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!
Can leaders settle scores in the ring?
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?
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?)?”
The Para Wing
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
Court Martial or Shaurya Chakra?
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.
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.
“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.
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 chandanka 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.
Amareshwar Mahadev
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.
Ganesh, the living god…
“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!
Sterling…
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.
Gripping…
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!
Been there.
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.
…with my theatre mentor
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!
On June 12, 2025, tragedy struck. Air India Flight AI 171, en route to London Gatwick, crashed seconds after take-off from Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel International Airport, Ahmedabad. The accident claimed the lives of 241 people on board—passengers and crew—and 19 individuals on the ground.
In the hours and days that followed, television screens lit up with expert analyses and heated debates. While some insights were valuable, much of it merely served to feed anxiety, both among seasoned travellers and the general public.
The Ripple Effect of a Crash
When such mishaps occur, they set off a domino effect across the aviation ecosystem. Authorities tighten checks and airlines enforce stricter adherence to procedures. In the days following the AI 171 crash, many flights were delayed, diverted, or even cancelled. Recent helicopter incidents only compounded the public’s growing unease.
These reactions are not just procedural—they are deeply psychological. Fear travels faster than airplanes.
Passenger Profiles
Following aviation accidents, travellers often fall into three categories:
The Stoics – the que sera sera kind. They acknowledge the incident, mourn the loss, and continue flying without visible hesitation.
The Escapists – those who vow never to board a flight again, unless absolutely necessary.
The Unsure – the ones caught in limbo, unsure whether to continue flying or retreat into fear.
A Peep into Passenger Psyches
Take for example July 4, 2025 Indigo Flight 6E 2258 from Delhi to Lucknow. It was delayed by over two hours due to a navigation system snag. As technicians worked to fix the issue, several passengers chose to disembark. Some left because their schedules were disrupted. Others simply couldn’t shake off their anxiety. Among them was a professor—perhaps someone who lectures on resilience. In contrast, an 85-year-old woman, bound for Ayodhya, stayed calm for a while—until she began chanting the Hanuman Chalisa, seeking comfort through faith.
Stories That Defy Logic
Aviation history is filled with eerie tales of missed flights and miraculous survivals.
In the early 1980s, a military Packet aircraft crashed during take-off in Agra, claiming the lives of 45 paratroopers, instructors, and crew. Squadron Leader (later AVM) D.K. Dhingra survived because he was held up in his office by a telephone call. Some others, too, missed the flight due to last-minute changes. Fate intervened.
Even in the case of AI 171, one man survived—Ramesh Viswash Kumar. He managed to walk away from the wreckage. Was it luck, chance, or destiny? It’s hard to say—but such stories shape the way we think about survival.
Air Warriors show the Way Aircraft incidents and accidents are a part of life in the Air Force; a professional hazard. Sitting in my office in Tezpur, I had once seen two pilots punch out (eject) of a flamed out MiG aircraft seconds after take-off. It is customary for all the pilots of a unit to take to air immediately (as soon as possible) after a serious accident (unless there are strong reasons to ground the entire fleet) to keep up the spirit. Likewise, a mass jump follows a parachute accident. There is no scope for fear to set in.
A Lesson in Acceptance
A classic parable might help those grappling with post-crash anxiety:
A slave once ran to his master in Cairo, trembling with fear. “Master,” he cried, “I saw Death today in the market. She stared at me and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ I fear she has come for me. Please, I beg you, help me escape!”
The master gave him his finest horse and advised him to flee to Basra.
Later that evening, the master encountered Death and asked, “Why did you frighten my servant?”
Death replied calmly, “I was only surprised to see him in Cairo. You see, I have an appointment with him next week—in Basra.”
Sometimes, what we fear and try to avoid might be the very path we are destined to take. This isn’t to say we should be fatalistic—but it helps to recognize that some things lie beyond our control.
Trust, Caution, and Collective Responsibility
Aviation remains one of the safest modes of travel. Pilots are rigorously trained, technicians are meticulous, and air traffic controllers are highly competent professionals. Accidents, though tragic, are rare. They lead to introspection, investigation, and improvements in safety protocols.
As passengers, we can also contribute:
Avoid carrying unaccounted or suspicious baggage.
Follow crew instructions diligently.
Switch off mobile devices when requested.
Stay calm and respectful, even during delays or checks.
Let’s remember: behind every flight are thousands of hours of effort, layers of safety checks, and dedicated human beings who care about getting us safely to our destination.
Let’s fly safe. Fly wise. And above all—fly without fear.
The first time I came across that word was when, as a schoolboy, I read RL Stevenson’s Treasure Island—Captain Bill humming: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest — Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” I was too small then; didn’t heed the RUM part of that utterance. My first, real introduction with RUM, however ‘happened’ in a uniquely comical circumstance.
Mukesh Kumar, my senior and my cross-country team mate at St Stephen’s College, and I was on an endurance run on the ridge road when it started pouring. We pressed on regardless. In a while, a cab came to a halt by our side; the occupant signalled, rather insisted, that we took lift in his cab. So, there we were—a dripping Mukesh sitting beside the stranger in the rear seat, and I, shivering by the side of the driver. The man was swigging from an almost empty bottle of rum. He was happy; happy as one could be after downing more than a pint of the hard stuff. He proffered a fresh bottle for us to take sips in turns.
We declined but then, succumbed to his pestering for just one sip. I hated the unfamiliar taste and the burning sensation in my throat on taking that one sip. I wasn’t sure then, whether I would touch RUM ever again. And, although how I got introduced to the dark drink that rainy day has remained etched in my mind, my most memorable RUM session, a Quixotic one in that, took place about six years later.
At this point, a brief preface would be in order.
I left St Stephen’s to join the NDA; was eventually commissioned in the Air Force, in 1981. In the following year, I trained and became a Parachute Jump Instructor at the Paratroopers Training School (PTS), Agra. It was a turning point in my life—people started treating me as a differently-abled (they actually meant “exceptionally-abled”) individual everywhere, including, the bar. Yet, despite the nudges and needling like, “What sort of a paratrooper are you…, how come you don’t drink blah… blah,” I didn’t take to regular drinking. Two small helpings of anything—rum, gin, whiskey or, even wine (honestly, I couldn’t identify them by taste)—used to satiate me.
A veteran’s advice
“Look at me… five feet, f*** all inches. Don’t expect my capacity to be great,” has been my standard plea to those, and there are many of them, who insist on my having more drinks than I choose to consume. I try to follow a veteran’s advice in this matter.
I guess that description of my relationship with hard liquor puts my hospitality under a cloud. But I don’t think I’m all that bad a host in that regard. I sincerely try to offer my friends and guests drinks to their satisfaction. Invariably, Master Chef Chhaya covers up my inadequacies with her culinary skills at the dinner table.
Returning to the Quixotic Rum Session—it was a Saturday evening in June. I don’t remember the year. And, the social coward that I am, I’ll not mention the names of the colleagues involved because some might object to inclusion of their names in the mildly boisterous incident fringing on un-officerlike behaviour; others might take offence to their names being left out.
Chhaya, and I, had planned a get together at our residence—a cosy little bungalow in one corner of the Air Force Station. We called it, “Para-dise” (mind the hyphen and “Para” as in “parachute”). We were busy addressing our shared responsibilities when a Despatch Rider (DR), a messenger on a throbbing Enfield bike, arrived with the message that night para jump sorties had been planned. “Take off, 1900h (7:00 pm); you have been detailed as the Drop Zone Safety Officer (DZSO),” said the DR.
DZSO duty entailed reporting at the Malpura Drop Zone, 11 kms away from home, an hour before the first aircraft (paratroopers on board) took off. Simply put, it entailed coordinating and doing things to ensure that the paratroopers jumping from the aircraft (those days, it was C-119 Fairchild Packet) landed safely in the designated area. Five para drop sorties commencing at 1900h meant that I’d be home late; it could be later than 2300h.
Some other officers from among our invitees would be involved in the conduct of the night para drop—one of them would be there to supervise the emplaning of the jumpers; some others would like to grab the opportunity to log a night jump. Thus, on the threshold of being executed, our plan of the get together lay in ruins. We didn’t have residential telephones; and mobile phones didn’t exist, so I went around on my Vijay Super sharing my predicament with people on my guest list. We decided that, all the ladies, and those officers who were not engaged in the conduct of the para drop would still congregate at Para-dise. The rest of us would join after the completion of the scheduled jumps.
At the Malpura Drop Zone.
It was full moon; the sky was clear; the winds, calm. But the weather was hot and sultry. Having marked the DZ, we, the DZ Safety Team, sat there on a 10 m circular cemented platform in the centre of the 1.5X2.0 km Drop Zone and slapped mosquitoes as we chatted and waited for the aircraft. Cold water from an earthen pitcher provided occasional comfort. We talked of many things under the moon, but none cursed the administration for planning ad hoc para drop sorties and ruining the weekend. In the heart of our heart, we knew that on the timely completion of training jumps depended the parachute jump pay of the troops. Besides, a delay could cost some of them, their planned leave. Therefore, it was imperative that the availability of serviceable aircraft on good weather days be fully exploited. Mission first!
The aircraft came overhead as planned; dropped troops and returned to base. Repeated. By 2200h, 200 troops had jumped and landed safely. There was no injury, incident or accident. The troops would take time to bundle their parachutes and rendezvous at the control tower in one corner of the DZ.
We still had an hour or so before we could close shop.
Meanwhile, as expected, my buddies who had jumped that night, rolled their parachutes and joined me. I was expecting them to convey their condolences over the sad demise of our plan, the plan to party. Far from it—one of them gave me a big surprise by taking out a bottle of Sea Pirate, a popular rum in those days, from his haversack. He had carefully packed the bottle and jumped with it. Another, took out two packets of potato chips—the contents had got crushed during the jump. We were ready to start a celebration of sorts when spirits dipped momentarily. There was only one small dented and battered aluminium mug and we were six people (including two of my DZ Safety Team). Without glasses, how would we enjoy the RUM?
Where there’s a will; there’s a way!
Someone came up with a simple, stupid workable solution. We sat in a wide circle around the pitcher and passed around the bottle of Sea Pirate followed by the mug filled with water. Each one took a sip (large or small, at will) of the dark rum and a sip of water in turns. It was like folks sharing hukah on a village chaupal. It was bliss! It was Nirvana! To me RUM has never tasted as good as it did that moonlit night on the Malpura Drop Zone.
Soon we were at Para-dise—the party continued until past midnight.
A few days back, I came across a social media forward. It was the recipe of a drink using rum. It looked exotic. Sadly, even before I could try it, I lost it in the junk on my mobile phone or maybe, I deleted the link. Now, I cannot recall its name also. Yet, desperate to try it, I concocted my own version of it—from whatever I could recall—and tried it. It tasted good. Then I served it to a friend. He too relished it and asked me the drink’s name. In a spontaneous response, I called it: “Green ON! Go!” “Green ON! Go!” is the command on which a paratrooper jumps out of a perfectly well flying aircraft hundreds of feet above the ground. A top-of-the-world feeling follows the exit from the aircraft.
For those interested, here is the recipe.
…the ingredients
Ingredients
Dark Rum (30 ml) – This quantity may be tweaked to taste
Cinnamon (one stick) – Cinnamon has many health benefits. CLICK HERE to read about some of them.
Star anise (two pods) – It is a spice used in traditional Chinese medicine. It has powerful bioactive compounds that may help treat fungal, bacterial, and viral infections.
Black pepper (six pods) – Black pepper too has many health benefits. CLICK HERE to read about some of them.
Orange (one)
Honey (one teaspoon)
Getting Ready
Cut a slice of orange with its peel
Remove the peel of the remaining part of the orange and cut it into long fine shreds
Here we go!
Boil 250 ml water
Add cinnamon stick, star anise and black pepper. Continue boiling for five minutes
Arrange the shredded orange peel at the bottom of a glass tumbler
Pour the contents (boiling water with cinnamon stick, star anise and black pepper) into the tumbler.
Add honey; stir gently.
Slowly, add 30 ml dark rum. Don’t stir. Let the RUM linger long and merge with the concoction at its pace.
Gently place the slice of orange on the surface.
Raise a toast to paratroopers and say, “Green ON! Go!”
[Sometimes, I add a spoonful of orange pulp to suit my taste.]
An afterthought Forget the health benefits of the ingredients, I find the process of making “Green ON! Go!” therapeutic. Then, the drink itself… cinnamon and pepper give a distinct flavour. The slice of orange and star anise floating in the tumbler, is soothing to the eyes. The bitter sweet taste of orange and honey… and above all, the lingering RUM merging slowly with the surrounding water is a treat to the soul. On a winter evening, with subdued lights and soft music, a sip of it gives me a top-of-the-world feeling.
Some valued responses
Wg Cdr Vijay Ambre (Veteran): Dear Ashok, I enjoyed reading “Green On! Go!!” as much as I have all your other writings. It evokes memories of our lives in the transport stream of the Air Force; where “our ” times were never ours. Innumerable cancelations/absences that were always treated as a way of life by the family. As for the drink recipe, although, I enjoyed reading it ,I am not going to make GOG ,as I turned teetotal and gave up non-veg food aeons ago. Here’s wishing more power to your pen!👍👌👏
Air Commodore Ashok Kumar (Veteran): Ashok nicely written, as smooth as Patiala Sea Pirate. Chug it!
Air Commodore JV Paul: Sir, your para-normal skills are matched by your anecdotal skills!!!😁👌 Your exploits were already legendary by the time I entered the An 32 fleet in ’88 with the Yaks, and then reinforced and cemented by the time I entered the Skyhawks kingdom in 2007. Much more water had flowed beneath the bridge by the time my daughter entered the portals of Amity Noida to do her Architecture course. And she had the pleasure of Chhaya Ma’am’s benevolence as a hosteler there, especially after I disclosed my Skyhawk connection to Ma’am. The Skyhawk stint remains the high point of my career. Chhatri Mata ki Jai!
Virendra Singh Mann
Thoroughly enjoyed reading the post “Green On! Go!” Felt as though I was reading a novel. But I know this must be for real. Thank you so much for sharing. 🥃Cheers to a bottle of rum.
Viney Sharma
Hello Ashok, Very interesting read and I can fully relate to it.
In 1967 I got introduced to RUM (Hercules XXX @ Rs 10/ bottle from the CSD). 4 of us from college had gone on a trekking trip in Kashmir. We had taken a shikara to Char Chinar in the middle of Dal Lake (probably a full moon night). One of us with fauji connections produced the bottle from his backpack. It was quickly consumed with much back slapping and leg pulling. Don’t remember how we got back to our lodge but still remember the massive hangover next morning.
Squadron Leader RP Mittal (Veteran)
Nostalgic and smooth capture of the spirit of the moment in narration. 😊
Wing Commander Pradeep Dahiya (Veteran)
As always great read. Your writing has a wonderful capacity to stimulate imagining the scenes and characters . Thoroughly enjoyed.
Raghu Ramakrishnan Aiyar
Lively and highly, ” Spirited’, anecdote. Smooth, it flowed; Sublime, it lingered; Sensational, it spoke of the Para Jumps, even as the GreenON! Go… went on and on, wild and wanton👍👍👍👍
All have their own definition of it; and, it changes from time to time. For now, for me, it is a feeling of contentment and satisfaction one gets when one does something one has never done before. The other day, I experienced just that, when I spent quality time at the Trade Fair in Pragati Maidan. An artisan allowed me, and encouraged me to work on his potter’s wheel. With a little guidance and help, I could fulfil a desire I had nurtured since childhood. I could make a miniature vase; I felt, I was on top of the world.
Spick and span…a different Pragati Maidan
In another stall, it was therapeutic to watch a lady work on the clay bust of a person sitting opposite her. I have seen umpteen artists making caricatures likewise, but never a person making a clay bust within minutes. Watching Mr Indrakant Jha engrossed in Madhubani art was a treat to the soul.
I had never experienced virtual reality before. So, flying a parachute canopy (in virtual reality) at the NTPC stall, seven years after I made my last parachute descent, was a top of the world experience.
Conscientious staff…
The child in me went berserk when I found a stall displaying writing instruments. I spent the good part of an hour trying my hand at calligraphy. If I had had my way, I’d have spent the entire day visiting the remaining stalls and exploring the other options.
In itself, the experience was exhilarating; it became more so because of the improvements I saw and experienced at the fair. To cite a few — the new underground parking is very well organised; comparable to any good mall in the NCR. Everything in and around the halls is spick-and-span. The public utilities are sparkling clean. The absence of litter, even around the eateries, is a pleasing sight. There are conscientious staff to maintain the surroundings. The security staff and those at the help-desks are courteous. The thoughtfully designed and placed signage makes things convenient.
Let’s be “good”
On the whole, our experience was in sharp contrast to what we have seen in the years gone by. People who are striving silently to make this possible deserve Kudos.
On our part, let us help them in their endeavour by just being ‘good’.
Post Script
This description of our visit to the Trade Fair would be incomplete without the narration of our interaction at a stall displaying Gujrati garments. Chhayaji liked two dresses and decided to buy them. When she tried to bargain with one of the salespersons, the lady said with a lot of pride, “Like Modiji, we are Gujratis! We are upright people. We do not tell lies about price; we do not leave a scope for haggling.”
…fir bhi dil hai Hindustani
Amused, I asked her, “Why are you dragging Modiji, in this conversation?”
“Because, he is an upright leader; and he is a Gujrati,” she chirped with even greater pride.
“Why do you say you and Modiji are Gujratis? Aren’t we all Indians—you, I and Modiji? Think of it, it is only a matter of time, even Trump and Nigerians will stake a claim on Modiji. What will you do then?”
She laughed heartily at my quick-fire repartee; gave us a handsome rebate. We thanked both, the lady, and Modiji, profoundly before leaving the premises.
It will be interesting to know Modiji’s “MAN KI BAAT” someday on belongingness to a state, the nation, and the world.
Road Much Travelled 