share of the spongy thing, and ate it too. I don’t recall if I had eaten one like it before. The leftover part of it was kept for tea over the next few days.
I blundered the very next evening. In Chhaya’s presence, I ate a piece of the cake with mango pickle. I thought she would approve of my inherited Marwari palate, and appreciate my spirit of experimenting with food.
I was mistaken.
Chhaya looked at me as though I had committed culinary sacrilege. She was H-U-R-T. A divorce between us was averted on the condition that I’d never again ask her to bake a cake for me. With a heavy heart I agreed; it was indeed a small price to pay for my monumental misdemeanour. Notwithstanding the unwritten agreement, the kind-hearted person she is, Chhaya continued baking cakes for me. On my part, I have never again tried experimenting with my taste buds in her presence.
I concede that, in that instance, it was my fault. Entirely my fault. I still carry the guilt for hurting my soulmate by that ‘cake & pickle’ episode. But the second time when the boat rocked dangerously, I was definitely a victim of circumstances. The real culprit was Javed Miandad who drew a wedge between us.
How can I forget that date—April 18, 1986? The two of us were watching the Austral-Asia Cup final between India and Pakistan being played at Sharjah. A cricketer herself, she was engrossed in the match, ‘dil se.’ For me, it was just a sporting event. While I wanted India to win, deep down I knew that Pakistan winning the match was a possibility. Period.
As the game progressed, I realised that she was deeply emotional about the outcome. Since I did not want her to miss watching even a ball, I took it upon myself to fetch the occasional coffee and snacks. It didn’t occur to me then, that besides coffee and snacks, she was sending me on trivial errands repeatedly—to fetch water, a cushion, more snacks, and even for chores like closing the bedroom door ‘properly’. I could barely observe a pattern or comprehend her behaviour.
Only in the final over did she disclose a theory of her own, which I found amusing. According to her, every time I left the room to do something, Pakistan suffered a setback—missed a boundary, or lost a wicket. She was convinced that my presence in the drawing room in front of the TV set was somehow favouring Pakistan. And then, at that critical point when Pakistan needed four runs off the last ball to win, she pleaded, “Shona (she calls me lovingly by that name), if you go out of the room, India will surely win.”
“Anything for the country, and for you, darling,” I laughed, and stepped out, closing the door behind me. I took a walk on the lawn for what I thought was a reasonable time, and then, returned. As luck would have it, just as I re-entered our drawing room, Javed Miandad smashed Chetan Sharma’s delivery for a six.
India suffered one of its most heartbreaking defeats that day.
“You couldn’t wait outside just for five minutes for the sake of the country!” Teary-eyed Chhaya blamed me for India’s debacle. My advocate father-in-law sided with me and saved the situation for me in that instance. To this day, close finish of sporting events involving India, leave me uneasy.
For the reason I stated earlier in this piece, it would be improper on my part to sermonise young people on the age-old institution of marriage. Perhaps every marriage survives on love, laughter, and the willingness to forgive the occasional foolishness. Ours has endured because of Chhaya’s tolerance of many of my habits, including snoring and, accepting me the way I am.
Comments
Mrs Sanghmitra Nanavaty:
Good morning!
This has been most hilarious! Little did I know about your capability of stepping on her wrong side at such precarious stages!! Boy, cake + pickle is unacceptable, 🤦♀️Chhaya has been truly kind….
Anyway you both are definitely an example to follow (never mind what’s behind curtains 😜) and the younger generation will continue to consider you a role model. Chhaya is lucky and so are you, having HER in your life. God bless. Stay the way you are.❤️
Bonny Mukerjee
As usual, well articulated with the right amount of humour and the right touch of truth.
We have been married for 56 years….in all these years never discussed divorce— but murder, often !!!😂
Air Commodore Harishankar ((Veteran)
A delightful read sir.
Whilst the pickle on cake was an unforgiveable culinary transgression (even with yur Marwari antecedents), I might’ve taken sides with the aggrieved lady.
However your inopportune and untimely and re-entry at the last ball couldv’e been met with a dollop of magnanimity.
Nevertheless, your matrimony as I can gather, is definitely tougher than these pinpricks and has survived, nay thrived despite the rollah-costa ride.
And that is the icing on the pinepapple cake.
Article reproduced with permission from Wing Commander JK Kaushik (IAF Veteran).
The lead story in the newspapers and the TV channels over the last few days has been the US-Iran Summit at Lucerne in Switzerland. This took me back a couple of years when we had an encounter of a different kind in the very city that hosted the Summit recently.
Our son Aditya has lived in Zurich, Switzerland since 2020. The Covid pandemic restrictions disrupted travel and the plans for a family reunion. When travel restrictions were gradually removed, we decided to visit him. There’s a lovely view of Lake Zurich and the snow-covered peaks of the Alps from Aditya’s apartment. After soaking in the unadulterated beauty for a few days, we began exploring the rest of Switzerland. Aditya or Angelika (our daughter-in-law) accompanied us on these trips depending on their work schedules. When both were busy, Kalpana and I ventured out on our own.
One of the first excursions we undertook was to Lucerne—a short train ride from Zurich. On reaching Lucerne station we took a short bus ride to go Mount Pilatus. We absorbed the natural beauty of the Swiss alps on the gondola ride to the top of Mount Pilatus. The strong cold wind that greeted us at the top froze us to the bones. But, the view from the top was a treat to the soul. We enjoyed it for some time and, after a hot cup of coffee at the summit restaurant, prepared to return to Lucerne. This time we chose to take the special cogwheel railway down. Incidentally, the cogwheel railway from Mount Pilatus is the steepest such train in the world. The cogwheel railway ride down the slopes of Pilatus was a rare experience. Once we reached the base, we took a boat across Lake Lucerne to return to Lucerne.
The excursion to Mt Pilatus had taken much less time than we had anticipated. We had a few more hours at our disposal. The guidebooks suggested that we visit the Kapellbrücke (Chapel Bridge). This is an old wooden bridge, 170 m long, constructed in 1300 AD. There is a stone water tower at one end which, as the glossy handouts noted, had served as a lookout tower, a water storage tower and also as a prison. The bridge was partially burnt in 1993, but has since been painstakingly restored.
Google Maps guided us through the short walk from Lake Lucerne ferry terminal to the Chapel Bridge. We found that the area around was practically deserted as the Bridge is meant only for the pedestrians. After the ‘mandatory’ photo at the entrance, Kalpana and I started strolling slowly to the other end. We noticed a couple of benches on the bridge and decided to sit down for a few minutes. As we were approaching the benches I noticed another couple of almost our age walking ahead of us slowly and occupying the first bench. I remarked to Kalpana that they appeared to be Indian tourists like us. We went past them and settled on the next bench.
Kalpana started taking out the water bottle and some refreshments from her handbag. “They look very familiar,” she mused gesturing at the couple. I dismissed her remark as pure imagination. But, when she insisted that I take a look, I lifted my eyes from the screen of my mobile phone, which I had been scrolling as a matter of habit.
And, lo and behold, it was Diwakant, my NDA Course-mate and Squadron-mate and his wife. We had last met about 6 years ago at the course get-together at the IMA.
“Hi Diwa!” I got up and called out to him.
He looked up a bit surprised as to who could be calling him by his name so far away from India. In seconds we were in a bear hug—laughing at the rare coincidence of two course mates from same squadron being at a tourist spot in Switzerland at the same time. After much backslapping Diwa told us that they were on a short trip to France and Switzerland from Ireland where his son was working. Once the initial euphoria subsided we completed our walk along the Chapel Bridge and the Old town across the river.
Lucerne has a Lion Monument. Since two Lions from Lima squadron had met by chance it was almost obligatory for us to visit the Lion Monument. After the visit to the Lion Monument and some souvenir shopping it was time for good byes. We had to head back to Zurich; Diwa was staying the night at Lucerne before taking the flight back to Ireland the next day. The world is wondering if the US-Iran Lucerne Summit will lead to some tangible outcomes. Let them keep meeting and fencing till cows come home. But the chance meeting of NDA Course-mates—and two LIONS in that—is a feeling to be cherished for a lifetime. This chance rendezvous was much more rewarding than any Lucerne Summit.
Do I need to correct everyone I perceive to be ‘wrong’?
On rare days, the area around Nizamuddin Railway Station, on the Sarai Kale Khan side, is in chaos. On normal days, it is in utter chaos. To my luck it was a normal day on that June morning when I had alighted from the Bhopal Rajdhani at 6:00 am. I skilfully wove my way through fly-infested little heaps of litter, and patches of dirty water caused by leaky pipes, and manoeuvred around people sleeping on the platform to exit the station. Getting atop the foot-over bridge and walking through a tidal wave of humanity had been an exercise in itself. Outside the station I was greeted by the mixed smell of overcooked spicy food emanating from the dingy hotels on the roadside. Competing with the signature odours of omelette and aloo parantha was the stench from the overflowing drains. A wretched dog, and two crows were feasting on the leftover food offered by a kind-hearted passenger.
Having lost my iPhone a few days ago, I was undergoing a forced digital detox. The apps on the phone I was using for the time being, were functioning at less-than-optimal efficiency. For that reason, my four attempts to engage a cab had failed. In the meantime, I had declined several auto rickshaw drivers to take me to NOIDA. Not that I was averse to travelling by a three-wheeler. It is just that I had three suitcases and an air-bag, which I presumed wouldn’t fit into an auto.
Mahender Singh, an auto driver—the events of the following half hour or so, had obliged me to ask him his name when we parted in NOIDA—read my mind and nudged me to re-evaluate my options. “Sir, don’t worry, I’ll be able to adjust everything into my auto,” he offered.
“Should I continue to stand in the crowded place and keep trying to get a cab; or, I must hop into his auto and get some semblance of relief?” Embedded in that dilemma was my strong urge to be anywhere else, soon. Then, the stench and the noise nudged me to accept his offer. The man could well have been a smart warehouse in-charge, or a logistician, I thought when he stowed my bags meticulously in the little space behind the passenger’s seat.
“Sir, sit tight and keep pushing the back of the seat so that your bags stay in place,” he directed me as he cranked the engine to life. Soon, we were zipping down the crowded road. In a small stretch of about half a kilometre, where pedestrians and vehicles of all kinds were fighting for every inch of space, Mahender’s driving speed was causing me anxiety. The horn of his vehicle was perpetually ‘ON’. He was shoving the nose of his auto into the small gaps wherever he could find them, and was pushing forward. He was behaving like a man possessed. At one point, he entered the wrong lane. My heart missed a beat every time he dodged the traffic coming from the opposite direction. He was occasionally lifting his eyes off the road and staring at the Google Maps on the damaged screen of his mobile phone, which he had tied (literally crucified) on the handle of his auto where the speedometer ought to have been. To him, speed did not matter. In any case, he was driving at max possible throttle setting all the time.
By the time we reached the Outer Ring Road, I had refined the long draft of my sermon to him on adherence to traffic norms. The density of the traffic had reduced, and the average speed of vehicles on the road had gone up considerably. So, I decided to defer the delivery of a piece of my mind to him until we reached NOIDA.
Yet, there was no respite for me. All along the way, he kept changing lanes without giving any indication and overtook vehicles from any ‘convenient’ side. I held firmly on to the metal pipe in front of me and avoided getting thrown out of the auto. On a few occasions, I dared to assist him by stretching my hand out to convey his intention (turning left or right) to the drivers he was sharing the road with. He was looking at me from the corners of his eyes and didn’t mind what I was doing.
“If we, the educated lot, do not correct these erring drivers, who will? On reaching my destination, I’ll pull him up…. But, who am I to correct him? Who all will I correct? There are so many reckless people on the road… the drunken, the rich and the mighty who mow down unsuspecting pedestrians… the under-age privileged ones who kill and are let off by the court after writing an essay on traffic rules….”
My thoughts were travelling ahead of the noisy auto when, all of a sudden, came a moment of reckoning. An ambulance approached a roundabout which Mahender was negotiating at a high speed. I was certain that he would carry on driving, not giving a pass to the ambulance approaching us from the left. So, I stretched my left hand, indicating to the ambulance driver that Mahender was in no mood to slow down.
To my utter surprise, Mahender slowed down, almost to a halt, and asked me to pull back my hand. “Sir, let the ambulance go,” he said with an air of urgency. Then, he felt the surprise in my reaction and said, “Sir, an ambulance must always be given the right of way. Don’t know how serious the patient inside it might be.” This thought coming from Mahender who had been flouting almost every possible traffic rule since we left Nizamuddin Railway Station, surprised me no end.
I ejected the draft of the moral lecture meant for Mahender, out of my cluttered mind when the auto stopped at my residence. He didn’t deserve a sermon from me. He didn’t let me carry my bags—lifting them himself up a flight of ten steps to the landing in front of my flat. And, before I could realise, he was gone, leaving a breath of fresh air on that summer morning.
Comments
Air Commodore Sanjay Sharma (IAF Veteran)
I was 17 and a half. BSc Prev. Onboard Utkal Express from my small town Kosi Kalan to Raja ki Mandi. ( From home to Sapru Hostel, Agra College). Month of December. A group of four ruffians in their twenties boarded the train without a ticket (an accepted norm on that route) from Mathura. Asked the other passengers to ” Khisko, thoda sa” to make room for them to sit. Started playing cards. I was cursing them silently in my slight frame for being so unruly. There was a beggar in a tattered shirt and an excuse for a pajama. He came dragging himself and started begging. Hardly anybody gave him a paisa until he came close to this gang and suddenly, the most ” Goonda looking” one amongst them took his pullover off and made this beggar wear it.
People broke into applause. I felt small in my own eyes for judging the book by its cover.
There are times when the living envy the dead.
There’s a pause in the fighting…
Troops are sprawled on the sunny side of their camp. These are the boys who had been pulled out of schools; given doses of patriotism and conscripted to fight for the country. Ill-clothed and ill-equipped, sometimes, they wait anxiously for a dying brother-in-arms to breathe his last to stake a claim to his boots and other accoutrements. They are disgusted as they had just had an hour of saluting practice because one of them had greeted an officer sloppily.
“Watch out, lads! We’ll lose the war because we are too good at saluting,” says Kat. The frustration is evident in the senseless talk.
Kropp says philosophically, “All declarations of war ought to be made into a kind of festival, with entrance tickets and music, like they have at bullfights. Then the ministers and generals of the two countries would have to come into the ring, wearing boxing shorts, and armed with rubber truncheons, and have a go at each other. Whoever is left on his feet, his country is declared the winner. That would be simpler and fairer than things are out here, where the wrong people are fighting each other.”
The above is an excerpt (abridged and reworded for flow) from All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. The novel is set in the Europe of the First World War. It exposes the brutal realities of war and traces the disillusionment of soldiers. It underscores the lasting impact of war on their minds and emotions. Remarque’s literary masterpiece is a powerful reminder of the human cost of conflict.
Wars are fought for one or more of the following reasons: territory, resources, or ideological differences. They follow an almost set pattern or cycle—differences arise; discussions take place; diplomacy fails; military action follows; the two sides fight to exhaustion, or until one side—or both—recognises the futility of seeking a military solution. Finally, the warring sides return to dialogue. Interestingly, wars end where they begin—at the negotiating table. But, in the process thousands (sometimes millions) of lives are lost; economies are shattered. At times, the living envy the dead.
Kropp sound ‘NUTS’ when he suggests that disputes between countries be settled between leaders wearing boxing shorts using truncheons. But an equally nuttier solution was tried at least once to resolve a territorial dispute between states. And, it really succeeded in arriving at a permanent solution.
The story goes like this. When the colonies declared their independence from Britain, New York State and New Jersey both claimed Staten Island. It was decided to settle the matter with a sailboat race around the Island. The two states sent their best sailor. One Captain Billopp won the race for New York and the island became a part of New York State. Simple!
Fast forward to today, to the wars in Ukraine, Iran, Gaza, Israel and Lebanon.
Imagining peace descending upon today’s world through physical scuffles involving the likes of Donald Trump, Mojtaba Khamenei, Benjamin Netanyahu, Mahmoud Abbas, Vladimir Putin, and Volodymyr Zelenskyy sounds absurd. Yet the idea of these same leaders returning to negotiating tables after millions of lives have been lost is equally absurd.
Does it mean that thousands of lives would have to be lost every time before sense dawns on the leaders?
Sacking of several general officers by the Pentagon and the many desertions in the Russian Army is a clear indication of the fact that the days of the Charge of the Light Brigade are over. Political leaders and diplomats will have to find ways to break the cycle—negotiation, war, negotiation again—with thousands of lives lost in between. The question remains: must we always bleed before we negotiate?
“Never say die.”
“Sir, it is a “hang-up!”
Even in the noisy cargo compartment of the C-119 Fairchild Packet that warning from the master dispatcher on the cold Friday morning of February 17, 1967 rang loud. It jolted Flight Lieutenant Minoo Vania who was all set to make a parachute descent. He was the officer in-charge of the batch of jumpers now on board preparing to take their first plunge after undergoing 12 days of rigorous ground training at the Paratroopers Training School (PTS), Agra. Within seconds, Minoo was in the cockpit with Mukho (Flight Lieutenant Mukherjee), the captain of the aircraft.
A paratrooper was trailing behind another aircraft flying ahead of them over Malpura Drop Zone (DZ). The jumper’s parachute had failed to open. The16-foot nylon staticline which initiates the opening sequence of the parachute had fouled up accidentally, preventing the deployment of his parachute.
The Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) to deal with such a situation entails two crisp actions—to connect a set of two parachutes to the staticline of the jumper in distress and then, to snap the anchor cable. The dispatchers, who are Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs), are expected to take less than two minutes to execute the ‘Hang-up Release Drill’.
Six long minutes elapsed as Minoo stood anxiously next to Mukho in the cockpit and watched the man buffeting behind the other aircraft. The young PJI’s worry was that if the reserve parachute of the hanging paratrooper got deployed for some reason, it would endanger the life of everyone on board.
“What is holding them back? Why aren’t they releasing him,” Minoo asked Mukho who was in communication with the other aircraft.
“Some argument is going on with the DZ Safety Officer about what height must the jumper be released,” Mukho explained.
“Do you mind if I take the RT (Radio Telephone) and talk to the crew of that aircraft?” Minoo said with a sense of urgency.
Mukho acceded.
Minoo took the RT set and aired an appeal: “The aircraft with hang-up, please release the paratrooper in the next run-in over the DZ.”
“Who are you?”
The pilot at the other end happened to be Minoo’s boss—the Commanding Officer of Paratroopers Training School (PTS). He was clearly rankled.
“I am Flight Lieutenant Minoo Vania.”
“But we have to climb higher before we release him….”
“Sir, further delay in release will endanger the life of the paratrooper and everyone on board. Please go ahead and release at whatever height you are.”
“If anything goes wrong, it’ll be your funeral, young man!”
“I understand that, Sir. Please go ahead and release immediately… I am saying this with responsibility.”
Perhaps the CO didn’t appreciate the young Flight Lieutenant’s assertiveness and professionalism in that moment of crisis. Even as they talked and the PJIs prepared to release the paratrooper, something unusual happened. The jumper got detached from the aircraft and his parachute deployed on its own. This happened a few kilometres away from the DZ.
Minoo judged the gravity of the situation and said to Mukho, “I don’t know how and why this trainee jumper was dangling behind the aircraft. In this while, he might have sustained some injuries and will be in trauma when he lands. There’ll be nobody on the ground to assist him. I want you to drop me close to where he lands. He is my pupil, and I must go to his rescue.”
Without ado, Mukho turned around and let Minoo jump out at a point close to where the trainee had landed. Mukho did a professional job—Minoo touched down yards away from the paratrooper. He quickly discarded his parachute and ran to the jumper who lay unconscious in a field.
To his horror, Minoo found that the man’s right wrist was severed. Apparently, his staticline had wrapped around his wrist preventing the deployment of his canopy. Only when the nylon rope cut through his wrist did the parachute open. The man was lying in a pool of blood. Every time his heart beat, it sent a fountain of blood from the stub that remained of his hand. A childhood lesson on the use of tourniquet returned to the officer’s mind at that anxious moment. He ripped off the cloth belt of his overall and tied it tightly around the profusely bleeding arm. The blood stopped spurting.
Minoo cradled the injured Paratrooper’s head in his lap; looked for signs of life and tried to revive him as he waited for the medical team and the ambulance to arrive. Among the villagers who had gathered to watch what was happening, there were good Samaritans who came with a charpoy, water and milk. Minoo told them to look for, and guide the rescue team to the spot. Flight Lieutenant GJ Gomes, another PJI was the first to reach the spot. The medical officer and the ambulance arrived minutes later.
The first words the paratrooper spoke with a smile as he responded to Minoo’s efforts to revive him were: “Koi galti to nahin ho gayi, sahab (Have I made any mistake, Sir?)?”
A new right hand was fitted to this brave young man at the Artificial Limb Centre in Pune. Although, he could not complete the para basic course and become a qualified paratrooper, Minoo Vania wished he had the authority to award the young man the coveted para wing for the fateful jump he made. After all it was for that little insignia that he had volunteered to join the Parachute Regiment. He lost a limb in seeking the distinction, but in the eyes of his fellow men he would forever walk tall.
Now in his nineties, Minoo recalls that moment vividly when his injured pupil lay in his arms after his extremely painful and traumatic experience. The boy’s words echo in his mind. The legendary PJI wonders, “If this is not stoic valour, what is?”
Epilogue
When Minoo Vania parachuted to help his pupil in distress, he was in the flight path of the Agra airfield. Technically speaking it was an operational hazard—NOT A DONE THING. And, there were people who saw it through that lens. “Minoo deserves to be tried by a court martial for flouting the laid down flight safety norms,” they opined. But then, there was a conscientious OC Flying in Wing Commander Pete Wilson who saw Minoo’s action differently—as a selfless act of daring. He viewed it as an officer risking his own life to provide succour to a jawan in dire need of assistance. Pete prevailed. Flight Lieutenant Minoo Vania was awarded the Shaurya Chakra for his selfless act of gallantry in peacetime. In the years ahead, Minoo Vania would train on D-1-8 parachute (jumping from AN-12 aircraft) in erstwhile USSR; carry out jump trials in Ladakh Region and the eastern sector, and undertake numerous equipment trials. His contribution to operations would be recognised by way of award of Vayu Sena Medal.
Postscript (by Air Commodore Minoo Vania SC, VM) Ashok suggested I add a postscript to this story you just read about the hang-up at Agra. To my eternal regret, I never learnt the name of the brave paratrooper. It was not for want of trying that his name eluded me, and I still have a hope. Maybe a fellow paratrooper on reading Ashok’s story may recall; maybe an officer of that era; or even a medical person where he would have been fitted with a prosthesis. It could be anybody who would lift the cloak of anonymity from this hero.
Other Parachuting Stories
Tipping the Fear of the Unknown… the very first jump
Jumping… definitely not to conclusion… what if the parachute fails to open.
Out of the Blue into the Tree!!… and, when one lands in trouble.
Mission First… will do everything for a jump.
One discovers them by chance…
It wasn’t eavesdropping; the words simply fell on my ears, and I couldn’t help respond. What followed was a precious insight into the behaviour of two conscientious service providers.
The story goes thus:
Yesterday (Tuesday, April 7, 2026), I was in the path lab of Kailash Hospital for a blood test. Since on numerous occasions in the past, I have fainted at the sight of blood, I deliberately looked the other way as the nursing assistant prepared to prick my vein and draw a sample. It was a deliberate effort to divert my attention away from the needle. That’s when I noticed these two young women talking. One of them, Manisha, was a member of the support staff in the lab. The other one, Lalita, was at the desk handling patients’ documents.
It was a rare lull in the otherwise overcrowded lab.
“I was very angry at that patient who left a while ago,” said Manisha.
“I know,” nodded Lalita with understanding.
Curious, I turned to them after my test. “How can you be angry at a patient? As service providers—especially in healthcare—you’re expected to remain calm and caring,” I said.
“But Sir,” Manisha responded politely, “that man spat paan in the bin meant for medical waste. It is unhygienic and simply not done. There are spittoons outside.”
“That’s pathetic behaviour,” I quickly jumped the fence on to her side. “If that was the case, he deserved a slap, not just your anger,” I added with superficial agitation.
On a serious note, I added, “You should have reported the matter to the authorities.”
“Sir,” now it was Lalita’s turn, “Everyone who visits us, is already stressed with an ailment or the other. They carry their own worries. Reacting harshly or escalating matters would only add to their distress. We don’t take offence when none is intended.”
Lalita left me speechless. I hadn’t expected such maturity from someone dealing routinely with difficult situations. I admired the sense of duty of the two women.
“Keep up that spirit,” I said as I left. “Your attitude will take you far.”
How I wish Dr Mahesh Sharma (CEO of Kailash Hospital) reads this piece and gives these women of substance a well-deserved pat on the back.
Postscript:
I happened to be at the lab again yesterday (Tuesday, April 14, 2026). I saw the two ladies; busy as bees. I thought that after my pleasant interaction the other day, they’d recognise me. No, I was mistaken. They couldn’t place me. So, to start a conversation I addressed Manisha, “You are Manisha. Aren’t you?”
“How do you know my name,” said Manisha quizzically.
“Don’t you remember,” I said, “I spoke to you that day about…”
“Ohhh yes, Sir. Of course, of course” she smiled, “I remember now…”
I showed them this post on my blog and said, “I wish, Dr Mahesh Sharma sees it. He’ll be pleased.”
I thought, the two would be flattered by something being written about them and their CEO coming to know about their dedication to duty. But Lalita surprised me yet again with her response. “Sir, it matters less whether Dr Mahesh Sharma reads this and pats us. More important and greatly satisfying for us is that you are pleased with our work and have cared to write about your experience. That, indeed is a big reward!”
My feeling of appreciation and respect for the two climbed many more notches.
If only there were more such people around!
“True education,” Mr RGL Srivastava, our English teacher, used to reflect, “is what stays with one after one has forgotten everything one learnt.” Young naughty minds then, we spent much time splitting hairs over the literal meaning of the pearl of wisdom. “If one forgets everything,” we used to argue, “nothing remains. So, there is no such thing as true education.”
Much of what my teachers, which includes my parents, sister and brothers, taught me, has stayed with me and shaped the way I think and work. The lessons were not limited to classrooms and textbooks. They were about curiosity, discipline, and integrity, and more importantly, about the spirit in which knowledge should be pursued. Those values, slowly absorbed, became part of who I am.
Today, when I stand before students as an adjunct faculty member and honorary Professor of Practice, I often find myself trying—however modestly—to emulate my own teachers. I try to make learning engaging. A class may begin with an anecdote, a little-known fact from the history of science, or a challenge that students cannot resist attempting. Sometimes there is a small surprise reward for solving a quiz—a pen, perhaps, or a book.
It brings excitement to the classroom. The students participate, question, and occasionally throw back a challenge. By the time the formal lecture begins, the atmosphere is already alive with curiosity. It is fun for them and me alike. I find each teaching experience rewarding in some way.
On this journey I continue to learn from seniors whose profession is teaching. One such person is Dr Devendra Singh, the erudite Head of the Mechanical Engineering Department at AK Garg Engineering College in Ghaziabad, whose passion for teaching is unmistakable.
One afternoon last month, we were exchanging notes over a cup of tea in his office when a student walked in. She was a resident student, a hosteller.
“Jai Hind, Sir,” she said politely. “I’ve come to request approval for a night out-pass. My mother is visiting Ghaziabad to see my local guardian who is unwell. I’ll stay with them over the weekend.”
It sounded like a routine request. I expected the form to be signed without much discussion. Instead, Prof Singh asked her to call her mother. “I just wish to speak with her,” he said.
To me, it appeared to be a rather cautious approach. I wondered, if it was really necessary to treat a young adult that way. I got my answer soon; in the very next minute.
The telephonic conversation between the mother and Prof Singh revealed that the student’s LG wasn’t unwell. Also, her mother was not scheduled to visit Ghaziabad any time soon. The student had simply wanted to spend the weekend with friends—something disapproved by the parents. The request was declined without drama, and the student withdrew quietly.
Later Dr Singh remarked that the student’s body language had made him suspicious. “Giving students freedom while ensuring they don’t stray into trouble is difficult these days,” he mused. “It was much easier when we were students,” he chuckled as he recalled an incident from his own days as a student in the late 1980s at the Motilal Nehru Regional Engineering College in Allahabad.
On a frivolous issue, a few students had instigated a strike and encircled the main building with the intention of causing nuisance. They were pressing unreasonable demands and seemed to be on the verge of going on a rampage. Slogans of “Zindabad… Murdabad…,” had filled the air.
At that moment, the proctor, Prof SM Goel stepped out of the main building and walked up daringly to the agitated crowd. Standing on the steps above them, he raised his hand to quieten the noise. Just as the students seemed ready to listen, one self-styled leader shouted dramatically, “If our demands are not met, we will immolate ourselves!”
Professor Goel, a habitual smoker, happened to be holding a lit cigarette. Without losing his composure he said loudly, “I have come to settle your problem. But if someone still wishes to immolate himself, here is a can of petrol—pour it over yourself… and here is the light.” He flashed the lit cigarette in his hand.
The effect was instantaneous. The crowd dispersed, and the fiery leaders vanished.
Prof Singh cited the incident in the lighter vein. Yet behind the humour lay an important lesson about authority, wisdom, and the ability of a teacher to influence young minds in a moment of confrontation.
Our conversation then drifted to how education has changed over the decades. There was a time, he recalled, when engineering colleges in places like Roorkee and Muzaffarnagar produced some of the finest engineers in Asia. Placements were so abundant that in one instance the placement rate exceeded one hundred per cent—some students received offers from several companies.
Campus life had its own informal discipline. Seniors did not merely dominate juniors; they mentored them. They taught them how to conduct themselves, even basic table manners. Walking into the dining hall improperly dressed invited silent disapproval.
“Now,” he said with a smile, “I find myself on the other side of the fence—teaching. I enjoy it far more than my years in the corporate world.” Listening to him, I was reminded again of my schoolteacher’s words about true education. Theoretical knowledge may fade, facts may blur, and textbooks may gather dust. But the values, habits, and examples set by impressionable teachers continue to dispel darkness and illuminate our lives.
Note: Here are two of the quizzes my students and I had fun solving.
It is true as true can be.
Now, this not that time of the day when I am usually engrossed in intellectual discussions with friends after downing a few Paul Johns, or Old Monks, or some wine — or a “Green ON! Go!” for that matter. That I saw God is not a figment of my imagination after a few drinks. It really happened.
Before I proceed, a word about God, godliness, and my stand on that subject.
I am neither an atheist nor a believer. But, sometimes I do flaunt Rudraksh beads; I feel they go well with my baldness and round-rimmed glasses. Occasionally, I also apply chandan (sandalwood paste) on my forehead; it is so soothing. The beads and the chandan ka tika—together, they give me a rather cool, saintly look. That is my belief. But my dear wife urges me to discard them. “This kind of symbolism is meaningless; be a good human being and people will see God in you,” she says admonishingly, so I give up the pretence.
With or without saintliness and godliness, life goes on.
Yet, sometimes in this God’s Own Country, I wonder if HE/SHE (THEY) really exist. What do THEY look like? Multiple heads and arms? Riding a tiger, a mouse, an elephant, or a swan? I got my answer when I visited Ranthambore recently.
It was a family holiday—nearly twenty of us. The night before, at Juna Mahal (the resort), we had great time — star-gazing, folk songs and music and local cuisine. We were all set to embark on a tiger safari the next afternoon. Since the morning was free, some of us decided to visit the Amareshwar Mahadev Temple nearby. Each one on board had an agenda to be met at the temple. I guess most were going there to seek “special” blessings. As for me, I was eager to discover the physics behind the perpetual trickle of water falling on the Shivling in that small temple carved inside a rock—a cave of sorts; Lord Shiva’s blessings would be a bonus.
It was mandatory to leave the cars at a gate about two kilometres from the temple. A jeep meant to ferry visitors, took us to the foot of the hill on which the temple was situated. Thereafter, it was about a kilometre and a half of gentle climb through rocky terrain. We were warned to remain in a group, as tigers had been spotted in the area in the past.
I belong to Ujjain, known for its temples—Mahakaleshwar, in particular. When I realised that, like the Mahakaleshwar Temple, the Amareshwar Mahadev Temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva, I began looking for similarities, which were aplenty—such as, the Shivling and a small water tank for people to take a dip. But there was a striking difference that caught my eye. The 1.5 km walkway to the temple was clean beyond imagination. This was in sharp contrast to the litter one sees around Mahakaleshwar and other temples. I attributed the exceptional cleanliness to the relatively (much) lower footfall at that site, and concluded the dialogue within.
The temple surroundings were clean too. And ah, the serenity! It was a cherished world far from the humdrum of where each one of us had come from—Noida, in my case. One had to prostrate oneself to get a close darshan of the Shivling. The constantly trickling thin stream of water from the rocks above the Shivling evoked reverence and amazement. It had been dripping for many years. We spent a blissful half hour at the temple before heading back. The return trek was uneventful yet fun.
While driving back in the rickety jeep, we crossed a man dressed in a saffron half-kurta and a white dhoti. With long hair, a beard, and a cloth bag dangling from his hand, he looked like a typical sadhu. I thought he was one of the caretakers on his way to the temple.
“This old man is walking alone to the temple. Isn’t he afraid of the tigers?” I asked the driver of our jeep out of sheer curiosity.
I listened in disbelief to what the driver told us about the man. “That man in saffron is Ganesh. He is the son of one Ramchandra Verma and lives in a nearby village. He has been walking to the temple and back every day for the last forty years. On his way up and down, he collects litter thrown around by devotees. We owe the cleanliness of this place to this one man. He does it selflessly, and with devotion; doesn’t charge a paisa. He lives on whatever he earns by tilling his small piece of land.”
When I turned back, I saw the man in the distance, a halo around him—the kind we see in pictures of gods and saints. I had no doubt; I had caught a glimpse of a living GOD.
Postscript
No regret that we didn’t spot a tiger that day.
Last week, when I got an opportunity to visit Ranthambore again, I grabbed it with both hands. While another tiger safari was the loudly proclaimed agenda, somewhere at the back of my mind was a strong desire to cross paths with the same god. Sadly, this time I missed both—the tiger and the god.
If, and when, I revisit Ranthambore, it will be with the primary motive of meeting Ganesh — all else, will be secondary.
“Chanakya” as the real Chanakya could possibly have been!
My revered theatre friend, Shri Ashok Banthia, rekindled my love for the stage when he invited me to work with him on the play Maha Param Veer two years ago. The production was staged in Udaipur, Jaipur, and Bhopal, and is expected to travel to other state capitals as well.
Recently, thanks to Ashokji, I had my first glimpse into the beautiful world of the National School of Drama (NSD). I was awestruck, to say the least. As is often my habit of wishing I could go back in time to pursue unfulfilled dreams, I found myself longing to study drama at NSD. That renewed desire arose from the stellar performances I witnessed yesterday.
The play was Chanakya.
All of us Indians have grown up hearing stories of Chanakya and Chandragupta Maurya. Honestly, those stories seldom inspire awe anymore. However, this Chanakya—researched and scripted over four years—felt fresh and intellectually invigorating. Having been staged more than 1,700 times, it’s no surprise that the actors have come to live and breathe their roles. Watching them, I couldn’t help but wonder if the real Chanakya, Amatya Rakshas, and Chandragupta Maurya could have expressed themselves half as powerfully. No exaggeration intended!
The team led by Manoj Joshi (as Chanakya) and Ashok Banthia (as Amatya Rakshas) delivered a sterling performance. The dialogues were powerful and passionate, complemented by excellent costumes, lighting, sound, and music—every element of the production was par excellence. Time seemed to fly, and before I knew it, the play was over.
Beyond its artistic brilliance, the play reintroduces Indian history in a way that leaves a lasting impact. Those who watch it—especially those involved in running the country—will carry pearls of wisdom passed on by the real Chanakya through Manoj and Ashok’s portrayals.
We often judge a film or play by whether it’s worth our time. My conclusion? Watching Chanakya was worth more than a dozen of the best films or OTT series combined.
When I received a warm, friendly hug from Shri Ashok Banthia after the performance, I couldn’t hold back my hidden desire. I requested him, “Sir, please accept me as your pupil. If nothing else, I’ll cherish the role of a tree or a lamp-post beside which you stand and mesmerize audiences.”
Kudos to Manoj, Ashok, and the entire Chanakya team!
Road Much Travelled 