“Green ON! Go!”

“RUM.”

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.

“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.

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👍👍👍👍

Viva Indian Army!

Came across many messages on the Army Day.

Don’t know whether the late Queen Elizabeth said it, but I loved this one. My Army buddies deserve it, Here it goes,,,

“If you love an army officer raise your glass. And, if an army officer loves you, then raise your head and walk like a Queen.” ~ Queen Elizabeth II

Happy Army Day!

*** My thanks to the one who created this thoughtful message.***

“A (Trade) Fair”, and a Claim on Modiji

Is it fair to stake a claim on Modiji?

Call it bliss, or Nirvana!

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Egg-straordinary Dilemma

The bug of indecisiveness stings the officers of the Armed Forces early in life.

The successes in the wars and operations, which the Indian Armed Forces have executed since we earned our freedom in 1947, has proved the prowess of our men in uniform. Their ability to take quick and near perfect tactical and strategic military decisions under extreme pressure and in the thick fog of war, is matchless. But, in some situations, even in peacetime, they are straightjacketed and indecisive.

For example, the top brass takes good time to decide whether to use a chipper, a seven-iron or a putter to send their golf ball five yards from the edge of the putting green to the pin. Some freeze in that situation; many go by what their caddie advises them to do. I know of a few good ‘golf mentors’ being rewarded with permanent jobs for their services to their bosses. A senior golfer used to quietly resort to ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Moe…’ to avoid decision making on the course.

A study has revealed that the bug of indecisiveness stings the officers of the Armed Forces early in life. As young bachelors when they enter the dining hall every morning their minds are already browsing the ‘TO DO LIST’ of the day. In the few minutes that they set aside for breakfast; they are not in a position to give clear instructions to the waiter about what egg preparation they would like to be served. The choice is fairly wide and confusing—boiled eggs (hard/ soft boiled), fried eggs (single/ double fried), sunny side up eggs; scrambled eggs, poached eggs, simple omelette, savoury omelette, cheese omelette, Lucknowi Omelette… the list is long. Decades ago, an officer who had the time and inclination to devote to the issue, directed the mess staff to prepare his entitlement of eggs in a particular way. The preparation became popular as Datikara Bhujiya in the Indian Air Force.

I was a veggie for most part of my service life. That saved me the pain of taking a difficult decision every morning. Once in a blue moon, when I did order eggs, my instructions used to be clear: “Get anything; anything that you can get fast, lest the eggs hatch and I have more difficult time deciding what to make of the chicken.”

It has been forty long years since I stopped dining in the mess; and seven years since I hung my uniform and re-attired. I had almost forgotten about the daily egg dilemma when I was faced with the same old question, recently. I had given a very short notice to Keshav and Saurabha when I told them that I was calling on them just to say, “Hello!” It being lunch time, they insisted that I break bread with them.

“Nothing special, Uncle. We’ll have whatever is there. Saurabha has prepared rice and daal, and has baked a banana cake.” Keshav suggested when I hesitated. “Do you take egg? How would you like to have it? Will egg curry be fine? I can make it in a jiffy.”

“I am fine with egg curry. You guys keep it simple; don’t upset your schedules because of me.”

To cut the long story short, the egg curry was delicious. Seldom have I found an egg preparation so appealing. I still drool when I think of it. I sought their permission to use my hands instead of the well laid cutlery and ate to my heart’s content.

Since, in my re-attired life I do not have a long ‘TO DO LIST,’ I thought I might as well learn how to prepare the mouth-watering egg curry. I requested Keshav for the recipe which he did promptly. For those who wish to experiment, here is the recipe.

Thank you, Keshav! Thank you Saurabha!

Main Ingredients (serving for two)

5 eggs (boiled and peeled)
2 large red onions
1 garlic clove
1 tbsp grated ginger
1 tbsp crushed garlic
1½ tbsp chili powder
1 tsp turmeric powder
3 tbsp curry powder (use for egg curry)
1 tsp cumin powder
½ stick cinnamon
2 pcs star anise
4 pcs cardamom pods (whole)
3 pcs cloves
400 ml cream (adjust as needed)
A pinch of salt
1 tbsp ghee or clarified butter
3 tbsp cooking oil
Fresh coriander leaves (for garnishing)

Ingredients for Seasoning

4 tbsp ghee or clarified butter
5-6 pcs dried chillies
4-5 pcs curry leaves
1 tsp diced onion

Procedure

Preparation of Ingredients:

Boil the eggs, peel them, and set aside.
Dice the red onions, use half the garlic clove.

Initial Cooking:

Heat oil in a deep non-stick pot.
Add cinnamon, star anise, cardamom pods, and cloves. When fragrant, throw in the diced onions, garlic, and green paprika. Cook on medium heat until soft.
Add the grated ginger, and garlic paste. Sauté for a minute until everything is well combined and aromatic. The masala is ready.
Add the boiled eggs to the masala and gently coat them with it.
Add all the powders (chili, turmeric, cumin, curry powder). Mix well, ensuring the eggs are well coated.
Add salt to taste.

Preparation of the Curry:

Pour in the cream, stir well, and reduce the heat by two levels.
Cover the pot with a lid and let the curry simmer for about 10 minutes. Stir occasionally to prevent it from burning.
Remove the lid and cook until the curry thickens, allowing it to reduce until almost dry.
Final Touches:
In a separate small sauté pan, heat the ghee or clarified butter. Add the dried chilies, curry leaves, and diced onions. Cook until the onions turn golden brown.
Pour this tempered mixture over the egg curry and stir.

Serve

Garnish with fresh coriander leaves. Serve with basmati rice, cucumber with mayonnaise, some pickles, or simply chapati and daal.

Bon appétit!

Volvo Culture

An interesting bit of information is displayed on a standee kept next to The Very First Volvo in the World of Volvo, in Gothenburg. It points out that the premier of ÖV4, in the 1920s, fell flat because a rear axle gear had been installed incorrectly and the car could only drive in reverse in its first test drive. Embarrassment caused by the event to the company notwithstanding, Volvo identified the fault and immediately fixed it. Then onwards, the Volvo cars and trucks have had the reverse gears; but Volvo, the automobile giant, has only moved forward. It has gracefully covered the long distance to world leadership in automobile sector.

Before talking further about Volvo culture, here is a less known fact about the reverse gear—it is the most powerful gear in all automobiles. Once, while on a 3,700-mile road trip from Paris to Ankara, Dominique Lapierre, and his classmate, Dominique Frémy, was faced with a steep climb near Athens, which brought their 6-HP antique Amilcar to its knees. To deal with the challenge, they turned around the car and drove uphill in reverse gear. The effect was miraculous: their valiant car climbed the slope like a Tour de France bicycle.

There is much to learn from Volvo’s culture of acknowledging shortcomings, working on them to improve, and above all, talking candidly about the failure. The power of the reverse gear also has a message.

Managing personal life; running a corporation or a government—each is akin to driving a vehicle. If a not-so-correct decision is taken and implemented, it would only be appropriate to acknowledge it gracefully, in time, like Volvo, and to get into the powerful reverse gear to prevent appreciable damage.

Like the reverse gear, the brakes and the rear-view mirrors also contribute to good driving. The purpose of brakes—more important than the ability to slow down and stop at will—is to allow driving at high speeds. Awareness of functional brakes, or ‘brake consciousness’ as it may be called, sets one free to speed up.

Amusingly, the purpose of the rear-view mirrors installed in the cars of the yesteryears was to enable the drivers to keep an eye on the cops who might be chasing them. Today, they have a more meaningful purpose—to ensure road safety.

Cruising ahead in life; or leading an organisation, it pays to look into the rear view mirror and observe the road travelled. Slowing down to take stock, or getting into reverse gear to make amends are empowering options.

Willingness to adopt the goodness of Volvo Culture is the need of the hour.

Yuck to Yum — A Soup-er Saga

Butternut squash, a close cousin of pumpkin, can also taste delicious!

At school, we used to be faced with two choices in the dining hall—eat what was served or, go hungry. Prudence guided me to stick to the first option. Those days, we used to dislike pumpkin which was served often. One day, a student posted a cartoon depicting a caricature of a helpless looking boy, hands joined, murmuring reverently to a pumpkin:

“ऊपर से हो ताम्र वर्ण, भीतर से हो सोना… जिस दिन न देखूँ तुम को, आता मुझ को रोना… ओ कदुआ, ओ कदुआ, ओ कदुआ!”

Meaningfully translated…

“Thou art coppery on the outside; golden inside… O Revered Pumpkin, tears flow from my eyes, when I don’t see thou.”

We got a short-lived relief from pumpkin, when the sarcasm flowing from the cartoon melted our principal’s heart. If only, the fairy godmother who turned a pumpkin into a golden chariot for Cinderella, could also make it disappear from our daily menu, we used to pray.

Many grown-ups also detest pumpkin. There’s a popular joke about a commanding officer visiting his men who are being routinely served, among other preparations, pumpkin in the langar (jawans’ dining area). Although aware of his men’s dislike for the vegetable, he nudges his Langar Havaldar, (caretaker of the jawans’ dining hall), “बंता सिंह, कद्दू बहुत अच्छी सब्ज़ी है… (Banta Singh, pumpkin is a very good vegetable) …”

A seasoned Banta senses the mood of the Commanding Officer and paints a beautiful picture, “जी सर, कद्दू सेहत के लिए बहुत अच्छा होता है इसमें विटामिन A, B, C, D, E, F, G… (Yes Sir, pumpkin is very good for health… it contains vitamins A, B, C, D, E, F, G…).”

The Commanding Officer smiles; he understands Banta’s predicament. A few days later, he needles Banta, “कद्दू बिलकुल बेकार सब्ज़ी है… ये मुझे नापसंद है (Pumpkin is an absolutely useless vegetable… I dislike it).”

Banta Singh starts off instantly, “जी सर कद्दू तो होता ही बेकार है… ये लंगर में इसलिए सप्लाई किया जाता है क्योंकि ये सस्ता होता है। इसमें कोई विटामिन नहीं होता है… (For sure Sir, pumpkin is a useless vegetable… it is supplied to the langar because it is cheap. It doesn’t contain any vitamins…).”

The Commanding Officer takes an endearing dig at Banta, “ओए बंते… कुछ दिन पहले तो तू कह रहा था कि कद्दू बहुत अच्छी सब्ज़ी होती है… आज ये बेकार कैसे हो गई… (My dear Banta… the other day you were saying that pumpkin is a very good vegetable… how come it has become a useless vegetable today…)?”

“साहब जी, मैंने आपके अंडर नौकरी करनी है, कद्दू के अंडर नहीं (My dear Sir, I have to serve under your command… not under pumpkin’s),” Banta banters unflinchingly.

***

A habit to accept all food with reverence, or may be, indifference, was a spinoff off of the survival instinct we developed in school. For that reason, my dislike for pumpkin is now water under the bridge. At age 65, I can eat (read, “tolerate”) most preparations without squirming or making faces. So, when one day, Anjali, my daughter-in-law proposed to prepare butternut squash soup for dinner, my response was, “Why, of course! I would love to try something I have not eaten before.” ‘Butternut Squash’ had sounded very appealing to me. But my enthusiasm nosedived when I was told that butternut squash was a close cousin of our own pumpkin (कद्दू) — Pumpkin, which I had begun accepting after half a century’s detestation.

I waited with apprehension until the soup was ready. And, lo and behold, when I started eating it, there was no stopping. I ate it to my heart’s content and relished it greatly. It amazed me that butternut squash, a close cousin of pumpkin, could taste so good.

***The little one slurping a bowl of the soup was a treat to the soul***

Anjali shared the recipe with me and guided me when I prepared it on my own for the first time. I felt elated when she certified my preparation fit-for-human-consumption. I was happier still when Maya, my granddaughter (2) slurped down a bowl of it with joy.

The experience of preparing the soup was therapeutic and truly blissful.

For those of my readers whose curiosity to try butternut squash soup, has been whetted by my recollection, the recipe is here.

Ingredients (for a sumptuous helping for two)

• A medium sized butternut squash – about 1.5 kgs. Use of pumpkin instead, will give the soup a sweeter taste. A Marwari by birth, and still a Marwari at heart, I love that sweet taste in everything.

• Two onions

***Butternut Squash — a close cousin of our own pumpkin***

• Two peeled and diced potatoes

• Ginger – 50 gms

• Garlic – two to three cloves

• Olive oil

• Broth – make it by boiling two cubes (sachets are available in the market) in two litres of water. This can also be made by boiling fresh vegetables of choice, like carrot, celery, potato etc. Use of non-vegetarian broth is a personal preference.

• Coconut Milk or Fresh Cream – 200 ml

• Rosemary

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Parsley, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds, flex seeds for garnishing (fresh parsley leaves may also be used for garnishing

Procedure

• Chop onion, ginger and garlic and sauté in olive oil until onion is golden brown

• Add peeled and diced butternut and diced potatoes (potatoes serve to thicken the soup), and continue to sauté for 3-4 minutes.

• Add the broth in a quantity such that it covers the solids.

• Add rosemary, salt and pepper to it while it boils.

• When butternut squash becomes soft and can be meshed easily with a spoon, blend.

• Add coconut milk or cream and mix.

Presentation

• Serve in large bowls with garlic bread

• Garnish with parsley, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds, roasted flex seeds

***…a treat to the eyes and the the tongue***

• Add cream for richness

• Fresh parsley leaf, or even coriander leaf can be used for garnishing. Butternut Squash Soup (orange colour), looks awesome (like Indian tricolour) when garnished with a little cream and fresh parsley or coriander leaves.

• This could also be accompanied with a salad (chick peas salad or cous cous, a Latin American salad)

• Red wine goes well with this soup.

Note: Served with garlic bread, butternut squash soup is a full meal. Butternut Squash can be replaced with broccoli or potato or carrot or cauliflower to make respective soups.

Bon appétit!

Paris Olympics: Need to Change the Way We Think

Here is a news headline about the performance of an Indian wrestler at the Paris Olympics being reported by NDTV:

“Paris Olympics 2024 Highlights, Day 11: Vinesh Phogat Achieves Historic First, Assured Of At Least Silver”

It would have been more assuring, and still technically correct, and still giving the channel an ‘escape route’ (if that is what it is looking for while reporting) if it had been worded thus:

“Paris Olympics 2024 Highlights, Day 11: Vinesh Phogat Achieves Historic First, Moves A Step Closer To Gold”

Here’s more…

***Can it be, “India may fight for two gold medals”***

Golf and Gandak

About a myth called indispensability.

Remembering dates and recalling chronology is not my cup of tea unless they are associated with memories. Suffice it to say that the exotic east was my home for two and a half years around the time 9/11 happened. Chhaya, my soulmate and Mudit, our son had stayed back in Delhi for the latter’s schooling when I moved on a posting to Tezpur as the Senior Logistics Officer (SLO). Those days mobile phones were rare and smart phones, non-existent. Video chat existed, but only in the drawing room discussions about the awe-inspiring future technologies. Public call booth was our means of connecting with our dear ones back home. The waiting at the booth used to be long when the call rates used to dip after 10 pm. Despite those little struggles, one realises in hindsight that without smart phone, existence was meaningful—one could indulge in activities which boosted the feel-good-factor, and to some extent, the quality of life.

In Tezpur, without family—people called that state of being, forced bachelorhood—I could devote all my time and attention to work. Thanks to the dedication of my predecessors, logistics support to the Station was streamlined; the ageing MiG-21 fleet was afloat, nay soaring. So, I also had the time to afford other activities. Once in a while, critical shortages of spares, or elephants rampaging our Ration Stand, used to inject excitement in our routine.

The Gajraj Golf Club situated across the runway, offered me an opportunity on a platter to sharpen my golfing skills. My approach to the game was maniacal. I played like a man possessed, not missing a day unless there was a justifiable good reason. Unbelievable, but true—I played 45 holes on a particular holiday. That fact must not mislead one to conclude that I was playing well—piling birdies and pars. Far from it, long hours spent on the fairways—not to talk of the golfing lessons from the pro, Minky Barbora—did little to help me master my shots. At my best, I played to a fourteen handicap. So be it. I was happy playing. Period!

Air Commodore PK Barbora, popularly known as Babs Sir (later Air Marshal and Vice Chief of the Air Staff) was our Air Officer Commanding (AOC). He, and a dozen other officers shared similar passion for golf.

***Nothing could stop the golfers, but…***

The weather in Tezpur used to be hot, and mercilessly humid, for most part of the year. Rest of the time, it used rain heavily. A drizzle could never stop us from teeing off. What about rain? It was a mutually agreed rule to continue playing if it started raining after we had teed off. We permitted ourselves free lateral drops whenever a downpour created scores of shallow lakes in the fairways. We were unstoppable. For a few minutes though, we paused our game one day, only to give way to a herd of about 30 to 40 wild elephants who chose to cross our path.

Rounds of golf on the courses owned by the association of tea planters were jamborees. Amusingly, their fairways were maintained by the grazing cattle. The events provided unadulterated joy, taking us to the next higher level of being. Nirvana!

Indulging in a sporting activity alone, golf in particular, is no fun. Normally the AOC used to telephone one of us and confirm if we were playing on a given day. One day when others were occupied, he called me to check, if I was available. “So Ustaad, are we ON today? What time do we tee off? Is 2:45 fine?”

“Ustaad!” That’s how the AOC addressed everyone. That form of address had nothing to do with the formal term coined by Air Chief Marshal S Krishnaswamy to recognise and honour professionals.

It was a matter of chance that I too had a commitment that day. So, I responded apologetically, “Sir, I have a commitment today… I might get late. May I join you on the third or the fourth tee?”

“Ustaad, are you trying to impress me by staying late in the office.” Although the AOC said it in a lighter vein, his remark pricked me. Oblivious of my hurt feeling, he chuckled, “It’s fine. I’ll start alone. See if you can make it after finishing your task at hand.” Was I attaching too much meaning to the AOC’s words? Was I inviting offence when it was not meant? I wasn’t sure. But disturbed, I was.

The AOC was on the third tee when I joined him, “Good afternoon, Sir.” A grumpy me greeted him half-heartedly. His words, “Are you trying to impress me…,” were still screeching in my cranium; disturbing me. I felt he had been unfair in judging my commitment to work as an exercise to impress him. I knew in my heart, I would work anyway, regardless of him.

The AOC must have read my mind for he broached the subject, “Good afternoon Ustaad. What were you stuck with?”

“Sir, the weekly courier was to land today. I had a repairable aeroengine to be sent to Bangalore… it was urgent. Sometimes, when the aircraft are loaded to their capacity, the loadmasters decline our consignments. I went to the tarmac because I didn’t want that to happen today. Fortunately, they had the space and accepted our load.”

“What would you have done if they had had no space to accommodate your stuff?”

“It is a common occurrence, Sir. When there is no space, I speak with the crew of the aircraft and try to prevail upon them to offload some of their less important packages and accept my critical stores. I promise them to dispatch their offloaded packages by the next available aircraft. They appreciate the logistics needs of a fighter flying training station and generally concede to logic even if they are inconvenienced.”

I kept emptying my mind, “Besides, having spent seven years at PTS (Paratroopers Training School) Agra, I am able to connect well with most of the AN-32 and IL-76 crews, and sometimes I am even able to pressurise them to accept my consignments….” The AOC listened to my monologue without saying a word except for an occasional, “Hmm!” I wondered if I had been talking to a wall. We walked the distance together as I kept illuminating my late joining.

On the next green, the AOC was the epitome of peace and calm when he took stance for a long seven-foot putt for a par. The clinking of his Titleist Pro V ball as it fell into the cup was music to the ears. Then it was my turn. About three feet from the cup, with two strokes in hand I was sitting pretty for a birdie. Chaos and disorder were still stewing in my mind when I struck the ball. I missed the putt twice. It was a bogey.

“Oh no! Ustaad, how could you have missed that sitter,” Babs Sir exclaimed.

I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief. I too thought, at least a par was unmissable.

It was a disastrous day for me on the course. When we sat down for the usual cup of tea after the game, the AOC took out his pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. He carried forward the conversation as he struck a match to light it, “You know Chordia, I am a happy AOC who has a conscientious SLO like you working for him. I appreciate your sincerity of purpose. Full marks….” He showered lavish praise on me for despatching the aeroengine. His demeanour suggested that he was headed elsewhere.

“But, think of it. Couldn’t any of your youngsters, or a Warrant Officer, or a Sergeant, have accomplished what you did… simply despatching an aeroengine?” He asked me as he took a last long drag on what remained of his little cigarette.

“Ustaad,” he continued, “Your men are an asset. Good grooming will enable them to shoulder greater responsibilities, and thereby relieve you to devote your time and energy to intellectual work. With thoughtful delegation one can manage things better. The opportunity to golf could be the spinoff of good management.”

I accepted the pearl of wisdom with humility. “Sir,” was all I said in my acceptance speech.

Postscript

There was much substance in what the AOC said that day. My fear that my men would not be able to accomplish things was holding me back from giving them responsibilities and making me feel indispensable. A little introspection and some fine tuning did wonders for me. Thereafter, I had a lot more time. I could not only play golf but pursue a lot of other hobbies and activities. I could immerse in books, draw caricatures, analyse handwriting, practise calligraphy strokes and even try my hand at wood carving. Tezpur turned out to be a greatly satisfying tenure, professionally and personally.

To conclude the sum and substance of this piece, a word about gandak will be in order.Gandak is a canine species, kind of a sheepdog found in Rajasthan. It can be seen walking in the shadows of the camels or under the carts drawn by them. Regardless of the weather—scorching heat or bitter cold—the long tongue of this little beast is always hanging; it is perpetually panting. My mother used to say, a gandak pants because it thinks that all the load is on its back and that it might tip over if it shrugs (read, “shirks”). Hidden inside us is a gandak which gives us a false feeling of indispensability. My life changed when I got rid of the gandak in me.

Lost in Translation: The Gaza War

If only vibes too could be translated!

Drawing inferences or lessons is an art.

A researcher placed a frog on a table and snapped, “Froggie jump!”

The frog jumped and landed two feet away.

The man, in quest of knowledge, scribbled an observation on his notepad and put the frog back at the starting point and chopped one of its hind legs. “Froggie jump!” he yelled again retaining the pitch and the loudness of the previous occasion.

The frog jumped. This time, it landed just about a foot away.

With great anticipation, the academic chopped the other hind leg of the helpless being and repeated the exercise. The profusely bleeding frog didn’t move an inch. The scholar repeated, “Froggie jump,” several times, varying the pitch and loudness of his command.

Then, with the air of an Archimedes discovering the principle of buoyancy, he noted: “A frog becomes deaf when its hind legs are severed.”

In a study on the impact of major historical events on the environment, published over a dozen years ago, it was theorised that some occurances could have impacted the climate due to the return of forests after depopulation; one of the events studied was the Mongol invasion of the 13^th and 14^th Century. It was revealed that 40 million deaths during the Mongol conquests caused large areas of cultivated land to grow thick once again with trees, which absorbed carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Ecologists believe it may be one of the first ever cases of successful man-made global cooling. Thus, Genghis Khan was the greenest invader in history.

The ecologists who arrived at the green conclusion didn’t have the tools or, more probably, they didn’t have the inclination to comment on the kind of 40 million people killed by the Green Genghis. Among those put to sword, there could have been artists, painters, thinkers and social scientists who might have put the earth back on a greener track? May be. May not be.

It is only a matter of time, some social scientist, somewhere, will draw similar conclusions about the (good) environmental impact of the recent wars. More than 90 million (including civilians) have died in the wars since WW I (including only the major wars with casualties in excess of 25,000). Blame it on the fog of war—this estimate of ~90 million⁺ could be grossly incorrect. This figure does not include the Covid deaths.

Most wars have their genesis in the failure of dialogue and diplomacy. And when two sides do go to war, they fight to win it, and impose their will on the vanquished. Incidentally, the numbers that die on one side are not compensated by the number killed on the other side—they add up. In military academies and war colleges all over the world, they teach the art and the Principles of War. The knowledge gleaned from the writings of Kautilya, Sun Tzu, Clausewitz and their ilk, is passed on from a generation to another. The future leaders study campaigns, and try to figure out whether or not the military wisdom of the yore was put to use. The effort is to establish, to what extent the victor and the vanquished adhered to the proven warfighting tactics/ strategy.

The Ukraine War and, now the War in Gaza (some call it the War on Gaza, and with good reason, which depends where they stand and how their glasses are tinted), has necessitated the need to refine and redefine warfighting for the ones executing the will of the political leadership. A few might agree (most others will agree absolutely) to cram the sum and substance of all military knowledge in just four words: “LIVE AND LET DIE!”

“Live and let die!” that is what exactly the Ukrainians, the Russians, the Israelis and the members of Hamas are trying to achieve even as the cheerleaders, the US, the UK, the NATO and Iran etc are eagerly awaiting the opportunity to enter the fray.

Meanwhile, in the International Court of Justice (ICJ), the ‘genocide’ issue led to an animated debate. South African advocates painted a vivid picture of Israeli atrocities in Gaza. The Israeli rebuttal was passionate and strong. Rhetoric at the Hague boiled down to the definition of ‘genocide’ and ‘the intention to kill.’ At one point, the chair had to advise the Israeli representative to go slow to enable the translators and interpreters to keep pace. Speed notwithstanding, it is axiomatic that some meaning is always lost in translation. How then, can one expect people to understand each other, let alone be sympathetic? There is no way yet, to translate the ‘vibes.’ It is no wonder then, that the interim order of a toothless ICJ sounds so hesitant. The UN body has directed Israel to prevent genocide (mind the subtle difference between ‘preventing’ and ‘stopping’) in Gaza. As it stands, the ICJ is certainly not blaming Israel for the said crime. It has not ordered an immediate ceasefire.

The Gaza War has the potential to engulf many more actors and stakeholders in its raging flames. It is an unparalleled crisis. It is said that the worst corners of hell are reserved for those who maintain neutrality in times of crisis.

Time is NOW to speak up and work towards preventing further bloodshed.

Many wrongs have been committed since the birth of Israel in 1948. All those wrongs do not add up to make a right. They also do not justify either the Hamas raid on Israel on October 7, 2023 or the Israeli action following that attack. One of the possible ways out of the present crisis is the release of the Israeli hostages followed immediately by a ceasefire. If Israel decides to continue to pursue its aim of eliminating Hamas even after release of its hostages, it might succeed in its mission (although that is an extremely doubtful proposition) but in the process, it will sow the seeds for still worse to happen.

The writing on the wall is legible and clear. May sense prevail.

Tathastu!

Comments

Colonel Jamshed Hussain (Veteran) — Reasons are invented to justify most violent actions, including wars. Winners prevail, hence history is recorded as viewed by a victor. Seeds sown by imperial powers of yesteryears, will continue to fester conflicts…So Gazas and Ukraines will continue.. Ashok👍

Air Commodore Roj Assey (Veteran) — Very well written, Ashok.
I have a video clip of the Israeli ambassador speaking at the UN, a couple of weeks ago. He made two major points ….
If Hamas returns all the hostages, Israel will stop its offensive the next day.
Nothing is more important to Israel than its own survival – irrespective of what the world does, or thinks.
On the first point, this statement was made by an official rep of Israel and is a guarantee made in front of a world audience.
On the second point, ever since Israel declared its independence on 14 May 1948, after the dramatic Resolution taken in the UN on 29 Nov 1947, Israel has had to fight for its survival. A Russian Mig or an Israeli Mirage takes only a few minutes to cross the entire country of Israel.
There has been an enormous amount of heated, prejudiced, passionate and emotional talk and writing about the crisis. How much of it is true, depends, as you very aptly quoted, on how the glasses are tinted. I would suggest that 99 per cent – at least – of what is written, is a mix of fact and outright fiction.
But I cannot fault Israel’s desire to survive.

“the”

“Is INDIA prepared for the dire consequences?”

This morning my little grandnephew asked me, “Dadu, why do we say, ‘the US, the UK, the UAE?’ Why don’t we say, ‘the India’?”

“It is rather simple, my child,” I said, “When the name of a country suggests that it is a group of states or a confederation or a federation, we use ‘the‘ before their names like, the United States, the United Kingdom, the United Arab Emirates….”

“I see,” Kartik nodded.

“Not only that…,” I added to enlighten him further, “…the names of some countries which are archipelagos or groups of islands, are also preceded by ‘the‘ for example the Maldives and the Seychelles.”

“I will not use ‘the’ with Maldives. I don’t like that country. The Indian troops risked their lives for their President and we have been rushing to help them in their times of need, yet they speak with disrespect for our Prime Minister. They are bad people!”

“Language has nothing to do with relations between countries,” I chuckled. “Grammar is not governed by feelings, Maldives will continue to be called, the Maldives. Your dislike for that country doesn’t change anything. Relations between countries are temporary; only interests are permanent. Yesterday the Maldives were with us; today they are with China. Who knows, tomorrow they might end up being without any one on their side when China discards them like a spent tissue.”

A pout on the little lips, lateral movement of the eyeballs, and a shrug of his little shoulders was Kartik’s way of conveying his displeasure about this particular rule of the English grammar. He continued paying attention regardless.

“Not only that, we use ‘the’ before names of groups/ organisations that suggest coming together of several entities. For example, the United Nations, the World Health Organisation and…,” I paused to think of names of more organisations.

“In that case it would be grammatically correct to use ‘the’ with India too,” the little one spoke with sparkling eyes. “I.N.D.I.A. stands for ‘Indian National Developmental Inclusive Alliance’ and meets the criteria of being a coalition of several entities?”

That question put me in a tailspin. I remained silent for a long minute until Kartik tugged me, “Isn’t it Dadu?

I scraped the inside of my cranium for the special wisdom required to answer such questions. Then I spoke hesitantly. “Well, theoretically you’d be right if you use ‘the’ before I.N.D.I.A. But as it stands, there is nothing like I.N.D.I.A. It is just a group of ambitious people trying to remain relevant in Indian politics by any means. Rather than setting an agenda for the country, their only aim is to remove the ruling dispensation, and their primary concern is ‘seat sharing.’ Men apart, every man there is a candidate for the post of prime minister. As of now I.N.D.I.A. exists only as a concept.”

The quizzical look on Kartik’s face suggested that he didn’t understand a word of what I had said. But does either India or I.N.D.I.A. visualise the consequences of having a weak, rudderless and meaningless opposition?

Comments

Wing Commander Sanjay Sharma (IAF Veteran) — If my Grandson were to grill me like you were fried, I shall take apolitical asylum in Djibouti.😱😱🤯🤯

Wing Commander Vijay Ambre (IAF Veteran)—You need a strong and united opposition for a vibrant parliamentary democracy. The present conglomeration in the opposition is not likely to provide that after the general elections, especially if the present government returns to power.
The Modi government is doing a very good job on all fronts and deserves another term for internal and external policy continuity.

Colonel Jamshed Hussain (Indian Army Veteran)—Very interesting…use of grammer to drive home a point..for a meaningful democracy, a strong opposition is as important…. The small one for weekend, is razor sharp in its thought..Ashok, my compliments.👍 Stay blessed🙏

Air Marshal PV Athawale (IAF Veteran—Beautifully put across Ashok, through Kartik, something which “the politicians” scream aloud every evening on the TV, and no one understands!