Just how to sit on an issue and mull over it…
Monkey Musing
On Satisfaction-scale
Trying to measure up on the satisfaction scale…
A tea vendor serving hot tea. Ujjain (MP)
The Second-Best Thing About Playing Golf
Is golfing merely scything with expensive equipment?
“Chordia, why don’t you start playing golf?” I remember the day, nearly 35 years ago, when our Air Officer Commanding (AOC) at No 24 Equipment Depot, Manauri posed that question to me. In fact, it wasn’t really a question. I felt it was an oblique recommendation to play the game. At least, the old man’s intonation suggested that. Those days I used to enjoy sweating on the football field. About golf, I had a low opinion; I felt it was like scything with expensive equipment. I had just worn the Squadron Leader rank—inside me was a fidgety Flight Lieutenant who spoke first and thought later. Therefore, I am not surprised that I responded promptly with a polite smirk. Yes, a smirk can be polite, pleasant.
“Sir,” I blurted out, “I think golf is meant for the elderly and the moneyed; and may be… for senior officers. I do not belong to any of those categories of beings.”
With that utterance, I had dropped a brick, if not a bomb. I realised it as soon as the words left my mouth. So, I quickly replaced my polite smirk with a smile. And then, the actor in me worked overtime to look like an innocent youngster trying to be jocular.
The AOC didn’t show an iota of dissatisfaction on his favourite game being seen in a not-so-good light. He rather surprised me with a chuckle, “Beta (son), Playing, or not playing golf, and when to start playing, is a choice. You may choose not to play; but it’s definitely time you refined your ideas. Young people are taking to golf and it is not so expensive—you can buy a half set for pittance. That the game is meant for senior officers, is a myth.”
In the following week, he sent me to HQ Central Air Command to study their course and replicate their ‘Mini Golf Course’—a big putting green with nine holes and interesting obstacles. He patted me for creating ‘a marvel’ for Manauri as he called it. Crazy putting green—it was like playing marbles with putters. I wasn’t impressed; did not make a beginning. The AOC gave up on me when I refused to see the grass on the other side of the fence, let alone appreciating its greenness.
Around the same time, in another part of the world, a teenager, Eldrick Tont Woods (15)—nearly half my age—had made waves by winning the US Junior Amateur Golf Champion title. Soon, the world would know him as Tiger Woods. Clearly, old age wasn’t a criterion; people of all ages were golfing.
A year later, I was in Kanpur on posting. My work schedule gave me time to spare after office hours, and the golf course was next door. This time on, it was an Ordnance Corps officer, a Major, who nudged me, “Why don’t you give the game a try? The course is so close to your residence.” He dragged me to the greens.
The Kanpur Golf Course is scenic. The fairways run parallel to the Ganges. The river is so close that sometimes wayward balls land up in the majestically flowing waters. The saying goes: “You have to offer a few balls as guru-dakshina to Gangaji (teacher’s fee to the Ganges) to learn golf.” There are natural undulations, and trees with large canopies, which pose varying degrees of enjoyable challenges. The water hazards, the bunkers and the sand traps are positioned at vantage points to get the best out of a player; they get the better of some. Gentle breeze laden with fragrance of freshly blooming flowers and the chirping birds transport one to a different world. The gazebo next to the club-house provides a commanding view of the Course as one sips a cup of freshly brewed coffee. It is heavenly; it is enticing!
I couldn’t resist the temptation and gave the game a try. In those days (early 1990s), the Kanpur fairways had a lot of pebbles; preferred lie was allowed all along the course. That made it less humiliating and easier for a beginner like me to pick up the game. I was soon addicted. That little change of mind—to give the game a try—led to a big regret of my life: “Why didn’t I start playing golf earlier?” The AOC’s chuckle and his advice to refine my thoughts about the game echoed in my mind. To this day, those thoughts keep returning. I have realised the importance of trying things rather than rejecting them at face value or on the basis of perceptions.
As if to make up for the lost time, I began playing golf like a man possessed—never missing an opportunity to swing. Since Kanpur, I must have walked a few thousand kilometres with a golf club in my hand. And, I must have spent days (cumulative time) searching my golf balls in the wilderness. In Tezpur, where I was a forced bachelor—Chhaya and Mudit had stayed back in Delhi for Mudit’s schooling—I played golf every day, for two and a half years, except when I was outstation. I recall a sunny Sunday when I played 45 holes through the day. Even the rains couldn’t stop some of us. We would continue playing if it started raining after we had teed-off and would take lateral drops if there were puddles in the fairways. Playing on some of the courses maintained by the grazing cattle, in the tea gardens of the exotic east was unadulterated fun. One day, half way through the game, we were visited by a group of elephants, 30 or 40 of them. Majestic!
Playing with course-mates and friends has always been fun. Most golfers will agree that good company matters; some will argue that company matters the most. On numerous occasions, when I have reached the course without a booking, I have had the opportunity to play with interesting strangers. I have written about one, a Khushwant Singh-like old Sikh gentleman who shared a pearl of wisdom on ‘when to approach Guru Nanakji to influence one’s game of golf (and life)’.
Somehow my caddies have never been impressed by my game: “Sir, keep your head down!” “Sir, you aren’t following through.” “Sir, you are not keeping your eyes on the ball.” “Sir, you are applying too much force.” And the most hard hitting, “Sir, why don’t you take a break and spend some time on the driving range with a pro?” One of my caddies could lob a ball using the branch of a tree better than I could with a lob wedge. I can compile a 200-page booklet on all the solicited and unsolicited advice extended to me by my caddies and fellow golfers. For me, playing golf has always been a humbling experience. Reading self-help books and watching experts on YouTube has not helped. It is celebration when I score below 100. I am on the winning side only when I piggyback a good player.
I bought my first (and the only) half-set for an easily affordable Rs 3500/- and gifted it to a greenhorn when I was presented a full new set by a dear friend. My second new set was also a gift, from my nephew. I have been lucky in that regard. My long innings on the greens have (mis)led some onlookers and beginners to seek guidance from me. Inspite of my not-so-good-credentials, I have always encouraged them: “Golf is the best exercise, next only to yoga. It requires a lot of concentration; and, your concentration improves if you play golf. It teaches you to put aside setbacks and get going in life… mind-muscle coordination… it is application of laws of physics in three dimensions…,” I have sermonised. To some, I have loaned old balls and my 7-iron. But I have seldom taught anyone anything beyond interlocking grip, basic rules and etiquettes.
When Covid struck and people were confined to their homes, playing golf was out of the question. It wasn’t so for me. I was confined to the sprawling 60-acre Amity University Campus. Hardly anyone entered the University gate those days. I took the opportunity to play golf. I used to take my short irons and a dozen golf balls to the University’s sports ground. For hours on end, I used to hit golf balls from one end of the ground to the other. The best things people associate with golf—good company, good fairways, good greens, a cafeteria etc etc—were missing. But in due course of time, I began enjoying. It was Nirvana!
What was it about golf that I was enjoying so much? Alone? On a football ground?
After much thought, I concluded that the second-best thing about playing golf is the feeling one gets when one hits the ball from the sweet spot of the club-head and watches it take the cherished flight; land and roll to the intended point. It is a top-of-the-world feeling when a few of the fifty odd elements that go into making a perfect stroke, align favourably to give the desired result. The audio, the soft impact and the visual effect—all lead to ecstasy. Much else matters less. Having a friend around who genuinely rejoices when you execute that near perfect shot only enhances that feeling of levitation.
I have shared this thought with many a golfer. Most have echoed the joy of striking the ball from the sweet spot, but, in the same breath they have questioned, “If that joyous feeling is the second-best thing about playing golf, then what is the best thing about the game?” Elementary! The best thing about playing golf is strictly personal. It resides in each golfer’s mind—it is that single reason which beckons them to the greens at dawn, over and over again, when rest of the world slumbers. A dear friend who strives to see every sunrise in the golf course says he is drawn to the game because: “It is the maximum fun one can have with pants on.”
Passport Size Photograph
Oh those customs and traditions of the armed forces!
Norman Dixon’s book—ON THE PSYCHOLOGY OF MILITARY INCOMPETENCE—is a shocking and provocative treatise on the behaviour of the men in uniform. Although his nearly 450-page study—to explain how a minority of individuals come to inflict upon their fellow men depths of misery and pain virtually unknown in other walks of life—is thought-provoking, his work fringes on mocking military personnel. The fact that he talks mostly about the Royal Army is not a saving grace for the armed forces of India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and so many other Commonwealth Countries who are steeped in customs and traditions of the Raj. Thus, what he talks about the British Army, by implication, applies to the Indian Armed Forces too.
In the foreword to the book, Shelford Bidwell points out that the wars were not fought solely with victory as the object—victory being defined, presumably, as a net gain of benefits over costs—but for ‘glory’. To achieve ‘glory’, the war had to be conducted according to certain rules, using only certain honourable weapons and between soldiers, dressed in bizarre and often unsuitable costumes. The bayonet, the sabre and the lance were more noble than the firearm (one British cavalry regiment on being issued with carbines for the first time in the mid-nineteenth century ceremonially put the first consignment into a barrow and tipped it on the stable dung pile). The book is well punctuated with such examples. Dixon’s scholarly work is invaluable; it is well-supported by footnotes and bibliography which runs into several pages.
Needless to say, such scholarly work triggers ‘creation’ of anecdotes, which get accepted as facts in due course of time. One, whose truthfulness can’t be verified, goes like this:
At a firing demonstration of an artillery gun, two members of the fire-power display team took positions on either side of the gun. All through the exercise, they stood motionless, each with a closed fist held a little high; at the shoulder level. It was as if they were holding something. None, including the JCO, knew about the role of those two men in the firing of the gun. Research revealed that long ago, when wheeled guns used to be towed by mules and horses, two men were deputed to hold the reins of the animals when the guns boomed to prevent them going berserk. With time, the horse-drawn carts were replaced by motorised platforms. People didn’t care to reassign tasks to those two men who were no longer required.
Here is another one on the unquestioned Casabianca-like devotion and adherence to trivial orders:
A military formation in Central India had a Jawan deputed 24/7 in all weather conditions to stand guard by a bench in the Unit’s Park. None in the unit knew the purpose. During the re-union of the Unit, a retired JCO, in his late eighties solved the mystery when he asked, “Oh my God! Why do you still man that post. It was created on a temporary basis, sixty years ago, when I was a Lance Naik to prevent anyone sitting on the freshly painted bench.”
Taking cue and liberties from suchlike anecdotes, the film makers and ad agencies have created their own versions of military men. A retired Colonel or a Major being a role model; or a disciplinarian struggling to settle down in the family and society; or a comical character (butt of people’s jokes) was the theme of many a Hindi film of the last quarter of the last century. A recent ad features a burly army officer (or a band master? Mind the rank badges and the ribbons and the medals), with a gun in hand, chasing his Man Friday who is running around a table with a bowl of chholey prepared with ‘Everest Chholey Masala’.
Media does reflect reality to some extent. In real life, things are not too different.
The other day, a freak telephonic request from a clerical staff of one of the service Headquarters made me scratch my head hard. As if that torture on my smooth hairless scalp was not enough—that transaction with the gentleman dented whatever good opinion I had of my looks. “Sir, kindly email another of your passport size photographs,” he had requested.
Just to give the readers the background, I had already sent him a photograph which was required to be printed alongside an article which I had submitted for publication in a magazine.
“What’s wrong with the one I sent earlier?” I asked him. I knew it was a sharp image and nothing could have been wrong with it. “Is there a problem in downloading it,” I queried.
“Sir, it is not passport size,” he said hesitantly. On second thoughts, I felt he was not hesitant; he actually sounded sheepish.
“But it is a digital image. You can re-size, and even crop it,” I said with the air of a person who takes pride in his computer literacy. And, why not? Long ago, I had undergone programming courses in COBOL and Visual Basic in the prestigious (then) Military College of Telecommunications Engineering (MCTE), MHOW and Air HQ Computer Centre respectively. And, I am adept at using many computer applications. That—after getting me trained in programming—the Indian Air Force never utilised my programming skills is an altogether different matter. Although, secretly and silently, I have lugged the regret of not having been able to serve alongside the top brains of the Air Force, I have always taken time to educate the less knowledgeable who came my way. I have motivated (sometimes lovingly ‘kicked’ unwilling horses) and personally taught my men how to use computers effectively.
I thought here was an opportunity to light a candle for a soul groping in the dark.
A word about the photograph which I had mailed earlier. It was the one, which Chhaya, my dear wife had clicked during the Corona Virus pandemic. I had just recovered from a long bout of Covid. In the photograph I was sporting a thick salt and pepper beard and had worn a navy-blue round-neck tee-shirt; a black felt hat and dark round-rimmed sunglasses. It had received many responses, which I thought, were compliments. “Wow! You look like a cowboy,” was one observation. “Looks of a seasoned writer…,” commented another friend. “…that countenance goes well with your forays into film-making and association with the theatre.” Those flattering remarks gave my naïve self a reason to feel elated. I began using that picture wherever I could, including, as my DP on the social media; felt great.
Returning to this person who wanted me to resend a ‘passport size’ photo.
After he had repeated his demand several times, I was able to elicit the real reason for his insistence. His ‘boss’ had disapproved my ‘iconic’ photo which, I thought, represented the ‘re-attired’ public persona of an Air Veteran of my kind.
There was no point arguing with the conduit, and I did not have the will and the stamina to engage in a discussion with the concerned officer. More importantly, I don’t belong to that category of writers whose articles are in demand and can dictate terms. It is so difficult to get an article published. Withdrawing my article on this ground was out of the question. So, with feigned alacrity, I agreed to comply with the demand. Within minutes, I sent him another of my passport size photographs in which I was well shaven and dressed like ‘an officer and a gentleman’—in a black suit. No hat; no goggles!
At the click of the ‘SEND’ button, I became acceptable. And, as a corollary, my article got the nod of approval.
The next thing I did was to dig out several of my ‘passport size photographs’ and consign them to a folder on my computer desktop. Now I have a collection—A REAL PICTURE for every requirement… tor scholarly articles; for talks to executives; for lectures to college students; to media persons; for theatre and film fraternity. I know, I am going to need them, at least until more people read Dixon.
Little Big Man
These epithets — Taangewallah, Mechanic, Masaalchi, Tailormaster, Electrician and Masterji — had one thing in common; they were invented for a single soul, Babloo. They aptly described the diverse roles the ever-so-ordinary looking short-statured man played in the lives of the citizenry of the sleepy locality of Freegunj in the holy city of Ujjain. Thus, Babloo was Babloo Taangewallah when he took people to the Mahakaleshwar Temple in his tottering tonga drawn by a skeleton of a horse he called Toofan, the tornado. The tonga didn’t belong to him; he got to use it on lease whenever it was available. He spent a good part of the pittance he earned by plying the tonga on the pitiable Toofan. He was Babloo Mechanic when he cleaned, and micro-adjusted the gaps of the spark plugs of their Lambretta and Vespa scooters and checked and topped up the radiator water, engine oil and brake fluid levels of their prized Fiat and Ambassador cars on Sunday mornings. Likewise, he was Babloo Masaalchi when he dominated their kitchens on festive occasions and on children’s birthdays. He could stitch buttons, darn clothes, repair electric irons, kerosene and gas stoves and leaking taps, not to talk of solving arithmetic problems for children. Babloo was a Jack of many trades.
It is also true that people’s minutiae were his missions. He was everyone’s man Friday. People paid Babloo miserly for his services but were generous with their hand-me-downs. Babloo was genuinely grateful when children passed on broken toys and stubs of pencils to him. Less mindful of the renumeration, he took pride in whatever he did and cherished the affection that came as a bonus with those specific-to-service nicknames.
Something in Babloo likened the children and the young adults to Keshto Mukherjee, the character who had become a synonym of the drunk in Hindi cinema. They called him Babloo Afeemchi, meaning drug addict, because sometimes he gave the impression of one high on afeem (opium). Now, that was not because he was a worshipper of Lord Shiva and consumed bhang — a popular local herb which gave a temporary high — once every year on the occasion of Holi. He owed that Afeemchi image to his body language spurred by cumulative fatigue which, in turn was the result of running errands and doing things for people day in and day out. Sheer tiredness caused his spirits to droop and his eyelids to drop, and he seemed to lose partial control of his limbs. That epithet, Afeemchi, pricked him but he bore the pain with a smile. After all they were children.
“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”
~ Luke 23:34
Then there were those who took Babloo to be their personal servant, and treated him more like a slave. But, very few people knew, or cared, about Babloo’s own small world—a wife, Shyama and a son, Munna who had just begun going to Bal Vinay Mandir, the Government Pre-School that had the canopy of a hundred-year-old banyan tree for a roof. The discarded stationery items which Babloo received from people were Munna’s prized possessions.
Once a month, Babloo left Munna in the care of his sister in Desai Nagar, and took Shyama to the matinee show in Ashok Talkies; they both loved to watch films starring Rajesh Khanna and Mumtaz. They always went early to the cinema hall and bought tickets for the second class; and rushed in to occupy the aisle seats because Babloo didn’t like anyone sitting right next to Shyama. A plate of samosas during the interval was a given. No rain, hail or storm could stop Babloo from being there to walk Munna to the school each morning. He’d also make it a point to tell the little one a bedtime story before devoting his full attention to Shyama.
Among the very few who understood Babloo was Dr Jai Veer Singh, the Vice Chancellor of Vikram University. The man of letters was better known by his pen name ‘Snehi.’ They called him, ‘Snehiji’ out of respect which he had earned as much through compassionate social work as through his scholarly achievements. Greeting him with joined hands or, more appropriately, touching his feet, was a reflex action of people when they met him. It was on his insistence that people allowed Babloo four days’ leave every month end—none questioned it. It was believed that it was to visit his old parents in Maksi, a small town not far from Ujjain. A conscientious Babloo always re-joined duty punctually. As a matter of an unwritten rule, he was never late.
Last monthend when he returned from leave, his face was bruised; there was a deep laceration on his upper lip and a dark blue patch under his right eye — the tell-tale signs of a brawl.
It was 6 am; Snehiji was drinking his tea sitting in a cane chair on the veranda of P-21 Kothi Road, the sprawling bungalow earmarked for the Vice Chancellor. He had already turned the pages of two of the three dailies kept on the glass top of the round coffee table in front of him. He preferred to read Nai Duniya last. It was the City Edition of the Hindi newspaper, and contained the local news. He read every word of it. That habit gave him an edge in his discussions with his bureaucrat friends over drinks in Madhav Club every evening.
Babloo tiptoed past him. But the old man caught sight of him when he lifted his head momentarily to take a sip of the well brewed Green Label tea.
“Why, what happened Babloo? How did you get those wounds?”
“I fell down, Sir” Babloo mumbled and continued with a sense of urgency.
“I hope you are fine?” Snehiji genuine concern was laced with doubt. “How can a fall result in those injuries to the face?” he wondered. He resumed where he had left — the City Highlights page. Something caught his attention. He re-read it several times with utter disbelief.
Moments after Babloo returned with the old man’s brogues and penny loafers, and the paraphernalia to polish them, the old man hailed him. “Come here!” His voice was unusually harsh, “What’s this?” He slammed the half-folded newspaper on the table and pointed at a news item for Babloo to read. The headline read:
“Domestic help arrested for theft.”
Babloo read the news:
“Freegunj. January 29. Ramdeen alias Babloo, a domestic help working in several houses in Freegunj was found stealing grocery items at Maganiram Muralidhar Grocery Store. The man was beaten up by the salespersons before the local police took charge of him. The man pleaded that he was innocent. He said he was only carrying the grocery for one Mr Shiv Dayal who had forgotten to make the payment. Mr Shiv Dayal couldn’t be contacted to clarify. One of the customers said that, “Babloo Chor (Babloo the thief) had a history; he’d been seen in the Madhav Nagar Police lock up on several occasions.” Our correspondent has reported that there has been a spurt in cases of thefts in East Ujjain. People have been warned to be watchful.”
“So, you have another trait and a name… Babloo Chor,” Snehiji looked at Babloo, “How could you do that? You have betrayed my trust.”
Babloo stood still like a statue; he stared down at the flooring and kept clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. The toe of his bare right foot tried in vain to inveigle into a hole in the old carpet. He didn’t wince once but bit his lower lip several times when a tear rolled down his cheek and wet a bruise. The pain caused by the salty tear smearing his wounds was far less than that caused by the feeling of loss of face.
“Go away… I don’t want to see you,” Snehiji couldn’t believe that he had, for once, failed in his judgement of a person.
***
Babloo Chor, and the spurt in thefts in Freegunj, dominated conversation at Madhav Club that evening.
“We have relieved Babloo of all duties. I have told my wife, not to let him into our house ever again,” said Dr Sanjay Mangeshkar.
“It is so difficult to find reliable domestic help these days,” rued Mahesh Verma of Verma Constructions.
“Poverty is a sin. I don’t think we must expect loyalty and integrity from people who toil on empty stomachs. We have been paying so little to Babloo. I am not so surprised by his actions. Anyone would do that.” The owner-editor of Dainik Awantika differed.
“But a theft is a theft is a theft is a theft. I don’t think it must be condoned,” opined Mr Qarim Qasimbhoy who owned a chain of stationery shops in Indore and Ujjain. “He is lucky. In Saudi, they would have chopped his hands.”
On the whole the house was divided, nay confused, on the subject of treatment meted out to the ‘Babloos’ of the society. It was one of those rare occasions when Snehiji didn’t air an opinion. Babloo’s demeanour when he left his bungalow that morning had left many questions in the poet scholar’s mind. He had registered the turmoil brewing within Babloo as was evident in his silence. “I couldn’t have been so grossly wrong in understanding the individual in Babloo,” he ruminated as he travelled homeward in his chauffeur-driven Ambassador.
His train of thoughts was interrupted by his driver, Satish: “Sir, Babloo Mechanic has done a wonderful job. The engine isn’t knocking anymore. Todarmal Auto Garage people could not place their finger on the problem in a fortnight,” he said.
Babloo didn’t turn up for work the next morning. The first thing Snehiji did after reaching his office was to call the SHO of Madhav Nagar Police Station.
“Please tell me something about Babloo who was caught for shoplifting at Magani Ram Murlidhar Grocery Store the day before yesterday,” he requested the Police Officer.
“You mean, Babloo Mechanic, alias Babloo Taangwallah,… alias Babloo Masaalchi, Sir?” he chuckled.
“Yes, Babloo Mechanic. He works for me and several others in Freegunj,” Snehiji was serious, business-like.
“Sir, he is a vagabond. But he has an absolutely clean record… not a single black mark.”
“Then, why did you put him in the lock up?”
“Sir. actually, we didn’t intern him… it’s a long story… Babloo was caught for a suspected petty theft more than a year ago. It was proved beyond any doubt that he had not committed that theft. But before his release from our lock up three days later, he had repaired some of our corridor lights and an alarm bell and a leaking tap. Besides, he did a lot of other repair work for individuals; including repairing an electric iron for me. All our people were happy with him. We made it a point to show ‘official’ prison work against his name which earned him a decent amount as a skilled labourer. He was happy and took a cake for his son for his birthday when we released him.”
Snehiji listened intently.
“With mutual understanding, it became a routine. Every monthend, we have been rounding him up for four days on flimsy grounds. During his stay with us, we get our work done from him and make sure that he is compensated handsomely. He even teaches the other inmates. He feels indebted because he gets food and is able to earn enough to buy eatables and toys for his son… it is a symbiotic relationship. The other day, things went out of hand. He was beaten up before we could reach the grocery store and intervene.”
Minutes later, Snehiji’s office car was on its way to fetch Babloo.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your deal with the cops?” said Dr Snehi pretending to be annoyed.
“I thought you’d be offended. Who’d give work to someone who had been in police custody? And, I was in dire need of money to buy things for Munna.”
“But now… look at what you have done… people are calling you Babloo Chor. They have decided to not to give you any work. And, how will you face your son for whom you have been slogging? Don’t worry,” added Dr Snehi soothingly as he held his forearm reassuringly, “I’ll set matters right.”
Babloo stood in wonderment. There was a long pause before Snehiji resumed.
“I have a deal for you. Dataram, my driver is quitting the job. He is off to Bhopal to join his brother. I need another driver. I want you to take his place on permanent basis. I’ll get Munna admitted to a better school and pay for his schooling—his tuition fees, his books and his school uniform. You can move into our servant’s quarter by this weekend.”
Epilogue
A day, not too far in the future, Babloo stopped the car in front of Magani Ram Murlidhar General Store. Snehiji had asked him to get the car refuelled and to buy a packet of Green Label Tea on his way back. Munna was sitting by his side. Dr Shehi had permitted Babloo to take Munna around in the car once in a while. The salesperson, oblivious of who was sitting in the car, came out running, saluted mechanically and enquired, “What can I get for you, Sir?” He was shocked to see Babloo in place of Snehiji in the car. It was too late to bring down the hand raised in salute to the man he had beaten the other day. Munna looked from the salesperson to Babloo, to salesperson to Babloo again. He was mighty thrilled about the new status earned by his father.
Acknowledgement
My special thanks to Air Vice Marshal Sudhanshu Rath for sowing the seed of this story in my mind.
Mission First
To a seasoned skydiver, the vision of a packed parachute on the back… the open door of an aircraft flying a couple of thousand feet above the ground… and a blast of air hitting the face is like a saucer of cream on the mental horizon of a cat.
The exhilarating feeling is irresistible. A jumper would go as far as one can to satiate the desire to skydive. The Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) of the Paratroopers Training School (PTS), Agra are no exception. Drop a pin anywhere on the map of India and in a radius of fifty miles of the pin there will be a place where Akashganga, the Skydiving Team of the Indian Air Force (IAF) would have carried out a skydiving demonstration as a part of a major national event or a military tattoo. If not a demonstration, it would be a paradrop as a part of an airborne military training exercise.
Thanks to my tenures of duty as a PJI, I have been a part of many such displays. From the identification, reconnaissance and exploration of new Drop Zones in the freezing cold Leh-Ladakh region and trial jumps on those Drop Zones, to the exit over the Indian Ocean to land on a target in Thiruvananthapuram, each jump I undertook was different from the other and memorable in a unique way. When I look back, some stand out. An interesting one that often returns to the mind is the one performed as a part of the raising day celebrations of the President’s Bodyguards in November 1998.
I was then the Assistant Director of Operations (Para) at the Air Headquarters.
It was a Herculean task to get the requisite permissions and clearances for the demonstration at the Jaipur Polo Ground. With the who’s who of Indian leadership residing in Lutyens’ Delhi, security was a big concern. Jaipur Polo Ground was not far from the Prime Minister’s Residence. “It would be imprudent to allow such ‘frivolous’ activity in this area,” was an opinion. Then there was the issue of availability of airspace in the proximity of the busy Indira Gandhi International Airport where an aircraft takes off or lands almost every minute and dozens guzzle fuel as they await their turns on the ground or orbit in the nearby sectors. For many well-meaning people, disrupting the air traffic for a skydiving demonstration was an avoidable proposition. An easy way out for those in authority was to say: “NO.”
Notwithstanding what was happening on the files between the Air Headquarters, the Army Headquarters and the South Block in Delhi, the jumpers were agog, drooling. They were excitedly looking forward to the opportunity to jump at the prestigious event to be witnessed by the Supreme Commander of the Indian Armed Forces. Shri KR Narayanan was the then Honourable President of India.
How the permission to undertake the skydiving demonstration came about is the subject matter of another story. Suffice it to say that it did come—somehow. There were caveats, though. We were directed to operate from Air Force Station, Hindan. A team of security experts would sanitise our aircraft and inspect the parachutes for hazardous materials. We were told that they might frisk the jumpers too. Being personally searched was an irksome idea which we brushed aside in service interest. Although the permission had been granted, we were also to await a last-minute clearance from Palam Air Traffic Control (ATC) before take-off. After getting airborne we were to follow a given corridor; report at check points and proceed only on further clearances. The helicopter was permitted a maximum of 21 minutes over the Polo Ground to disgorge the jumpers and clear the area. Would the conscientious security apparatus be obliged to consider the aircraft ‘hostile’ if it strayed from the assigned route, or overstayed its allotted time over the Drop Zone (the Jaipur Polo Ground)? May be. May be not. To us, it mattered little as long as we could jump.
On the D-Day, the team led by Squadron Leader Sanjay Thapar, the then Chief Instructor PTS, arrived from Agra. Group Captain TK Rath, (the Director, Air Force Adventure Foundation), Squadron Leaders HN Bhagwat and RC Tripathi (both of the AF Adventure Foundation), and I joined them at Hindan. We inspected and lined up our parachutes and jump equipment and dispersed, since enough cushion time had been catered for, to account for unforeseen changes in programme. We all had our ways of passing the time available before take-off. Most sat quietly with fingers crossed hoping and praying for the drop to go through, because such VVIP programmes are prone to last minute hiccups. Group Captain Rath immersed himself in a book which he always carried in his overall pocket. He took a break in between to do a headstand. It was his way of attaining peace and calm. Thapar was engaged in communicating with Palam and the controller at the Polo Ground for the updates.
It was “OPS NORMAL!”
Minutes into the break the peace of sorts that prevailed on the tarmac was shattered by a commotion. The Security Team—in civilian clothing—after sanitising the aircraft had started overturning our lined-up parachutes to inspect them. They were alarmed to see sharp knives attached to the straps and had started taking them away.
Squadron Leader Tripathi saw them and literally pounced on them, “What are you doing?” he shouted.
“We are doing our duty… securing and sanitising everything. You can’t jump with these knives.” Their leader said with authority.
“But these knives are our lifeline… we need them in case we have to snap some parachute rigging lines in an emergency.”
“We can’t help it… sharp objects around a VVIP are a taboo,” he drew a line.
Tripathi wasn’t the one to give in easily. He sparred on, “Well, now you have physically handled our parachutes without our knowledge. We don’t know if they have been rendered unfit for use. And, you are not allowing us to carry our survival knives, which is a must for us.” He let that sink in, and then came with the final punch, “Under the circumstances, it will not be possible for the team to jump. Please inform the guys at the other end that the demonstration jump is being called off for these very reasons.”
There was stunned silence before the leader spoke, “We understand your requirements. But you cannot cancel a programme meant for a VVIP and blame it on us. We are all men in uniform. We must find a way out.”
After a little ado, we were permitted to carry our jump knives.
The wait thereafter was long. Panic set in when the clock struck four. It was our scheduled time of take-off. There was no clearance yet. The Honourable President would arrive at 5:00 pm as per programme. In an extreme situation, just in case the Skydiving Demonstration couldn’t be undertaken for any reasons, the Military Band present at the Polo Ground would play martial tunes to entertain the audience. None was interested in that Plan-B; every stake-holder wanted the jump to go through.
In those moments of uncertainty, a deliberate decision was taken to get airborne and hold position over the dumbbell at Hindan airfield so that no time was wasted if and when a go-ahead message was received. So, still on tenterhooks, we strapped our parachutes and boarded the helicopter.
The clearance came 15 minutes too late; we’d now be cutting fine. Our helicopter was asked to hold position over the Yamuna bridge and wait for the final clearance. Time was running out. November smog had begun causing concern. But Thapar, who was born and brought up in Delhi was not deterred by the falling visibility; he knew the ground features by heart. He could manoeuvre blindfolded.
When the final clearance came, there was just enough time to make one pass over the Polo Ground. Under normal circumstances, the aircraft makes three passes over the Drop Zone—one, for the pilot and the Skydiving Team Leader to familiarise with the target on the ground and ascertain the line of run. The other two passes, are to drop jumpers in batches of six to eight each.
A confident Thapar took the decision to do away with the first two passes over the spectators. He briefed the jumpers in the aircraft that all of them—more than a dozen—would exit the aircraft in one go. He re-assigned the parachute opening heights to each jumper and stressed the need to stick to it else there would be many jumpers approaching the landing area together resulting in a melee; maybe collisions.
Good things don’t come easy!
At 5:00 pm, when the helicopter came overhead, the Drop Zone Safety Officer informed that the President had not arrived. “Please hold on!” he advised.
Three minutes later, the Air Traffic Controller from Palam Airport instructed our helicopter to clear the area instantly; international flights were getting inconvenienced. It was when the captain of the aircraft was contemplating abandoning the mission that Thapar leaned out of the aircraft and spotted the President’s motorcade. It would still take a couple of minutes to reach the spectator stands. When he turned back, he had taken the decision.
“Go!” he commanded the line of jumpers awaiting his instructions. Within seconds all the jumpers were out of the helicopter.
The pilots racing back to Hindan airfield saw the colourful parachute canopies adorning the sky over Lutyens’ Delhi. The Honourable President’s motorcade just moved into the Ground as the skydivers began landing one by one. It turned out to be a bit comical when the jumpers responded to the tune of the National Anthem and stood to attention on touchdown.
Cancellation of a para drop is one of the worst possibilities faced by a Parachute Jump Instructor.
Where on Earth are the Marriages made?
New dimensions are being added to match-making…
Until the beginning of 1980s, the thing that drew an Indian traveller’s attention when the train approached a station was bare-bottomed men with a container of water squatting blissfully by the track, deliberately oblivious of the passing trains. Then, there came something that vied for attention and grabbed it nice and proper. It was a hoarding in big white letters in Hindi repeated on the dilapidated brown brick walls separating the tracks from the suburbs on the approach to all cities. It read:
प्रोफेसर अरोड़ा। रिश्ते ही रिश्ते। मिल तो लें। 28, रैगर पुरा, करोल बाग। ब्रांचेज इन अमरीका एण्ड कनाडा।
Literally: “Professor Arora. Loads of matrimonial contacts. Just meet (us). (Address) 28, Raigarpura, Karol Bagh. (We have our) Branches in America (the US) and Canada.”
Innumerable married Indians, and quite a few Americans and Canadians, owe their happily, or very happily married lives to that ad campaign which might be a case study for budding entrepreneurs. That 28, Raigarpura ad was more striking and easier to avail of the offered match-making services than the matrimonial columns of the leading national dailies. The system run by Prof Arora couldn’t have been computerised. Computers didn’t exist even in the imagination in the India of the 1980s. Yet Prof Arora gave a run for the money to all others offering match-making options. Had Modi been the Prime Minister at that time, Arora would have been a subject of discussion on “Man ki Baat.”
Whoever said, “Marriages are made in heaven,” must have lived on a different planet; may not have belonged here. Or, that may have been true in a different era. We rarely see it happen nowadays. The last well known swayamvar was that of Sita (or was it Draupadi?).
The breaking up of the marriage of the daughter of a leading astrologer of India days after she took seven pheras of the holy fire has cast doubt on that system. The role of astrologers, if not the art and science of match-making using astrology, has also lost its appeal.
A joke has been doing the rounds:
A five-floor super store provides choice of men for husbands; desirable qualities keep adding as one moves to the next higher floor. One can climb floors but cannot return to a lower floor to make a choice. A lady wanting to choose a husband found caring men with jobs on the first floor. Curiosity took her to the second floor where she found wealthy caring men with good looks. With a desire to find a better man, she went to the third floor where there were good looking rich romantic men. The woman was happy with the offer but was tempted to have a look on the fourth floor. On offer on the fourth floor were good looking romantic millionaire men who’d help in the kitchen and take care of kids too. Anticipating an even better choice, she took the lift to the top floor to find a prominently displayed message: “Sorry, the kind of man you are looking for does not exist.” [Disclaimer: This joke has been recalled and reproduced to the best of the author’s ability. The readers may change the gender of the main protagonist and re-read if it pleases them.]
Seeing the growing demand, websites facilitating match-making have proliferated. They collect what they call ‘BIO-DATA’ of the customers and their expectations. Then, for a fee they offer contacts of matches who generally meet the requirements. One doesn’t need to write complex algorithms to get the desired output of this nature. A school student adept at using Microsoft Excel can help choose a ‘suitable’ candidate. For that reason, such websites are available a dime a dozen. Satisfaction from their services doesn’t count. Whether matches made through them result in successful marriages or they end up in divorce is immaterial—none visits them a second time. To remove the element of uncertainty people have begun visiting ‘dating’ sites which, again, are a gamble.
All these efforts to find a near-perfect, if not an ideal match, suffer from an inherent drawback—an individual might provide incorrect data or conceal vital personal information during the meetings that follow initial interaction on email or during telephonic conversations. Little has been done to carry out a reliable background check on individuals by the match-making websites. If attempted, this could be construed as invasion of privacy. People with resources are known to employ private detectives for background checks. Artificial Intelligence (AI) has still not stepped into this arena in any big way. So, beyond just comparing ‘requirements,’ how does one ascertain compatibility?
In December last year, Hold My Hand Matrimony, was adjudged as the Best Matrimonial Company by the Global Business Award (GBA). I was curious: How can one compare different websites providing almost exactly the same services? May be a website has a larger database with more fields to compare, match and report? My query led to a revelation; the company was doing something different. They were utilising services of skilled and experienced psychologists to ascertain the compatibility between individuals.
The process starts with sharing the biodata and pictures for marriage. A compatibility form for marriage is provided to the candidates. On the basis of the criteria mentioned by the candidates, the matchmaking team shortlists the matches.
A personal relationship manager is always present on the first call on conference between the two individuals/ families. It is to make the individuals comfortable before they communicate with each other and familiarise themselves. Hold My Hand Matrimony boasts of having the data on some of the most eligible marriageable youth of the country and a large number of PIOs and NRIs.
This aspect of involvement of psychologists to ascertain compatibility got me interested; amused, to be honest. So, with a view to find a suitable match for my nephew, I called Mr Navneet Sharma, the CEO of the company to know more about their modus operandi. I discovered that the company is run by the husband-wife team. Ms Puja Sharma (Navneet’s wife) is an equal partner in the Company and handles some of the gender specific issues. I was amazed by their vision. They are experimenting with two more never-before-thought-of dimensions to their match-making service. In their business interest, I cannot write about the fascinating aspects, which are still under trial. Suffice it to say that one of them is social and the other, quite scientific—both will take match-making several notches up to the next higher level.
It is beyond doubt that with so much effort going into match-making, more and more people will live happily for ever.
PS: A few readers have called me seeking the contact details of Hold My Hand Matrimony. Here they are: WhatsApp: +919319706587 Email: info@holdmyhandmatrimony.com
Poha, Samosa and Socialism
UNBELIEVABLE… ‘पोहा’ a delicacy from the Malwa Region of MP is stoking up social discrimination.
For ages, restaurants in the Malwa region of Madhya Pradesh have been serving a delicacy they call Poha. It tastes awesome and a plateful is within the means of the commonest of the common man. It is made using flattened rice and is traditionally savoured at breakfast with jalebi and tea. Some prefer to eat Poha with a glass of milk. The Indian Constitution is silent on the freedom of eating it as a part of any other meal than breakfast. The peace-loving docile people of Malwa have never protested against those deviating from the norm.
Memories!
Etched indelibly in my mind are little flat plates of Poha garnished with fresh coriander and Senv—a local bhujiya which cannot be substituted by the likes of Haldiram and Bikanerwala. Standing by a thela (a typical roofed push-cart used by the Poha vendors) or outside a shack, people used to eat from enamelled plates with flimsy aluminium spoons. Bent at different angles at their necks, those spoons used to be cutlery marvels. Despite the crookedness, they enabled people to shovel measured quantities of Poha into their mouths without spilling. Using those deformed tools to serve their intended purpose of enabling eating was an art akin to using chopsticks. People of all castes, creed, colour, sex or status used the same plates and the same spoons; there was no discrimination. Socialism!
Over a plate of Poha and a cup of kadak chai (strong tea) folks used to discuss everything. Everything meaning, everything under the sun. They talked about the quality of leadership provided by Indira Gandhi as against that of Nehru or Shastri. They shared their concerns emanating from the Cold War and India’s leadership of the Non-Aligned Movement. They had opinions on whether or not Nawab Pataudi could lead India. Those unbiased views were based purely on the Tiger’s performance on the field, although some people doubted his capability because of an eye-defect. Some even felt that his marriage to Sharmila Tagore had affected his game. For better or worse—they were unsure. They even talked about what could be India’s strategy in the next war with China, if it took place ever. All this… over a plate of Poha and a cup of tea. And of course, in a very amiable atmosphere. They did agree to disagree on a few issues but never raised their voices or carried grudges. Poha united them.
Much of that has changed.
Not long ago, people began questioning the cleanliness of the crockery and cutlery used for serving Poha. They objected to eating from plates rinsed repeatedly with water kept in a discarded Asian Paint bucket. They were right in lamenting, “It is unhygienic.” But most of the Poha vendors did not afford the luxury of running water to clean the used plates.
At a time when Poha Culture, an activity that united the Malwi people and could have earned UNESCO’s recognition, was on the verge of extinction, the Poha Vendor’s Association of Malwa (PVAM) came up with an innovative solution which appealed to all and sundry. They recommended use of bits of old newspapers in place of the usual crockery. They also came up with an improvised paper spoon—origami at its best. Those who still preferred the enamelled (now ceramic) plates and the usual spoons (now made of steel and devoid of kinkiness), could be extended the service. All stakeholders were happy; it was a WIN-WIN situation. “Not really,” was the response of one of my acquaintances. “This change is damaging the social fabric of Malwa,” he was emotional. His voice choked; he couldn’t elaborate.
Curiosity led me to indulge in pseudo-investigative journalism. And, this is what I experienced when I visited Mahaakal Hotel on the outskirts of the holy city of Ujjain in the guise of a highway traveller last week.
Chhotu, the waiter (barely in his teens) didn’t know that I was there to probe a matter of national importance—an issue that could draw the attention of New York Times and sully, India’s image. He came holding five tumblers in a way that his fingers were dipped in the water contained in them, and literally banged them in front of me on the creaky table. He was unmindful of the water he spilled in the process. He bared his yellow teeth when I asked him to clean the table and promptly wiped the tabletop with a smelly rag which left parallel streaks of more water in front of me. Contents of the glasses were tad misty—Poha particles which had been clinging on to Chhotu’s fingers had parted ways and were now descending majestically towards the bottoms of the glasses. It was a beautiful sight; my thirst was quenched without taking a sip.
Exploitation of children concerns me. It pains me to see little ones working in hotels, homes and workshops rather than going to school. On numerous occasions, I have tried my bit to alleviate their misery but to no avail. More often than not, I have found that a child pulled out of the clutches of a restaurant owner ends up sleeping hungry with a school bag for a pillow. Free education—mere ability to read, write and do elementary arithmetic—and mid-day meal, is a good concept but does not find favour with those at the receiving end of it. Working in the hotels enables those children to earn not only meals but also cash to carry home. Occasionally, modest tips add up to a decent amount. Besides, the life’s lessons they learn while serving people are invaluable. That on-the-job training, I think, is one of the purer and more practical forms of education—more useful than crude literacy. I have come across a rare breed of employers, who treat children extremely benevolently. Some provide for all the needs of the urchins including their part time schooling. We also hear of the cruel masters as projected in Bollywood films. Honestly, I am unsure of my stand on the subject. In rare moments of solitude when I have a conversation with myself, my inability to do something gnaws at my heart. I try to overcome my guilt by tipping children who work to earn their livelihood.
Chhotu enquired if I preferred Poha being served to me on a plate, or on a piece of newspaper. “Both will cost the same,” he chimed.
“Get it on a newspaper,” I told him as I placed a rupee fifty note on his little palm. He thought that I was making advance payment for my plate of Poha but was pleasantly surprised when I told him that it was his tip. He looked around and pocketed it.
Mahaakal Hotel was strategically located on a fairly busy road crossing. Next to the hotel was an empty plot of land. More than half a dozen cars were parked haphazardly in that open space. There was a rare green Merc A Class, a passion yellow Audi A4, a black Skoda Ocatvia, an old grey Honda City and a couple of i10 and Maruti Alto class of vehicles. These were the Poha lovers who had travelled long distances from the heart of Indore and Ujjain to relish a plate of the popular Mahaakal Poha. They were honking to draw the attention of the waiters who were fluttering about like butterflies from one car to the other taking orders and effecting deliveries. The occupants of the yellow Audi were clad in white Khadi. When two of them stepped out to stretch their legs, their body language suggested that they were in the business of running the state government. I recalled seeing one of them on the cover page of Nai Duniya that morning. The waiters were certainly not indifferent to the customers sitting at the tables but surely, they were paying greater attention to the needs of patrons sitting in the cars.
Just then, I heard a customer at the adjoining table, whining. He was complaining that his order had been delayed and that the carwallahs were getting preferential treatment. Smelling trouble, the obese owner of the Hotel left his chair at the cash counter and tried to pacify the disgruntled man. “Please calm down, Sir” he said. “Your order will be here in a jiffy.” Then he added with deliberate stress for everyone around to hear, “Sir, for us all customers are equal.”
He then shouted on top of his voice, “Golu, chhallewali gaadi me poha dekar teen number table ko attend kar.” [Golu, attend to the customer at table number 3 after serving the guests in the car with rings (meaning Audi).]
After a little while, I overheard one of the Audi occupants addressing Golu jocularly, “Keep serving us tea like this… we’ll make sure that one day you become the Prime Minister.” This monologue was followed by a chorused chuckle.
Chhotu returned to me after all guests had been served. By then I had finished eating the Poha he had served me. “Can I get you anything else,” he enquired. He continued when I declined. “Sir, you must try a plate of our special Poha and Samosa. Both are really good.”
“What’s so good about them,” I enquired.
“In addition to the usual Senv and coriander, we garnish Special Poha Plate with chopped onion, boondi and fresh pomegranate. The helping is larger and it costs just five rupees more. The Samosa is fried in Saffola oil… very light Sir.”
Since I had already eaten Poha, I ordered a Samosa.
Chhotu got me a Samosa on a piece of paper. Since there weren’t many guests at that time, he stood a little distance from my table and made a deliberate effort to engage me in a conversation. “How’s it, Sir?”
“Hmm, it’s good,” I said rather indifferently.
“Sir, those guests who come in shining cars always order Special Mahaakal Poha and get some Samosas packed for home… I know they are VIPs and serve them on the glossy pages of English magazines or The Times of India newspaper. Others, I serve on the pages of Nai Dunia and Dainik Jagran.”
Chhotu’s salesmanship made me laugh. “But, your boss said, you people do not discriminate. All guests are equal for you?” I took a dig.
He gazed at me in a way which seemed to say, “Come on, Sir you must be joking.” Then he said aloud with all seriousness, “Sir, in theory it is alright to say that all customers are equal. But in real life, some customers are more equal than others… and, they have to be given their due.”
Out of curiosity, I looked at the piece of paper on which Chhotu had served me the Samosa. It was that part of the city edition of some local newspaper which had the daily crossword, Sudoku and Hitori. I wasn’t sure on which rung of the social ladder he had placed me.
I am still waiting to conclude my maiden project in journalism.
Unleashing the Power of Women Warriors
Need to chart a different course
War and Warriors—a Perception
It is said: “War is the failure of diplomacy.” And, since there is no medal for the runners up in war, each war must be won—there are no two ways about it. Put starkly, for a warrior, the essence of war is: To live and let (the enemy) die. Among other factors, it is the ability of a warrior to generate extreme violence that proves his/her worth. A study has shown that humans have evolved to be six times deadlier to their own species than the average mammal.[i] Although the study does not distinguish between males and females, the perception is that females are less capable—physically and otherwise—of generating violence than the males. So then, based on such perception, one wonders: Do females qualify to be warriors?
In a world striving for gender equality, most often the answer is neither a firm ‘YES’ nor a clear ‘NO. The response to suchlike questions comes with a pause and is loaded with doubts, counter-questions, conditions and ‘what-ifs.’
Congenital Bias
In 1878, archaeologists uncovered the remains of a warrior in a 10th-century burial tomb in Birka, Sweden. By the side of the warrior’s skeleton were, among other things, weapons (a sword, spear, shield) and a board, which was perhaps used to map out military strategies. For nearly 140 years, archaeologists maintained that those remains were of a male warrior until, in 2017, a study proved that they belonged to a female warrior.[ii]
The 2017-study was questioned vehemently: Whether the correct set of bones had been analysed or, the presence of a male warrior sharing the grave had been overlooked, or the grave belonged to a transgender man? Follow-up research reaffirmed the original findings stating that there was sufficient evidence that the warrior (female) held a high-status in the military. The array of weapons indicated the probability of the deceased being an experienced mounted archer. Interestingly, there were no domestic utensils and tools which people generally associate with women.
The warrior’s (initial) incorrect identification as male could have been because of archaeologists’ ‘in general’ assignment of sex based on a grave’s contents rather than scientific analysis. Also, at the time of the grave’s discovery, male biological sex was related to a man’s gendered identity and being a warrior was taken for granted to be an exclusively masculine activity. Therefore, it is understandable that for long years there was denial of the remains being those of a female warrior. Clearly, gender bias was at play.
Time hasn’t helped erode that perception of what is masculine and what is not. If at all, it has upheld it. The bias has continued to linger on and permeate the atmosphere to different levels in all walks of life.
Women Warriors of the Second World War
A phenomenal 3,50,000 women volunteers enlisted for the US military during the Second World War and extended exemplary service, yet their entry and subsequent terms in the armed forces were riddled with difficulties. Some senior admirals in the Navy would have preferred “dogs or ducks or monkeys” to females if it were possible for those animals to perform the same chores. There were drill instructors who resented women “more than a battalion of Japanese troops.”[iii] A rumour encouraged by a slanderous campaign against women claimed that many of them sold sex for cash.[iv] At a time when the US needed every citizen, blatant discrimination severely limited the notion of any kind of full mobilisation.
Despite the initial hesitation and resistance, a thousand women flew military aircraft of all kinds. They were allowed to operate only as Civil Service personnel “attached” to the Air Force. That discrimination did not stop them from excelling professionally. By dint of her ability, one of the women pilots, Ann B Carl, became an experimental test pilot and the first woman to fly a jet aircraft. Yet American women’s contribution to fighting the War went unrecognised—Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP), an organisation which was created to boost the war effort, was disbanded in December 1945. Women could become full-fledged members of the Air Force only in 1977.[v]
Around the same time, in the Soviet Union, women bomber pilots, popularly known as, “Night Witches” were active in the air war against Germany. Unlike Soviet men, they were not formally conscripted into the armed forces. But when the chips were down in 1941, there were mass campaigns to induct them into the military. More than 8,000 women fought in the charnel house of Stalingrad. In late 1941, Stalin signed an order to establish three all-women Air Force units. Over the next four years they flew in excess of 30,000 combat sorties and dropped 23,000 tons of ammunition.
In those days, the items of military equipment were designed (only) for men. As such Soviet women faced difficulties in performance of their duties. They had to wear hand-me-down uniforms from the male pilots. Notwithstanding the constraints, they efficiently and bravely flew 1920s-vintage Polikarpov PO-2 two-seater biplanes. Their aircraft had only the rudimentary instruments; there was no radio; navigation was done with a stopwatch and a map. Those planes did not carry guns and parachutes. Women flew only at night, and were mainly involved in harassment bombing of German military concentrations, rear area bases and supply depots. They were not assigned targets of strategic importance, but their bombing raids had considerable psychological effect.
Among the Soviet women pilots who flew missions during the War, Nadezhda Popova, was an ace pilot who logged 852 raids against the enemies. Her aircraft was shot down or forced to land several times, but she always managed to return unharmed. Once she flew 18 sorties in a single night. She was awarded three Orders of the Patriotic War for bravery. She became a flying instructor and was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel.[vi]
The women who fought alongside the men in the Second World War proved their worth as combatants but were not accorded—let alone an equal status as men—the respect which is due to warriors.
Indian Women Warriors—The Early Years
Think of women warriors of India, and the names that easily come to the mind are those of Rani Kittur Chennamma and Maharani Laxmibai and several other women rulers who fought the Britishers. A more recent name is that of Captain Laxmi Sahgal of the Rani of Jhansi Regiment of the Indian National Army (INA), raised by Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose in July 1943.
The first batch of about 170 cadets of the all-female regiment was trained in Singapore. They were given military training which included drills, route marches, and weapon training with rifles and bayonets. They were capable of hurling hand grenades. A chosen few were trained in jungle warfare. They were given ranks of non-commissioned officer or sepoy based on their education. Five hundred cadets completed their training on March 30, 1944. Two hundred cadets who were trained as nurses, formed the Chand Bibi Nursing Corps. Plans were afoot to form a vanguard unit of nearly a hundred troops to enter the Gangetic plains of Bengal after the expected fall of Imphal. Following the failure of the siege of Imphal and the INA’s hasty retreat, the Rani troops coordinated the relief and care of the injured INA troops who returned from the frontline. After the fall of Rangoon, the troops originally from Burma were allowed to disband, while the remainder of the regiment retreated along with the Japanese forces. They suffered enemy attacks during the retreat. The Regiment later disbanded. Although trained to fight, the troops of the Rani Jhansi Regiment could not be deployed effectively in combat.
Military Nursing Service (MNS), established in 1888 under British rule, was another (mainly) women’s organisation devoted to military service during the two World Wars. Nearly 350 nurses either died or were taken prisoners of war, or declared missing when SS Kuala was sunk by the Japanese Bombers in 1942. Post-independence, nurses were granted regular commission. They were administered the oath of allegiance, wore the same uniform, had the same privileges, entitlements, and retirement benefits, and were in every respect on a par with the regular army, and were to be treated as such.
They have served in the war and conflict zones in Sudan, Congo, Somalia, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, and Sri Lanka. In India, they have been posted in Jammu & Kashmir and served on active duty in Kargil near the Line of Control. They have been posted in insurgency prone areas of the North-East. They have been accompanying the wounded in ambulances through the conflict zones. In effect they are combatants.[vii]
For reasons, which social scientists might be able to discern, over the years, the personnel of the MNS have been relegated in status and are treated with a degree of disdain. Despite their occasional deployment in field conditions, their weapons and arms training was discontinued. In 2000, their uniforms were also changed to differentiate them from the regular army.[viii]
A dispassionate study of the antecedents of Indian women warriors of the past might reveal that—as it happened in other parts of the world—their warriorhood was mandated by the circumstances prevailing at those given points in time. Of course, they were volunteers but they were certainly not the first choice of the recruiters. In most cases, they were enrolled mainly because enough numbers of able-bodied willing men to wield weapons could not be mustered to tide over an existential crisis. It needs to be understood clearly and emphasised that, in the past, women joined the profession of arms because they were needed; and not because the then existing environment wanted to open the doors for them to a domain deemed fit exclusively for their male counterparts. Gender equality was not on the agenda.
Breeze of Change
In the years following India’s independence, the subject of women warriors lost its relevance (almost). There was no crisis necessitating recruitment and training of women warriors. The usual human resource requirement of the armed forces was met through recruitment of men. All the stakeholders seemed content with the situation.
In the 1990s, when an increasing number of women began stepping out of the homes to seek job opportunities, some looked at the profession of arms and wondered: “Why not?” Their foray into the (still considered) exclusive male bastion, was taken lightly and brushed aside by most other stakeholders. The thought of women donning military uniform, aiming rifles, and firing shots or flying military aircraft, was considered outright quixotic. After much deliberation, in 1992, the parliament granted Short Service Commission to the women in selected branches.
Fast forward to today. Women are now entitled to permanent commission in the three services. They are being employed as pilots in the Navy and the Air Force. On experimental basis, the Air Force has begun training women as fighter pilots.
A Backward and a Sideways Glance
In the years since their induction, women have carved a niche for themselves in the Indian armed forces. At this juncture, it would be worthwhile to throw a fleeting glance at the road travelled this far to appreciate some distinct thought processes at play. This exercise will help chart a definite future not only for the women but also for the armed forces and the country.
To begin with, the argument to include women in the Indian armed forces was often propped up with historical events—the Rani Laxmibai and the INA examples. “Because, they were women and they could fight, so can the women of today.” The other justification used to be: “Because it has worked in so many countries the world over—the US, the UK, Russia, Israel, China and even Pakistan, it must work in India too.” The implied suggestion has often been to ‘COPY/PASTE’ what are perceived as the best practices abroad.
The commonly extended arguments against women’s employment in the military (including combat roles) could be grouped under three broad categories. One: Women’s physical limitation every month during the menstruation cycle. Two: Their prolonged physical absence mandated during pregnancy and post-partum period. Three: The fear, what if they are taken PsOW by the enemy? This concern about women warriors is posed with dramatic effect. It is presumed that minimum of a Nirbhaya Treatment awaits every woman POW.
Repeatedly, the decision makers have wrapped these arguments in different words to present their cases. Answering questions in Kanpur in 2014, the then Chief of Air Staff, Air Chief Marshal (ACM) Arup Raha, had said that the capabilities of women “air warriors” in the Air Force were never in doubt but “biological and natural constraints” precluded them from flying fighters. “As far as flying fighter planes is concerned, it’s a very challenging job. Women are by nature not physically suited for flying fighters for long hours, especially when they are pregnant or have other health problems,” said ACM Raha, as per news reports.[ix]
At a Passing Out Parade at the National Defence Academy, in 2017, the then Defence Minister, Mr Manohar Parrikar echoed the IAF Chief’s opinion by categorically ruling out combat role for the women in the Indian armed forces.[x]
In contrast, in 2013, the US lifted its ban on women in combat roles seeing their contribution in support services over a prolonged period during wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.[xi] Although the reason extended for lifting the ban was ‘to bring about gender equality’, the purpose (as it was during the Second World War), could well have been ‘to bolster the strength of the military in another crisis situation’. Therefore, following blindly in the footsteps of the US would be unwise.
There is another reason for exercising caution while applying the COPY/PASTE formula to the experience of the US (read, “other countries”). Women warriors in the US face far too many cases of sexual harassment. Surveys by the Pentagon have revealed that as many as 26, 000 service members were victims of sexual assault in the year 2012.[xii]
Level Playing Field: A Must for Mission Success
Much has been done to accommodate women as warriors; more needs to be done to create an environment which gives them a fair, and equal, opportunity as men to achieve results.
As is the case, almost all the military equipment in use today, was designed and developed keeping an ‘average male’ body in mind. To be able to use such equipment, women must work their ways around difficulties. A flying helmet tested on an average male dummy might fit the head of a female pilot snugly but the added risk her neck is exposed to during a likely ejection, cannot be quantified. The ejection seat itself caters to the forces which a male body can withstand. The flying boots, the gloves… the list is long. The ergonomics of the cockpit and the physical force required to operate the different switches and levers—all cater to an ‘average’ man; women need to put in an ‘extra bit’ to be able to use them or operate them.
A more specific example will illustrate the point. The Tactile Situation Awareness System (TSAS) is a vest designed for air force pilots and fitted with 32 sensors that vibrate if the pilot needs to correct his position in the cockpit and avoid disorientation. The TSAS enables the pilot to always know his/her orientation with respect to the ground. A review of the system casually mentions that vibration is detected best on hairy, bony skin and is most difficult to detect on soft fleshy areas of the body.[xiii] Given that women have breasts and don’t tend to have particularly hairy chest, they might not accrue as much benefit as men while using the vest.
It must be realised that failing to consider female bodies while developing equipment doesn’t just result in equipment that doesn’t work for women, it can cause them injury and, in some cases force mission abortions.
Time to refine ‘the Question’
It has been more than two decades since process began to induct women in the armed forces. In these years, women officers have displayed professionalism of high order in execution of their duties as military personnel. The doubts that used to be raised at the time of their entry into the armed forces have lost much of their relevance.
It is time to see through the optics of a woman President or a woman Defence Minister, or a woman journalist donning a flying overall and taking to the sky in a fighter aircraft. It is time we stopped being euphoric about these symbolic gestures. Today, these can hardly be construed as: ‘breaking-through-the-glass-ceiling.’ It is also time to stop eulogising a woman pilot for landing on a high-altitude airstrip, or carrying out daring rescue missions. All these, and more, are the ‘new normal’ for Indian women warriors, and must be seen in that light. That would be a genuine first step towards gender equality.
While at it, it is important to appreciate the difference between sex and gender. ‘Sex’ relates to the biological characteristics that determine whether an individual is male or female. ‘Gender’ relates to the social meanings that are imposed upon those biological facts. One is man-made, but both are real. And both will influence the outcomes of future military missions.
With focus of war fighting shifting from contact to more technologically advanced battles, proliferated with sophisticated platforms and non-contact standoff operations, adequate avenues exist for employment of women as warriors. Therefore, there is a need to refine the old question: “Do females qualify to be warriors?” Today the unequivocal answer to that question is: “YES!” And, it is axiomatic; it doesn’t have to be proved, or explained anymore. In fact, it is time to refine that question thus: “What can make women better warriors?” The answer(s) will have far reaching consequences for the armed forces. Women have the ability (and the capability) to be warriors; all that needs to change is the attitudes so that another half of our country’s population can contribute their bit more meaningfully.
[This article has been published in the INAUGURAL ISSUE of “BLUE YONDER” JOURNAL OF THE CENTRE FOR AIR POWER STUDIES (CAPS) JANUARY-JUNE 2023]
[i] Gómez, José María, Verdú, M, González-Megías, A et al, The phylogenetic roots of human lethal violence available at https://doi.org/10.1038/nature19758 accessed on September 21, 2022.
[ii] Meilan Solly, Smithsonian Magazine, February 21, 2019, “Researchers Reaffirm Remains in Viking Warrior Tomb Belonged to a Woman,” available at https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/researchers-reaffi rm-famed-ancient-viking-warrior-was-biologically-female-180971541/ accessed on September 20, 2022.
[iii] Jeanne Holm, Women in the Military: An Unfinished Revolution (New York: Ballantine Books, 1992) p. 24-37 and Leisa Meyer, Creating GI Janes (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996) p. 77]
[iv] Robert A Slayton, Master of the Air: William Tunner and the Success of Military Airlift (Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, 2010) p. 26 & 28.
[v] Ann B Carl, A Wasp Among Eagles: A Woman Military Test Pilot in WW II (Washington DC: Smithsonian Books, 1999) Kindle Edition Loc 61-67/ 2689.
[vi] Nadezhda Popova available at https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/10171897/Nadezhda-Popova.html accessed on September 26, 2022.
[vii] Colin Gonsalves & Major General Usha Sikdar (Retd), Hindustan Times, “Indian Army must stop its discrimination against military nurses,” December 13, 2017 available at https://www.hindustantimes.com/opinion/indian-army-must-stop-its-discrimination-against-military-nurses/story-VmhPT6cKj3GW3M3KjCterK.html accessed on September 30, 2022.
[viii] Ibid.
[ix] Rajat Pandit, The Times of India, “Women not fit to fly combat jets: IAF boss, March 13, 2014, available at http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/Women-not-fit-to-fly-combat-jets-IAF-boss/articleshow/31910462.cms, accessed on September 30, 2022.
[x] The Times of India, “No combat role for women in armed forces, says Parrikar, Sunday, March 31, 2017, p. 17.
[xi] Reuters, Phil Stewart and David Alexander, Pentagon lifts ban on women in combat, Thursday, January 24, 2013, available at http://www.reuters.com/article/2013/01/24/us-usa-military-women-pentagon-idUSBRE90N0SI20130124 accessed on May 30, 2013
[xii] “When an army endangers its women,” The Times of India, Sunday, June 16, 2013, p. 14.
[xiii] Caroline Criado Perez, Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a world designed for men (London: Penguin Random House UK, 2019) p. 122.
POSTSCRIPT
There are as many opinions on the subject as people thinking about it. An opinion I came across is that there are good, bad and average professionals among both, men and women warriors; they must be judged and treated by the same yardsticks. Also, the physical standards (which appear to have been lowered considerably for women warriors) must be reviewed.
Another opinion expressed by a reader is that women are mollycoddled. Also, too much is done for symbolism. Some striking examples are — all women squad on Republic Day Parade; they being detailed to carry the ceremonial trays during investiture ceremonies and they being deputed as liaison officers for visiting dignitaries. It would serve a better purpose, if women warriors are assigned ‘more professional’ roles.
The interesting question then would be: Who’ll perform those ‘apparently-less-military‘ (read less “manly”) duties? Men? Perhapss there are no standard answers.
Jumping… definitely not to conclusion
“If your main parachute fails and the reserve also does not open… …then you are jumping to C-O-N-C-L-U-S-I-O-N.”
A skydiving demonstration in September 1988 was a humbling experience for me as a member of Akashganga, the Skydiving Team of the Indian Air Force. It was a matter of rare honour to have been tasked to jump and land into the Nehru Stadium, New Delhi during the Pre-Olympic Trial Games to cheer up our sportspersons headed for the Seoul Games later that month. On bailing out of a MI-17 helicopter, the Stadium—with its maroon race track, brightly coloured PVC seats, fluttering flags, ribbons, and buntings—looked like a bouquet of bloomed flowers. It was packed to capacity with euphoric spectators. We, the jumpers could hear their cheering a thousand feet above the ground as we manoeuvred our parachutes to land in their midst. The gaiety of the occasion was an integral part of Akashganga demonstrations—a given. But what followed that day was something unprecedented for me.
I was bundling up my parachute after landing on a predesignated part of the track when a young mother—with a child she was barely able to lift, and an older boy in tow—managed to slip past the security cordon, and staggered towards me. “Sir, please… my son wants to touch you,” she urged and, before I could realise what was happening, put the little one down and stretched his hand to enable him to touch me, and feel my parachute.
“You said you wanted to touch the uncle who jumped from the helicopter… here he is…,” she said to the child as she pulled the elder boy who was a bit hesitant, and made him follow suit. “See uncle is like us… he is not different,” she added excitedly as she encouraged the two youngsters to feel my overall clad arms and shoulders. Then pointing at the younger boy, she said to me, “My little one thought you people are gods descending from heaven… he wanted to touch you and have a close look at your parachute. It’s indeed a big day for my kids. This event will remain etched in their minds forever.”
I was overwhelmed.
All this happened in less than a minute. The mother didn’t argue with the security personnel who had followed her to shepherd the family away. Having accomplished their mission, the three prepared to leave. And, even as the lady took the boys away, the older one managed to say with all the confidence he had mustered in the minute gone by: “Uncle, what if, your parachute had not opened?” Although I told the curious child that I was carrying a reserve parachute to provide for that contingency, his question kept ringing in my mind for a few days before it was consigned to the less accessed recesses of my brain.
Whipping open a reserve parachute in case of a total failure of the main parachute, is a standard drill all jumpers practice before emplaning an aircraft for a jump. I had gone through that mock exercise before each of the hundreds of jumps I had carried out. In the process I had begun believing that opening a reserve parachute if, and when need arose, would be a reflex action. It’s a different matter though, that the thought of my parachute really failing never crossed my mind.
Not too far in the future, I would recall my interaction with the boy, and his innocent question, with a sense of déjà vu.
It happened about a month and a half later when I had almost forgotten the Nehru Stadium incident. It was yet another Akashganga demonstration; this time on, at Air Force Station Ambala. An AN-32 aircraft with our team on board, was cruising at 225 kmph, 6,000 feet above the ground. The team leader gave thumbs up––the universal sign conveying readiness––when the aircraft was over the spectator-stand. He opened the barrier at the aft end of the aircraft and roared, “Go!” On that command, the team members jumped out of the aircraft one after the other in quick succession. I, being the lightest, was detailed to exit the aircraft last. Within seconds, we reached our terminal velocities and were falling at 120-200 feet per second. We had been assigned different (staggered) parachute opening heights to avoid a melee at the time of landing on the target––a circle of 15 metres diameter facing the enthusiastic crowd.
The Strato Cloud parachute I was jumping with, had an aerofoil-shaped canopy. Once deployed, it behaved like a glider. Rather than descending vertically, it glided with a good glide ratio of 1:3. Simply put, it moved forward three feet for every foot of descent. It could reach airspeeds of 40-50 kmph. Its manoeuvrability and high sensitivity to controls enabled experienced jumpers to execute pinpoint landings. They used to say: “With deft handling of the control lines, one can land on a target as small as a lady’s kerchief.” Miscalculation, on the other hand, could lead to serious injuries.
The spectators looked skywards and counted the jumpers who popped out of the aircraft like tiny pebbles. They held their breath waiting for the parachutes to open. The jumpers falling below me deployed their parachutes at their assigned heights. I too threw away my pilot chute—a small parachute which initiates the opening sequence of the main parachute. In a second and a half, my parachute was filled with air. And then began an ordeal, the memory of which, even today, sends a chill down my spine.
The suspension lines on one side of my parachute were jumbled up and the canopy was badly deformed. The partially deployed parachute began turning to the right. My efforts to untangle the suspension lines were in vain. In a few seconds, the turns became vicious; I was hurled like a stone at the end of a sling and spiralling down at a tremendous speed. I pulled down the lines to stop the turns. Thanks to the gruelling training sessions under Sergeant R Singh, I had developed strong arms to deal with such situations. My effort met with partial success. The turns slowed down to a stop (almost) but now the parachute headed for an incipient stall––a condition in which there could be a sudden loss of height (40 to 50 feet). Holding on to the lines would certainly result in a stall. I was still at 4,500 feet above the ground; a stall at that height would cause me no harm. But a stall close to the ground would be disastrous. I recalled with horror, an accident involving Warrant Officer Augustine who had been sentenced to the confines of a wheel chair for life due to a heavy landing.
There was a surge of adrenaline and yet my mind went on several quick errands. I was reminded of Mudit, my son, eliciting a promise from me while bidding me bye that morning to make a paper bird for him that could flap its wings. Let alone giving him lessons in origami, I wondered if I would live to see him again. Then I recalled Squadron Leader (later Air Vice Marshal) Ajgaonkar’s ordeal a year or so ago. In a similar emergency, he had promptly deployed his reserve parachute and landed safely. “Never Say Die” was the gospel he had passed on to us. “Am I in the same situation?” I began comparing. “His was a high-speed emergency––total failure of the main parachute. I was faced with a slow speed emergency; I had, at least, a partially functioning parachute over my head. What if I jettisoned the malfunctioning main parachute and the reserve parachute did not open?”
That must-be-avoided-at-all-costs conversation with my own self had a numbing effect.
Mudit… origami… Augustine in wheelchair… Ajgaonkar…. Had time coagulated? No, it was an illusion. Time, and height above the ground, the two most precious commodities for me were fast running out. The impartiality of the earth’s gravity was evident in the rate at which the unwinding needle of my altimeter was sweeping the face of the instrument.
“Should I risk a stall with a deformed main canopy, or jettison it and depend on the reserve parachute for a safe landing?” The dilemma was damning. I was a mere 2,500 feet above the ground and approaching it at a breakneck speed. I was left with a few precious seconds in which, to decide, and cram deliberate action on which, would depend my survival, and the safety of my limbs. I pulled down my goggles, which had got fogged due to excessive sweating.
Suddenly everything became tranquil, and clear. Reason booted out all the silly thoughts from my head. There was no basis for assuming the possibility of failure of the reserve parachute. It had been packed by the most proficient hands and overseen by the most careful eyes; those of the skilled and conscientious Safety Equipment Workers of the Paratroopers’ Training School.
And then…
I took the most vital decision––the decision to jettison the main parachute and go for the reserve parachute. A tug at the cutaway handle got me rid of the malfunctioning main canopy. With the Newton’s Law of Gravitation at work, I went hurtling down approaching Mother Earth at a very high speed, and accelerating. Then, without further delay, I pulled the ripcord handle of the reserve parachute. Sight of a fully deployed white canopy was a great relief.
When the parachute opened, I was 2,000 feet above the ground level—just about sufficient height to manage an accurate landing. Joy rioted in my heart; the wind with prankish flurry caused the stabiliser of the parachute to flap rhythmically. Its flutter was music to my ears. Since I had lost sufficient height, I executed a tight circuit and homed on to the landing area. I felt victorious and exhausted when I touched down softly on the target.
As I removed my helmet and unfastened the parachute harness, I realised that the usual enthusiasm, and the frolicking associated with an Akashganga display, was conspicuously missing. In its place was a lingering melancholy. The main canopy that I had jettisoned a while ago had fallen a mile away from the spectators. They had taken it to be a case of a total failure of the parachute and had feared a fatal accident. Concern for the safety of the unknown skydiver had cast a shadow of gloom. They heaved a sigh of relief when they came to know the fact.
In the flight back from Ambala, I went through the day’s events. I also recalled my interaction with the little boy in Nehru Stadium: “Uncle, what if, your parachute had not opened?” Even in solitude, that thought registered a smile on my face. Then, mind, as is its wont, began wandering further. It flew way ahead of the aircraft, to my family in Agra. “How would I disclose the incident to my wife without causing anxiety?” I began contemplating.
At home, Chhaya was awaiting me at lunch with a plate of Russian Salad and her usual welcome hug. Having been a parachute jumper herself, she took the incident in a stride. I devoured the sumptuous lunch and was off for another Skydiving Demonstration in Agra that very afternoon.
That much to answer my little fan’s question about parachute failure. Parachuting today, is indeed as safe as safe can be—it is safer than crossing roads in Delhi. But then, there’s another curious question people sometimes pose: “What if the reserve parachute also fails?” Wing Commander AK Singh, a colleague veteran parachute Jump Instructor has an answer: “If your main parachute fails and the reserve parachute also does not open, then you are jumping to C-O-N-C-L-U-S-I-O-N.”
Road Much Travelled 