Cow-Mother’s ‘Gaunyle’.

            “In the good old days…” I was about to tell Sri Husband something when he interrupted. He won’t let me complete a sentence in peace (pun unintended, it could well read ‘piece’).

            “Which old days?” Sri Husband, interruption one.

            “…illnesses were few, life was less stressful, food was organic, family members ate together…”

            Interruption two: “I thought you were talking about when you were young, wondering what was good about those days.”

“I’m talking about even older times. When people were healthy.”

He: “Health in ancient times? Life-spans were short. Small-pox was a killer. Sixtieth birthdays were landmarks. Today, sixty’s the new forty. How far back would you like to go for the good old days? The cave age?” Then he began wagging a forefinger in front of my face and yakked on: “Hunting boars and gathering berries was stressful, ‘specially when chased by a hungry wild canine or cat. Or another brutal hunter. When they began to grow crops, they were dependent on the rains and at the mercy of plant-disease.  Locust attack meant no food at all. Thousands of years later, the smarter ones invented money and careers in loaning. If you couldn’t return what you borrowed, off went your cow/wife/house/right thumb…”

            Me: “… still, people were happy, they didn’t fight…”

            Interruption three or four: “Check out the Mahabharat and the Ramayan. Quarrels, sneaky cheats and family ‘nataks’ are described in great detail.”

            Me: “At least food was organic, no? And cheaper.”

            He: “Very long back, food wasn’t cheap, it was free, If you consider plucking fruit off trees that didn’t belong to anyone. But later, earning a ‘bhakri’ was hard work. You produced whatever you needed.”

Me, slightly changing track: “My grandmother used every bit of the banana tree, from leaves to stem to the threads that could be drawn from the edges. And from the fruits, so many things were made. Same was true of jackfruit, mango, guava, coconut…”

 He, changing track further: “Who’s stopping you from living like that? Build your own home on government-owned land with material that grows on it and fish or kill birds for your supper, chop wood. Let’s sell the fridge, the fan and invest in ‘kalsi’, pulleys and ropes.”

‘Lecture-baazi shuru’, I thought. I’d lost count of number of interruptions anyway, with all this ‘gyaan’ being tossed to me.

He: “Be pragmatic. Use less plastic, petrol, water, follow the mantra of reduce, reuse and recycle, leave a better planet for our coming generations, etc., I can understand, but...”

Me, breaking in: “Olden times’ people were more ‘xianey’.”

He, bashing on regardless of my interlude: “…this stuff about all old things being good is debatable.”

Me, confident and loud: “Old is gold. Everyone says so.”

He, matching my tone and tenor: “Your and my ancestors had no old-gold, no nothing. Get back to the keyboard and finish whatever you’re writing.” Then, mumbling to himself, making sure he’s audible enough for me to hear: “Where does she get these ideas from?”

Me: “The newspaper.”

He: “?” (Wordless question, eye-brow raised, precursor of bad mood.)

Me: “Mrs Gandhi says all government offices should be mopped with Gaunyle.”

He: “Is that an Italian fad?”

Me: “Not that Mrs Gandhi nor the dead one.” Even in 2015 Anno Domini, Sri Husband is capable of asking ‘Indira?’ to annoy me.

Distinctly, I pronounced: “Ma-ne-ka.”

Sri Husband, grinning evilly: “Tu ne kyaa kaha?”.

I snapped: “Maneka Gandhi, yaar.”

He, pleased that he’d got me irritated at last: “Tell, tell more.”

Me: “Gaunyle, made from cow-urine, is a modern cleaning product, based on an old science and state of art technology married to ancient evidence, traditional, acceptable to all, anti-micro-organism, effective, easy to use and sacred, too.”

He: “Say that again. I didn’t follow.”

Sri Husband does this on purpose, just to confuse me. I don’t fall for that bait any longer. I continued: “It’s good for the environment, not like the bad other products like phenyl.”

Sri Husband: “Does it come in many fragrances?”

Me: “I’m sure Madam Gandhi would have added ‘mogra’ or rose extracts to it.”

He: “The odours… sorry, aromas might also have healing properties.”

I never know when he’s serious. I said, “Maybe.”

He: “In which case, hospitals, too, should use Gaunyle. Say, khus-scented for appendectomies, sandalwood for amputations, jui for cataracts, melony-lemony Gaunyle for tooth-extraction.”

            I’m never sure when he’s serious and when joking. I said: “How can one use cow-urine for tooth-extraction or surgeries?”

            Sri Husband, googling to find out how mother-cow’s excretions were used for medicinal purposes by the ancients: “I wonder whether the concept of informed consent existed in the days of gold and honey.”

            “It’s milk and honey,” I corrected him.

            “Good old days,” he kind of agreed. “Maneka’s going back to those, eh? If Gaunyle can work for her, it can work for us. I’m going right away to buy a jerry-can of the stuff. Now with the ban on ‘gauhatya’ being enforced strictly, I might get it at a discount. So much ‘gaumoot’ to harvest.”

            He walked out, maybe to buy Gaunyle. I’m hoping it’s not yet available in the market. I trust the wisdom of the ancients, but not sure whether I want this part of it right now.    

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(Over-) Charge of the ‘Light’ Brigade

          In my childhood, I knew about two ‘charges’: one was in Lord Tennyson’s poem, ‘…Of the Light Brigade’ and second was connected to the plusses and minuses that the physics master wrote on the board whilst teaching chapters on electricity.

          I could once recite from memory all the verses of the above poem. Since I left primary school, I remember only this bit: ‘half-a-leak, half-a-leak’.

Let me explain to those chronologically challenged (=young), that the charge mentioned in the poem wasn’t like charging your phone, ok? That charge was more like the bull in a China shop. Please note that a China shop had nothing to do with Made in China goods, but glassware. This was before Chinese umbrellas and torches came into our lives. Any further details will be provided by your English teacher. Or a neighbour/relative who has studied in a convent school. Also: a ‘light’ brigade isn’t about bulbs or weights. It’s a term borrowed from military lexicon.

          The second ‘charge’ was something to do with electrons, positive and negative, which our dear, frustrated Sir drew on the board whilst we compared the size(s) of our yawns.

          Today, we’ve added more meanings to the word. ‘No charge’ can mean no energy in the battery of a mobile/cellular-phone or no money in its pre-paid account. Solution to the former involves plugging instrument into electricity point and latter… go to nearest cigarette-vendor and buy talk-time.

Of course, charge can be a part of ‘as guilty’ if your name is driver Salman Khan or Ramalinga Raju of Satyam and the Court says so.

But I digress. This week I’m referring to ‘charge of the light-bill’. I found a yellow-banded computerized communication from the Electricity Department inserted in the grilled gate of my rented abode. Clearly printed on good quality paper, it informed me that from Nov ’14 till Feb ’15, I had consumed so many units that I’d have to pay five-digits worth of rupees, closer to the one-third-lakh mark. I felt ill just trying to put my finger on the number. I re-re-read it to make sure I wasn’t part of a nightmare.  Usually, our bill is in three digits, closer to zero than to thousand. I must have been a reptile in my last life, for I don’t suffer the heat if the windows let in breeze. And I use direct solar energy for reading and stuff, so full-day use of electrical appliances is naught.

I didn’t wait for Shri Husband to return home. I phoned, guessed from the tone that he wasn’t busy or irritable, then read out the bill details to spoil his mood.

As always, he asked (his favourite question when he knows I don’t have an answer): “How can that be?”

I tried to remember whether I’d left geyser+fans+all-lights+pump+television+washing-machine+oven on all-together, all the time, for three months. My memory fails me at times like these.  

As always, I replied: “I don’t know.”

Horrid silence after that.

We sorted out our moods after he came home and after dinner sat together to do some math. Our calculations said that even if I’d been consistently, highly irresponsible day and night through the period mentioned, the load would still have been much, much lesser than what was mentioned. Gloom descended upon us (quite literally, as we used only minimum lighting to start making amends without delay) as we checked our bank balance through the (still neutral) internet. Kind neighbours prepared us: “You may have to pay-first-discuss-later with the ‘light-authorities’ in the Electricity Department.”

Thanks to a mid-week ‘off’, I could charge to the ‘light-office’ only after forty-eight hours, at the ready for a quarrel, or at least an argument with some official or other. I wasn’t going to be overcharged for something I hadn’t done, never have, never will... I rehearsed my points in my mind as I stepped into the Electricity Department’s office. (I carried with me all KYC documents with photo-copies, just in case. These days I carry that file with me everywhere. The Aadhar card, too, in spite of what the Supreme Court said about it not being compulsory; in some places in Goa, there’s a lag in comprehension.)

When I pointed out the discrepancy in my bill, to my utter surprise, everyone in the department was enlightened (pardon the pun), polite and helpful. In fact, they seemed quite charged up with helpfulness. The clerk at the outside-desk guided me to the correct people. The office looked like someone in charge had had it tidied. The counter-girl readily agreed to the mistake, asked me whether I’d taken the current reading myself, checked if it matched with the linesman’s squiggle and sent me to the billing section to collect a new, corrected bill. Up on the first floor, the young man at the computer keyed in what she’d written and sent me back in a couple of seconds with a fresh printout in my hand.

The episode was inconvenient, yes, but humans make mistakes as do new software. But there was no ‘khichpich’, no ‘hungama’, nothing to grumble about. I’ve passed the good word around that the Electricity Department is customer-friendly. Quite a few people have got erroneously inflated, not-so-light bills, and are on their way to get those wrong light-charges rectified.

Watching them go, I got reminded of ‘Charge of the ‘Light’ Brigade’.   

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Bhaagta Bharat

           “What’s happened? Why’s everyone running? Away from what?” I asked Sri Husband. People dressed in smart short-shorts or in baggy track-pants and vests covered with colourful aprons, were moving arms and elbows in rhythmic sync with speeding strides. A sense of urgency surrounded them. Traffic was halted. Bystanders lined the pavements, watching curiously. Some held up placards or offered the sprinters a cheerful “well done” or “keep it up”. Even Sri Husband craned neck and waved to no one in particular.

I said to Sri Husband, “What’s ‘well done’ about? The sweating? Keep what up? The puffing?” The runners had chins stuck out, jaws stretched showing clenched teeth, muscles tense, like thieves escaping from the possible clutches of pursuers. None had curvy abdomens or a gram of flabby flesh.

“They’re doing a 42 km marathon,” Sri Husband sternly muttered in an undertone like it was a secret meant only for my ears.

I said, “They remind me of office-goers trying to catch a train (in Mumbai) or ferry (in Goa).” He mumbled something. His expression indicated it wasn’t anything nice. With all that merriment around, I had to strain to hear him. He always shouts when he shouldn’t; also murmurs when he shouldn’t.

Then he explained in the same low volume (with me asking “what-what?” every couple of seconds) that the laggards in the fancy-dress costumes were participating in the shorter 5 km Dream Run. Some of these wore gold, purple or pink wigs. Others sported green polka-dotted or orange bold-striped attires, declaring their support to those afflicted by cancer/ deafness/ ulcerative colitis/ blindness/ spasticity, Alzheimer’s/ autism/ or some cause close to their heart.  Donors paid money to the charity on whose behalf a runner completed a promised lap or race.

“All that running must make people hungry,” I said. “The hungrier they get the more food they will buy. Good for the farmers.” Sri Husband looked the other way, indicative of Bad Mood.

To distract him, I pointed to the slogans printed on the t-shirts people were wearing:

“Running is cheaper than plastic surgery.”

 "If found on ground, please drag to finish line."

“Anyone can run 100 meters. It’s the next 2900, 3900, or 4900 that count!”

“Comrades in sweat.”

“If you wanna catch me you’ve gotta be fast, if you wanna stay with me you’ve got to be good, if you wanna pass me you’ve got to be kidding!”

The mean one: “My mascara runs faster than you do.”

The spot-on ones: “Obsessed is just a word the lazy use to describe the dedicated.” “I may not be faster than a bullet, but bullets don’t go 42 kilometers.”

Brief marathon-t-shirt philosophy: “The truth is that you can go faster. Truth hurts.”

That conversation happened years ago.

Today, running for charity is a bigger deal. Why people don’t just write out cheques or devote some hours per week to serve the under-privileged or the suffering? The haves practice long-distance running through the year at unearthly pre-dawn hours, timers tucked into pockets or strung through straps hung around their necks. They improve stamina/ speed/ strength/ lung-size/ pulse-rate and compete in small, local events before jogging their way to the big ones.

Our doctor, our structural-design engineer, ex-colleagues, old (well, literally) mates from school and college, nephew’s friends, everyone’s running these days, committed to participation in some marathon or other.

There’s money to be made. Towns small and big have jumped into the fray: Nashik, Coimbatore, Thanjavuru, Ambdavad, Panchakula, Bengaluru, Kashipur, Jaipur, even suburbs like Kharghar. Noida has a ‘Fastest Running and Living Half-Marathon’, whatever that means.

Other marathons in India: Pearl Valley Trail. Xwarrior race. Nise Gel(?). Desi Warrior Battlefield Gurgaon. Who invents these names?

There are more: Fitrathon, Chamundi Chase, Rotary Borivali Daud, Go Heritage Hampi, Purna Urban Stampede (ouch!), Uninor Rotathon, Little Dart Fundraiser, Contours Women, Pinkathon, Investathon, Devil’s Circuit, a Midnight Marathon and a Winner in You mini-marathon.

Some marathons are mere ‘runs’: The Adi Pro Gurgaon, the T-Plus, Tirumala Habitat Mulund, Republic Day, Run in the Sun, and the Run for Safe Pune and Run the Rann.

Novelty attracts. Now there are Tower Runs where people race up staircases of skyscrapers. Cyclathons, swimathons (apparently the first in India was in Goa), duathlons (don’t know what this is) and triathlons, too.

No doubt at all:- India’s on the move. Her poor are running to keep the fire burning. Her rich are wearing out expensive, well-chosen soles.

Swatchch or not, it’s Bhaagtaa Bharat alright.

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Beating Retreat

          Sri Husband and I had attended ‘Beating Retreat’ years ago. It marks the end of the Gunn-tantra Divas celebrations.

“I’d worn two layers of everything,” I recollected. “Socks, leggings, vests, sweaters, shawls…”

“… even monkey-caps,” he remarked. So he was paying attention. Meanie; he knows well my Goan brains don’t function in North Indian winters. (They don’t at some other places and times of the year either, but that’s not relevant.)

I concurred, “It was so-o co-old, hands were blue, bones were paining, there were icicles on my eyelashes…”

“…don’t exaggerate. Delhi temperatures aren’t as low as those in Siachen or Spiti,” he quipped.  

With Googleshwar’s blessings, I checked out where Siachen and Spiti were and the temperatures there. Minus Celsius and in double digits. I read out: “…faeces freeze and have to be transported elsewhere… ice crystals stab the inside of lungs so every breath is agonizing.” Then commented, “How do our soldiers live there days after weeks after months, away from homes and hearths? Such heavy, drab stuff they wear. At ‘Beating the Retreat’ they wore grand, colourful uniforms, remember? Perfect marching. And the music and tunes beat Bollywood even.”  

Sri Husband: “Did you like it better than the R-Day Parade?”

Me: “Too bad Obama and his missus missed it. We’d taken a bus from Ghaziabad to Delhi, remember? Two hours travel time.”

“It’s not that far.”

“There was fog over the Yamuna bridge and everyone was crawling at 5 kmph.”

“Foggy Delhi.”

“People had were walking alongside vehicles to guide the drivers. We could barely see anything.” Memories.

Here and now, the television was making us relive our experience. Armchair travel is comfortable and inexpensive. On a mild Goan evening, chai-nashta in hand, we were enjoying India’s military musicians’ performances.

The parade represents a centuries-old custom when, at sunset, soldiers ceased fighting, sheathed their weapons and withdrew from the battlefield.

Today it’s a tourist-attracting daily ritual at the Wagah Border, but in Delhi, an annual event held on 29 January at Vijay Chowk, at the foot of Raisina Hill atop which stands Rashtrapati Bhavan, the residence and office of (who else?) the Rashtrapati. The grand Rajpath leads to it from India Gate. The sprawling lawns on either side are studded with trees. Hundreds of people visit these lawns. On parade days, thousands. All hands are inside pockets or under shawls; gloved if visible. Hunched shoulders. And steam puffing out of smiling mouths humming familiar tunes played by buglers, trumpeters, drummers and other instrumentalists.

“’Sare jahan se accha’ is my all-time favourite,” I said.

“Music has no boundaries. Its writer Iqbal went over to Pakistan, leaving behind his legacy.”

Thanks to a stint in a school-choir, I could sing the words of ‘Anchors aweigh’ alongside the playing. Sri Husband promptly wished for another cup of chai and left the room.

The Army’s regimental bands, the Air Force and Navy bands were aura-some. The members were young and old. Their haircuts, the prim turnout, the disciplined movements, the general feeling of tidiness of the surroundings at Vijay Chowk, the dipping sun, the mist and the biting breeze, I could feel it all, sitting in my room.  

“Indian military music has catchy numbers,” I said. “How come no cds are available in the market?”

“Some things should be left alone for their charm,” said Sri Husband, adding, “This unique ceremony of display by massed bands was started in the early ‘50s by Maj Roberts.” History lecture shuru, I thought.

We watched the red, olive green, orange and dark blue uniforms come together in formation around the flag, playing the unforgettable ‘Drummers’ March’ where so many hands with sticks beat various sized drums together, very fast, as soft as a whisper, then loud again, like waves.

As the flag was lowered, bells chimed ‘Abide With Me’. I share a love for this hymn with the Mahatma.

When I had witnessed the ceremony live, and now, chin on hands in front of a screen, as the simple tune spread around the room and its beautiful verses unfolded in my mind, eyes moistened. Poignant, nostalgic moments.

“I feel like crying,” I said.

“You say that whilst watching Arnav and Barkha,” Sri Husband said.

“Not the same thing.”

The soldiers and their animals walked in step, up Raisina Hill, into the darkness. With a suddenness that always delights even when expected, the entire complex of buildings, including South Block is lit up by fairy lights.

Wonderful evening, beautiful end.

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Atithee Devo Bhava

         “What will you have, cold or hot?” only an Indian of Indian origin who has lived in India since childhood will know what this means.     

“Cold-drink” is an Indianism. All non-alcoholic, non-brewed drinks are ‘cold’. You can have a non-refrigerated, without-ice, room-temperature ‘cold-drink’, too. A ‘cold-drink’ has to come out of a sealed bottle or tetra-pack, preferably aerated and with an MNC logo. Freshly-made lemon/ ‘kokum’/’ panha’ juices aren’t authentic. ‘Oos’-juice, ‘lassi’ and coconut-water are also disqualified.

If you say no to the ‘cold-drink’, pat will come the next confrontation: “tea or coffee?” In my world, only the weird and the ill take either without ‘half-milk’ and several spoons of sugar. Brown and sugarless are too five-starish for desi tastes.

         If you say no to all the above, you suffer. “No tea? No coffee? No cold-drink even?” is followed by a wink indicating the discreet but wicked “’daaroo’, eh?”

Say a firm no if you will, but you will not be spared. Hospitality must happen. You are Guest, guest is God. A tray will be thrust into your face, accompanied by someone’s wide, white smile with the words: “I’ve made it, now you’ll have to drink it.”

(In my experience, the ‘it’ is usually ‘hot’.)

         ‘…you’ll-have-to…’ is a killer phrase accompanied by an expression that reads: let’s-see-how-you’ll-not-drink-it-now. I’m a ‘nirlajjam’, hence ‘sadaa-sukhee’. (Loosely translated: the shameless are always happy.) I leave the tea/coffee in its cup, let the ‘malai’ form on it as it cools, let the flies explore thereabout and remind myself that it’s better the host/ess suffers remorse for forcing the beverage on me, than irritate my insides for the next few hours.

         A request of “plain water, normal temperature,” is thwacked by a protesting “you must have something else.”

         Victims of ‘atitithee satkaar’ know how seriously people take hospitality. You might want to finish off a portion of a particularly dislikeable dish served to you at a formal meal in someone’s house. The moment you do that, it gets replenished. You’ve been conditioned to not leave any food on your plate (don’t waste, millions are starving) and don’t want to suffer, either. Dilemma. Been there, done that, at several weddings before the buffets came to the rescue, allowing me to serve myself what and how much I wanted.

         Ah, weddings, the ultimate test of hospitality. If you’re closely related to groom/bride, and you’re in an environment where Tradition Rules, you could suffer from the stuff-syndrome. I’ve seen an extreme case of ‘ladoos’ being forced into a resisting mouth. The man’s tried to push away the perpetrators, but his hands were pinned down and he was sternly told that ‘no’ wasn’t acceptable on such an auspicious occasion. Finally he gagged and threw up. Instant concern was shown, napkins were brought and the mess wiped clean by willing hands. Hospitality showed its kinder face.

         As happened in all old civilizations, in my maternal home, people came when they pleased, had a meal, maybe a snack and tea, several hours of chatting, and sometimes, like in the case of a Lalit-tai, stayed on. Just stayed on. No one asked for how long. Those who came from Goa (we were in Mumbai) or elsewhere, also stayed on but then at least there was a return ticket involved. Tiny flat, school-work, privacy, lack of money, were issues unknown.

         In more recent societies, hospitality is different.

         I’m invited to a well-travelled, lived-abroad person’s place where I’m told: “Want something? It’s all in the fridge/ cupboard/ trolley. Help yourself.” Quandary again. Can I eat that expensive-looking chocolate or not? Entirely? Without offering it around to the others? Is it ok to do that? Does helping myself include frying the fish that’s marinating in a transparent container? If I look around curiously, would that amount to prying? Will I be irritating if I ask these questions to the host/ess?

In this form of hospitality, you are asked just once: “Want something?” A ‘no’ is taken seriously. If you change your mind, you need to express it, however odd you might feel, ‘specially if you belong to Egypt/ Greece/ Africa/ China/ or other parts of the world where hesitating to ask and host/ess insisting on taking more is the norm.

A moderate host/ess these days might say, “I’m making some tea for myself, would you like some, too?” Would be nice if s/he would say “I’m making some biryani, want to stay?” An old-world charm married to practical today attitude.

Hotels take the cue from custom and do “aarti-tikka” to guests on arrival.  Messy stuff, but…

“…Devo bhava.” I’ve noticed how we show our Gods our affection: we smother their idols with fresh, fragrant flowers, create clouds of smoke around them with scented ‘udbattis’ and ‘dhoop’, drench them with sticky milk and honey. Gods don’t mind that display of fondness. Who am I, a mere mortal, to frown on convention?

The next time someone asks me “hot or cold?” I’m going to say, “bring ‘em both”. When in doubt, go traditional.

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Along the Curve of the Jhelum

          The news of the floods in Kashmir reminded me of this: In another century, (just a few years ago, actually), Sri Husband and I lived in a little stone house on the banks of the river that troubled Kashmir last week.

Ram-Munshi-Bagh was the name of the locality and the house incongruously called ‘Venus Villa’. To reach there from Goa, we boarded a steamer (24 hrs) or bus (12 hrs) to Mumbai, thence a no-pantry train to Jammu via Delhi (another 30 odd hours). We couldn’t afford airfare and KRC was decades away. From Jammu, a day-long journey by bus over the only pass (Banihal) through the mountains took us to Srinagar. Often, depending on the weather, we had to spend a night at Udhampur. Since plastic bags weren’t common then, and anti-motion-sickness pills not always effective/available, when a passenger felt like vomiting a window was opened and s/he let out the demons of travel-sickness.

Our lives depended on Banihal. From soggy, fungus-lined onions and the newly-available milk-powder for babies everything came via Banihal.

Through the summer, we walked along the ‘bundhs’ that contained the gentle Jhelum waters. Born of a Verinag spring, the Jhelum merged (still does!) with the Chenab, the Sutlej and lastly the Indus. Beyond the banks, we could see the snow-covered peaks of the pretty Pir-Panjal range lacing the distant western horizon.

I said to Shri Husband: “Their loveliness belies their formidability. Only the toughest can cross them or live in them through all weather conditions.”

Shri Husband’s retort: “Our soldiers do.”

The soil by the Jhelum was so fertile that if you stood long enough in one place, your feet would sprout roots. Ok, I’m exaggerating, but it’s true that plants, especially seasonal, flowering ones, grew very, very fast. The rose creeper that veiled the wall and roof of ‘Venus Villa’ budded and bloomed within a week of ‘Holi’ getting over and stayed beautiful till September. We have pictures… but how does one preserve to ‘show’ the memory of a heady fragrance?

My landlady (Shri Husband argues, ‘house-owner’ is a more appropriate word) taught me to make garlands of slices of egg-plant (‘shuddha shivraaks’ please note, the egg-plant is not related to the hen, it’s another word for ‘vaingem’), tomato, ‘doodhee’ and other vegetables. These were hung outside our windows and dried (like we dry fish here) to be hydrated and consumed in the lean and wretched winter months, when pipes burst because the water inside them expanded on freezing. We had to keep taps dripping just a little, 24x7 to prevent mishaps.

Winter memories include dragging a big lump of coal over a ‘kuchha’ road and breaking it (by candlelight since electricity was so erratic and nearly ‘powerless’) with a hammer into small pieces to feed the ‘bukhari’ and ‘kangdi’ that warmed us through Diwali, Christmas, New Year and the final exams of friends’ school-going children.

The turmoil of the past many years and improved transport and communications have changed Kashmir. Though unconnected, the Jhelum seems to have shown her displeasure rather severely in recent months. Hand in glove with heavy rains, she has wreaked havoc through fields and valley, homes and hospitals, sparing neither neonates nor nonagenarians. Politicians, never at a loss for words and ever at a loss to act, have yapped at each other and at Delhi on television.

“The only ones,” Shri Husband quipped, staring at the I-box news, “to silently, efficiently save life and limb without asking for praise or raise are the Indian Armed Forces.”

“God wears a uniform,” I said, loftily.

Shri Husband gave me a weird look.

I hastily added: “Not my words. Someone in Uttarakhand said that. I remember.”

Weird look turned to normal scowl. We were on our regular wavelength once more.

He: “It’s remarkable how we Indians from different parts of a vast sub-continent, who barely comprehend each other’s language or food-habits, work as a seamless team in the Services.”

Me: “By the time this column is read, landslides would have been cleared, by human…”

He: “…mostly military…” (the customary interruption!)

Me: “…hands and simple implements when big mechanized equipment can’t reach sites. Updated statistics will reveal number of lives saved and the loss of crores of rupees.”

He: “How many jawans were injured in the rescue operations will not be ‘advertised’. How many jawans missed going home to get married, be with their children through board exams or be by a dying loved one’s side will never be known. This is one Indian institution that bashes on regardless to do its duty, more than duty, come what may.”

Silence. A rare, comfortable one.

Then Shri Husband, in a thoughtful and sombre tone, watching (on-screen) the MLAs of that same troubled state involved in fisticuffs: “In spite of the jokers in the Vidhaan Sabhas, this country is doing well thanks to the workers of the Railways, the Postal Services, the Telecom chaps, the truck-drivers, loaders, the high-tech private sector and…”

I butted in: “…the poders who give us our daily bread?”

And together we laughed at a long-forgotten memory: in ‘Venus Villa’ near a bend of the Jhelum, too, early in the morning and in the evening, on a cycle came a bread-boy delivering the hot, fresh, local ‘roti’, quite like our chap here.