18 Jan 2018


 In 1989-90, while commanding 104 Sqn, there was great deal pressure on my wife ‘T’ and I to organise an entertaining event for IAF day celebrations in Bhatinda.

It kicked off as a briefing, by then the Station Commander ‘Counta’ Sir, with three months’ advance notice, to my cm Gahlot (then CO 17 Sqn), Gulati then CO of an SU (3 courses senior), and Walia (then CO of the GCA Unit, who was the indisputable darling of the Boss Counta), an appeal to his three musketeers, to make the event memorable to a large audience / invitees from  the army, including  GoC 10 Corps.

At that time my boys and I were extremely busy, 24 x 7, doing AST/OST including air to ground firing at Halwara and Pokran, writing SoPs, war plan, employment doctrine and incredible amount of paperwork including SoCs for KLP, WET, WWR, minor and major works, ATG, and the usual things that happens in a new raising, trying to get ourselves ‘fit for war’ quickly,  very very quickly. It seemed the war was coming, since CIA reported that Pakis were taking out nuclear warheads out of the Kahoota tunnel.

So I delegated the AF day entertainment by 104 to ‘T’. ‘You got controls’, I told my wife, an executive order like the Roman Centurion, ‘Pontius Fuckusall’.

As the days went by, Mrs Counta (lovingly referred to, behind her back, as ‘Counti’) observed that the ladies of 17 Sqn were seriously practising ‘Gidha’ (Punjabi Dance), Gulati’s group, a Gujerati Girbha / Dandia, Walia’s unit practising this or that, but 104 ladies were doing nothing.  Counti complained to Counta, and I was admonished. That evening I gave a severe reprimand to T.

 ‘Ayyao, what can I  do ?, T remonstrated.  ‘Our ladies don’t have any new ideas to do entertainment. I am MA in international affairs, not a bloody nautanki’, she baulked, refused to kiss me or give me dinner. Though the ‘AF Act’ gave me some control over the men I commanded, I had absolutely no control over the ladies, or even my then 9 yr old son. The rascal frequently went to race with his best friend Dhruv, son of my sweeper, on their cycles , on the runway or taxi tracks, when Migs where lined up for take-off.  

All of these didn’t do me any good.

As the days went by, because everyone was doing their bit, and 104 was doing nothing, Counta Sir rightly got the ‘heebies and the jeebies’, because all and sundry VVIPs in 10 Corps had confirmed attendance, inter-service camaraderie at its best. Walia had in addition taken on the catering and the menu / bar was ready to roll. All except 104 who did nothing.

So Counta Sir blew the bugle and marched me into his office two days before the party, to send me to the firing squad, without an SCM.

‘Sir, Shir, Shirjee’, I pleaded guilty, in the most sugary, syrupy  sycophancy that I could muster. I had to make it up to him, because a few days earlier, during the dress rehearsal, my Sqn Doc had hijacked his flag from his car and Counta Sir was convinced, because of my rascally reputation, that it was I who  had done it. 
‘The AF day is falling on a full moon night’, I pleaded.
‘Can we have the party on 31 dumbbell instead of the mess, which has no lawn and gets everyone’s shoes dirty ?’, I requested.
‘Trust me, leave everything else to me’, I pleaded (most sugary, syrupy,  sycophantic tone, like the mewing cat). I was good at pleading like  that, about 18 yrs experience of being in the dock daily !!

Counta Sir had no choice, so he marched me out without SCM and firing squad, but he liked the idea of the party on the runway. After all, the runway and ORP are the epicentre of all activity on an AF station, even nocturnal mischief.

I went back to  my office in blast pen 19, a lonely agitated man.
I rang up the Col Q (late ACA Pundir, my nemesis in NDA but good friend afterwards)  in 10 Corps,  with SoS for this or that.
I then called my best friend, my Flt Cdr (2 i/c)  Bupi (Sablok). We were slated to do night flying as usual that night. I asked him to invite all ladies to visit us on top of the blast pen 19 while we did night flying.
I had 4 NCEs trained as exceptional cooks by Miss Harinder Singh, then Dir F&B in Hyatt in Delhi. Out of air crew ration and Titar which got ingested into  the Ogives (air intake protection of the engines), they usually produced the famous mouth-watering ‘250 kg keema bombs’, our Sqn speciality.  We had a lovely party.

‘Pat’, I told Pathania, ‘Go contact the Punjab Police and see whether you can borrow a set of police uniform, the khaki shorts, riding puttees, pagri and a 303 DP rifle from the armoury.  You are going to be a Hawaii Sepoy’.
‘And you, Rajbir, you are going to  be Meher Singh, go find some loose fitting old flying clothing, wrap a bed sheet around  your head that looks similar to what he wore during air lift to Srinagar in 1947’.
‘Ashu’, I asked him to take my wife T to 17 Sqn and find her a G suit that fit her, as also a bone dome and pressure breathing mask. I also told him that he was my ‘Subroto’, the day he took over as chief in 1954, and to dress like him.
I asked my EO ‘Venky’ to go to the fire section and borrow the silver coloured fire retardant protective suit with mask and be Rakesh Sharma, the space man.
Every one of my 24 officers were asked to dress and behave like someone from AF history, with Bhupi as master coordinator, to dress up like ACM Dilbagh.
Avnit,  Rajbir’s wife who was the smartest lady and who spoke very well, was made MC. I wrote a brief script of IAF history for her and asked her to edit and adapt it as she liked, and add humour. I asked for suggestions and offered to shave my head, colour my face red, and be ACM Moolie, who was like an angry carrot all the time when he was the chief. But unanimously my team told me to dress just like CO 104, just as I was. I think they felt I fit the role of ‘Ravan’ like a glove !!
Alam my STO was to coordinate positioning of spot lights, PA Syst,  Mig-21s, Mi-35s and SAM-IIIs, bombs, RPs, all  the arsnel in the bomb dump, right there on the dumbbell, touching distance from the guests. He was given all the odd jobs along with the youngest, EO PO Bhupender, who was to dress like a newly inducted airman in 65 war, chasing parachutists at Ambala with a 'Danda'. The ladies were told to look through old albums and dress like their grandmothers when they were young. 

In bright full moon night, about 80 offrs/wives of AF Stn Bhatinda and about 300 invitees including the Corps Cdr assembled on 31 dumbbell with sofa and chairs laid out in a semicircle by Col Q Pundir, who also provided shamiyanas and field toilet – food stalls, outdoor party kit including a tandoor, with manpower, generator and subdued lighting, all under the supervision of Alam. NDA camaraderie at its best. The party started with Gidda, Girbha, Dandia dance, and unpalatable skits & PJs by Walia, while gentlemen hit the bar like a frontal assault at Hajipir Pass.  

My NCEs provided the snack of the day, ‘250 kg bombs’, Titar Keema and its equivalent of Potats for Vegetarians, tandoori stuff, mini samosas, iddali fried, exotic  snacks that Harindar had taught them in Hayatt, dressed in spotless whites like Hyatt chefs. Liquor flowed like Ganga and Yamuna. There was live army band, and dancing, mostly Punjabi Pop,’Tootak, Tootak, Tootia’,  favourite of Counta Sir.

And when the clock struck nine, Avnit took over.
104, put up a ‘Son et lumière’ of ‘AF down the ages’, with absolutely no practice. Out of the dark came a ‘Hawai Sepoy’ (Pat) doing a Dhawakar at Wazaristhan, followed one by one by the venerable characters from AF history, wearing the many AF uniforms of the past,  with their wives dressed like their grandmothers, holding hands, spot lights by Alam  tracking them while they strolled about the dumbbell, with Frank Sinatra belting out ‘Strangers in the night’, quite a change from ’Tootak, Tootak, Tootia’.

Venky outdid ever one else. From behind a Mi-35, which looked like a lunar vehicle in the moon light, he came bunny hopping in slow motion, defying gravity, like Neil Armstrong during his moon walk, to a thunderous ovation. The show stopper was T. She marched into the centre of the dumbbell wearing a G Suit, with the bone dome and oxygen mask. T stopped in the centre of the circle with her hands on her hips. Avnit announced that this is the fighter pilot of the future. T bent forward,  took off the bone dome in one swift motion, shook her long hair loose in one flick of her head as she went back to the hands on the hip stance.

There was thunderous applause and standing ovation from the army. 

Afterwards, Counta Sir gave me the ‘bamboo’ in his office, for stealing his flag. Though I didn’t do it, it was my pleasure and duty to own up for crimes done by my equally zestful rascals of 104. I was their team leader, wasn’t I ? Good thing he didn’t order a firing squad. Otherwise I couldn’t have written this silly story.

Counta Brar & Counti Brar, both are jolly good fellows, so say all of us.


15 Jan 2018


Thank you, all those who wrote to me, or left comments.
You make my day.

The war story (Dragon Strikes Again),  an expanded version with much more content, is being published as  a book, on the persistent advice of many of you. So I took this story off the blog. Shall advise when the book hits the stand hopefully within  next 3 months.

The 2nd story on the blog (‘Hindustan’), about life and times leading to  the first Punjab war, 1844-1846, is also going to the publisher to be converted into a book. That hopefully should hit the stand by end of 2018. So that is also off the blog now.

There is a 3rd one, about two protagonists with completely opposite character and ideology, but with some romantic inclination (a woman terrorist of sorts and an Army Officer, both modeled after real life events and characters known to me) during the cataclysmic Marxist revolution in Kerala in mid 50s, which brought EMS Namboothiripad and  Communist govt in Kerala. That was not put on the blog. I have yet to decide how and when to launch that story into a book. Perhaps mid 2019.

The  one I  am currently working on, ‘Aapatsu Mitram’, is a seminal work of  historical   research, the real life exciting pioneering of  military helicopter pilots &  engineers during 1954-1965. Next one on the agenda, is an untold interwoven real life story of five of my NDA course mates, then of the rank of Major, in the bloodiest killing field in Sri Lanka (early IPKF days).

The autobiography of the most inspirational Sub Maj Kanshiram, half done, is on hold. I  didn’t get an opportunity to travel to Hamirpur / Pune / Village Demi, to meet his widow, two sons, and a few old colleagues from 3 Dogra, as also look into NDA archives.  Besides, the story was to have been co-authored with my best friend Brig Jasbir (in a wheel chair) who hasn’t been keeping too well.  I will try and complete that story too.

By the time I finish doing all the above, Cyclic would have overshot the dead line of 70, and become senile. You wouldn’t want to read Cyclic stories anymore  !!!!!!!

Keep smiling.
Fond regards


23 Nov 2017

'Goodman Di Laltaen’ and ‘Tunde Laat Di Phauj’

 Since this is Punjabi folklore, fable, I should  perhaps write this in Punjabi, with seasoning, to get the flavour right.

However, Punjabi seasoning like ‘your pen’s ink’ (Teri Pen-Di Ink) and ‘your mother’s dal’ (Todde Maa-Ki, Dal) are to be only whispered under the breath, with stiff British upper lip, in the hallowed portals where Gorillas congregate (the parliament). So, I shall try and tell this ancient Indian story in civilized language. ‘Civilized’ is a very vague word, in the ‘Crae-jee’ mumbo-jumbo of the Indian ‘Mantri-jees’, who are to be found only in the jungles of Lutyens’ Delhi. I  am told that they secretly congregate as parliament, once in a while, usually at night, to bash each other on the head with broken chair and microphones to govern India, all the time muttering TPD, TMK, BC and MC in unadulterated Punjabi. Lest I be deemed less civilised than our parliamentarians, I will try and tell it in Queen’s E, which is India’s national language, reason why ‘April turned May’, or is it June,  asked the British to ‘Brexit’ and bugger off, to come and re-conquer India. What a good, I am loving it like Sub-Way sandbitch.

All inspirational Indian folklore has to have some British and rest Punjabis in it, so does ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ and ‘Tunde Laat Di Fauj’ .
The folklore goes  something like this.

About 185 years ago, at the eastern and western ends of India (‘Law-hore’, now in Pak Land, and the black hole of ‘Kol-Kota’, now in Mamta Land), there lived two illustrious gentlemen, who had quite a few things in common. Both were great warrior chiefs, who had left behind body parts in the battle field.

The truth is that the eye of the former was lost due to small pox in Gujranwala and the hand of the latter went into a wagon wheel somewhere between Crimea and Caucasus. Since I can’t tell it like it was in Punjabi, I need to tell it like Shekhar Gupta, with man bite dog sound-bites, a few lies here and there to make this interesting. Besides I don’t want to offend God Man ‘Baba Ram Rahim Insan’ and make him issue a fatwa from jail, because my story lacks the sex appeal of his muse ‘Honey’, who made money. So I will start the story again. About 185 years ago,………….

In the west, Punjab under the parliament of the ‘Punjabi Subha’ at ‘Law-hore’, captained by Maharaja Ranjit Singh, was a very prosperous and well governed country, because the Maha Raja had a laissez faire Nelson’s view of governance. He didn’t promise good governance like Modi, but flogged the tax men Gulabh Singh and his dubious brother Dhyan for deviations in GST and De-Mon.

In the east, the East India Company (EIC) at Calcutta was a very prosperous and well governed company, turned great country called ‘Yindia’, sorry India, governed by a ‘secret conclave’, captained by the Governor General, Lord Edward Law, 1st Earl of Ellenborough. He too flogged the tax man, Lord Osborne, once in a  while threatening to cut off his gonads because EIC was bankrupt because none paid sat tax and CST, excise Duty, countervailing duty, death tax, living tax, breathing tax and so on.

Despite their physical handicaps, both team captains could hit sixes at every IPL like Gawaskar, though they never had any India-Pak matches, at least till the super-shitter, sorry supper-hitter Maharaj Ranjit was still around. That was because their bats were not Kashmiri Willow, but two armies made of iron men. The Maharaj had a French deserter turned Englishman  Jean-Francois Allard as army chief, and Italian turned Teri Pen Di Jean-Baptiste Ventura  as army commander. In the east, the pearl, sorry Earl, had a blind man turned Field Marshal, Hugh George, 1st Viscount of Gough, as the Centurion Pontius Buggerusall, as commander of the Indian army. This story is not about the clash of the Titans at Mudki and Soberon in 1846, but about  ‘Goodman Di Laltaen. and Tunde Laat Di Phauj’. So let me begin again. About 185 years ago,………….

Britain was suffering from plague and the British, sorry ‘Britishers’, they were doing Brexit, without Lords Peel, Macauly, or Mumbaikar Meri Lele, egging them on like ‘ Jan to Dec’, sorry May, definitely May. Seeing the prosperity and business opportunities offered in the region, amongst the many who did Brexit, and ran to make a buck in India, was young teen aged entrepreneur David Goodman. No, he was not the Guajarati who ran to  Uganda at the same time.  When every British entrepreneur scurried into the rat holes in the interiors of ‘Yindia’, sorry India, Goodman went east on an elephant till Duliajan. There, his elephant got bogged down in slush and mud and he had to  hire  several elephants to  extricate his ‘Hathi Mere Sathi’. The Hathi is a leading item number in his story with  background score by Beethoven of Madras.

Afterwards, in the cesspool created by the trampling hip  shaking elephants during item number, Goodman noticed a crude black oily, very viscous substance, floating on water. He syphoned out some, put it in his tea kettle and boiled it. Nothing much happened till  the kettle cooled. ‘Viola’, Teri Pen Di, the viscous crude substance split into two parts. A less viscous waxy solid ‘oliphant’ (it is a chemical name, not the poo of the poor elephant) and a base layer of highly viscous tar ‘asphaltine’ (not related to Horlicks or Ovaltine).  It was an earth shaking discovery, but at that time Goodman had no idea what to do with it. His ‘Chinese’ green tea and the ruddy kettle were ruined, but he brought some of it  back to Kol-Kota in Mamta Land in the tea kettle, and set about wondering what to do  with it, while he paid 10 Pounds as licence fee to grow tea in 100 hectors at Duliajan, in Ahom land (erstwhile ‘Chutia’ kingdom – no this is  not obscenity, but early historical name of territory in upper Assam !!). Goodman took  a while to clear the Chutia jungles  and plant Chutia tea instead of Chutia coffee. But being a brilliant businessman, he discovered that he could make a buck making hitherto unknown candles with the Chutia stuff in the kettle, if he threaded a wick through its backside, without offending the puritan missionary Bishop Cotton. Immediately he paid another 10 Pounds to East India company as licence fee to set up a company called ‘Lamp Black’ in Duliajan and to  exploit the mineral resources of the Chutia kingdom. All this is documented history and I didn’t cook it up, I swear to God.

‘Goodman’s Candles’ from Lamp Black produced more smoke than light and got extinguished if there was a wind. So he invented, designed and manufactured what he called ‘Goodman’s Lantern’, which sold like hot cakes on all continents on earth,  along with his ‘Goodman’s Candles’. It not only lit homes, but also streets, ships, light houses, horse drawn carriages, and enabled cattle class to go  early morning to defecate in the fields with nary a care for ‘Swach Bharat’. ‘Goodman’s Lantern’ went where ever God said ‘let there be light to show the heathen the way, drive the fear and darkness from their hearts’, even in Punjab. Bishop Cotton, a shareholder of ‘Lamp Black’, preached hell and brimstone to promote  ‘Goodman’s Lantern’. Goodman became very  rich, like Ram Rahim Di Insan, almost godly, all over the Indian sub-continent. In Punjab it was pidginised as ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ (Goodman’s Lantern). Lantern became the symbol of good, brave, illustrious deeds of a good man, like the political  symbol of Ra Ga Congress, ‘Sonia Ki Hath’.  Goodman  Di Laltaen eventually became an adulatory adjective, an award like Bharat Ratna, which carried rewards of jagirs, large tracts of land that made recipients a  Jagirdar, Jilladar or Tahasildar, depending on the area of land that was bequeathed to him as ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’.

That was in Punjab.
Piche Mud, look east now. About 185 years ago,………….

In a world of sycophancy in ancient Hindustan, art of survival under a thousand  years of occupation, ‘Laat’ was a tribute paid  to a great man (not to  be confused with ‘Lath’). ‘Laat’ was complimentary, but ‘Lath’ derogatory (as in Lathon Ke Bhoot;  bad people who  deserved a kick). A Raja was referred to as ‘Laat Saheb’ (big Lord), an emperor a ‘Jangi Laat’ (master of the world). When  British came  to rule Hindustan, the Gov Gen was nicknamed  ‘Jangi Laat’. However, when  poor Edward Law, 1st Earl of Ellenborough, came to rule East India Company, in Punjab he was derogatively deemed ‘Tunde Laat’, the emperor with no hands or legs, like a kebab with no NFU. If someone didn’t perform in Allard’s army, he was ridiculed as a ‘Tunde Laat’, a handicapped soldier with no allegiance,  camaraderie or  valour, a disgrace.  Strangely Ranjit Singh was also referred to by peasants as ‘Kana Laat’ (one eyed emperor), but with great affection and reverence. Funny people, these Punjabis, like Paki CoAS, Gen Qamar Javed Bajwa, who says  ‘Balle Balle’ while doing unspeakable things to Jangi Lath Nawaz Ki Aawaz,  that he is Bilkul Sharif . Ok back to the story.

After Ranjit Singh died in Jun 1839, Punjabi  Subha went berserk, in an internecine political war, palace intrigues, loot of treasury and murder (like 8 Indian non-functional  PMs,Tunde Laths’ with erectile dysfunction,  who came and went after Rajeev Gandhi was assassinated). Ranjit’s last of  36 concubines, the daughter of a kennel keeper, Jindan (Junda Kishore) and her lover Labh Singh (a Sikh Tahasildar),  rose to political power with the help of Dogra Gulabh Singh, who  coveted the biggest salt mine  in the word at Khewra, as well as, to be ‘Jangi Lath’ of  Jammu & Kashmir.  The Punjab army (not Pakis mind you) stood in the way. And since they were not  being paid regularly, started an OROP like agitation. Soon they were banished to south of Satluj as ‘Badmen Di Laltaen’, to Soberon facing the English garrison of Firozpur, and a diversionary deep penetration strike further east at Mudki, with the aim of blowing up  the large British ammo  and gun factories at Philour. The Punjabi army was put  under command of ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ Labh Singh, a Dogra. It precipitated the first Anglo-Sikh war in 1846. Punjab’s mighty army that maintained peace and prosperity for 40 odd years, was written off. Punjab surrendered and became a vassal state of the country called Reliance, sorry East India Company.  Sob, Sob.

Our ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’, the modern Indian armed forces, were made ‘Tunde Laat Di Phauj’ after Pakis responded to exercise Brass-tacks, with ‘Zorbe-Moimim’, the doctrinal  ‘Act Of God’, nuclear détente. When Chinese come to proclaim  ‘Dhoka Law’ in Chumbi Valley, all the Tunde Laat Di Phauj could do was the ‘Lungi Up’ manoeuvre and offer Jappi,  Pappi and Chumbi.  I feel very sorry, no not for the army, but our ‘Jangi Laat’, sorry Tunde Laat, sorry  Modi Laat,  because of ‘Zorbe-Moimim’ which gives him finger trouble, to press N Button.

The ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ are quite happy doing socially useful and productive work (SUPW) holding a broom instead of a rifle to do Swach Bharat, sweep everything under the carpet. Or go save children in bore wells, act as National Disaster Relief Force or build over-bridge in Mumbai. All that Tunde Laat needs to do,  to become Jangi Laat, is to teach his arthritic fore finger to do yoga, to push the N-button, turn our N-doctrine  from NFU (no first use) to ‘teri pen di’ first use, like Kim Jong-Un. After  that just watch how the Indian armed forces  turn colour to ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ instantly from current Tunde Laat Di Phauj .

Mr America, the penultimate Jangi Laat, has  given ‘Modi Laat’, our PM/She Em,  Jappi, Pappi and Chumbi, while he only shook hands with Mamnoon Hussain and Xi Jinping. Their hands are dirty, while our ‘Modi Laat’ is a very clean man, very huggable and kissable. This is the right time Modi Laat Ji, to get rid  of arthritis on your fore finger. What is the problem, let us collectively  say ‘Booooooooo’, a new war cry, and see if Pakis and Gen Bajwa run off to Dubai with their ‘Zorbe-Moimim’ Ki -Pen-Di doctrine, saying Balle Balle.  

Cheers to ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ and ‘Tunde Laat Di Phauj’


6 Nov 2017

The Gorkha

This is a forward that tickled my cockles early this morning.
Don’t know whether it is fact or fiction, I don’t  care.
It is a heart-warming story, well told. You can hear bag pipes play while you read. Perhaps the tune is ‘Jaya Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali’.
Cheers to the Gorkhas.
Unni Kartha


 "This was sent by a cousin who was a planter all his life. First in the Darjeeling Hills and then later in the Annamalais.
 In this time of pain for all my Darjeeling family, a short story of what our forefathers have been through:

 CIRCA 1968: It would be cold for at least another hour. Then, when the Sun peered over the hill and warmed the frozen earth, the frost would thaw and begin rising off the ground like sepulchral mist. 
 “It will be nice to feel the sun on my back,” thought Harkadhoj Limbu, for the winter months on Sukvah Tea Estate were long and cold.

 The thousand acre property, which the British sahibs used to call a Garden, looked directly across the valley at another Company property,the Pahar Tea Estate. Pahar was not as pretty or as productive as Sukvah, and it did not face the magnificent Kanchenjunga Snow Range. The disadvantage of this majestic view was the cold wind that continually came off the mighty Himalayan massif. It filtered through the flesh and chilled old arthritic bones; bones long since splintered and mangled. 

 Harkadhoj Limbu's body had faced more than its fair share of privation and hardship. The cold water he splashed on his face now forced him to inhale sharply. One of these days, he thought wryly, he might inhale so hard there might not be enough strength left in him to exhale. Yet, it was a routine he had followed all his life. There was a short interruption because of the war, which had kept him away from this little rivulet but that was many, many years ago. 

 His wife Kanchi was alive then. So alive and so petite! His heart raced, as it always did, when he thought of her. He smiled a forlorn smile and pictured again that last time he saw her. She was radiant in the throes of early pregnancy, with little Birbhadur in her belly. A son for whom she gave her life for without medical attention in her village, she had died at childbirth.

 He had left the country resplendent in uniform and a salute that served as farewell. Removing his cap he had kissed Kanchi full on the lips before leaping into the military transport van filled with grinning Ghurkha soldiers bound for lands across the Kala Pani but before that they would be taken to the nearby temple first: a Priest’s blessings were essential before their Hindu beliefs allowed them to cross the Oceans and Seas that lay ahead.

 His thoughts turned to his son, Birbhadur, who grew to manhood without the benefit of a mother. What a mother Kanchi would have made! Apity she wasn’t there when Birbhadur suffered rejection at Sandhurst, for colour-blindness was unacceptable at England's prestigious Military College. But spoiled by the blinkered love of a devoted father, Birbhadur took for granted the many sacrifices Harkadhoj had made to put him through College and architectural training abroad. He finally settled down as a fully qualified architect in Nepal, never to visit or acknowledge his father again.

 Harkadhoj knew that his son was ashamed of him and that was fitting. He was, after all, a mere estate labourer while his son now mixed in exalted company, where Royalty and the Palace were not excluded. He still continued to enjoy his father's pension. It had been essential when he was a student but although he didn't need it anymore, it was there for the taking. After all, what wouldhis father do with all that money?

Thinking of Birbhadur made him smile again. Harkadhoj was proud of his son. It was a pity that he couldn’t have become a Ghurkha officer. How smart he would have looked in uniform, marching to a militaryband… he could still hear the strains of bagpipes, from a bygone era, playing ‘Cock Of The North’ and his thoughts strayed to distant battlefields before returning to the present.

 Today the Chairman, Peter Ross, would be visiting Sukvah tea garden. Peter Ross, a retired Ghurkha officer was also the Managing Director of the company. He would have liked to meet him but that wouldn’t be possible. Old folk, past the retirement age and kept employed out of sympathy, would be tucked out of sight from any visiting dignitary. Instead they were to sickle weeds on a remote boundary bordering a tea field that had been hard pruned.

 Pruning was an art. It was a job that Harkadhoj had been comfortable with in the old days. He had a natural ability with a knife. Most Ghurkha’s did but he could, with a flick of the wrist, slice through a two-inch diameter stem of tough tea wood leaving the cut clean and smooth. It was essential that it be smooth, without those visible marks made by less skilled pruners whose hacking would leave rough protrusions to serve as entry points for bacteria. Bacteria caused excessive die back on the pruned branches and sometimes even killed a hard pruned bush.

 Now it hurt to even think of flicking his wrist, with or without a knife in his hand. Involuntarily flexing his arm, he remembered the shock on the face of a large German soldier when his kukri had severed the head of his bayonet charging comrade in the thick of battle. Hand to hand combat was the forte of the Ghurkhas and even now his heart raced to the cry of ‘ayo gurkhalli’ as they charged into pitched battle, their kukris held high… and then the blood, dripping down shiny steel blades.

 The sun was beginning to paint the enormous mountain. Starting from the very peak, it began turning the ghostly ethereal snow into vibrantcrimson; an enormous backdrop of blood. Beautiful as it was, Harkadhoj had seen enough blood during the war years to last his lifetime. He turned away, a sickness of old gnawing at his stomach.

 The Sun completed its masterpiece and then began the earnest business of warming the frozen earth. The first rays of sunshine took the chill out of Harkadhoj's body. He shivered as the clawing cold released him but each day it seemed to retain a little of his spirit. He knew that soon there would be nothing left to give.

 With the warmth, blood began circulating. Tongues loosened, and amidst the soft chatter of his companions, arms moved rhythmically wielding sickles in constantly changing arcs. Weeds cut down were left where they fell. It reminded him of the past. Everything reminded him of the past: then it was men who were mown down, to be left where they fell.

 The mid-afternoon sun silenced the earlier drone of bees and arrested the chirping of birds. Such was the silence that Harkadhoj could hear faint voices from a mile away. There was little doubt to whom they belonged – the put-on airs of the Manger, John Benson and the softer cultured accents of the Chairman. Something was wrong. He couldn't put a finger on it until he realised that the voices were coming closer. But the visiting dignitary should not be coming in this direction.

 It was soon apparent that they were heading for this work spot. Perhaps the Chairman had insisted on following his instincts rather thanbeing guided by John Benson. 

 "Very sensible", thought Harkadhoj, "if that is the case."

 But this was not so. Benson, overly keen to impress the Chairman, had got so carried away with boasting about his achievements, that he had taken the wrong path through the Tea bushes and was soon at the last place he would have wanted to visit with his Chairman.

 The work here was never up to standard. The old folk were no longer capable of whetting their implements to the required degree of sharpnessand to bend that low, to cut grass and weed just above ground level, was impossible. It was already too late when John Benson realised his predicament and he had nobody to blame but himself. His recourse predictably was to express astonishment and then rage at the poor quality of work.

 "Yo ekdam naramro kaam ho!" He thundered. "Belight ma ... " Continuing in chaste Ghurkhali with a British ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ accent he said, "In England such work would be unacceptable. It is a pity that none of you have been to England. Little wonder then that India is in this sad state!"

Carried away by his eloquence, Benson thundered on, "You people have not seen good work. You never will see good work because you have never been to England!" The haranguing continued for some time.

 His glasses glinted and his moustache bristled as fiercely as the noonday sun. Surreptitiously glancing at the Chairman to see what impact he had made, he glared defiantly at the workers. Dropping his sickle Harkadhoj straightened, bringing his weary mutilated body to attention. Barefoot, in old torn khaki shorts and a shirt full of patches, he took a deep painful breath and addressed himself to Peter Ross, ignoring Benson. 

 Benson's face was suffused with blood. His whiskers drooped a fraction and his outrage was manifest. How dare the natives usurp centre stage like this!

 “Chuup gar, you damned impertinent savage!”

 "I have been to England." Harkadhoj stated. His dead pan voice cut through the hushed assembly as he continued. "I have been to parts of England that you have never been to, or will ever be allowed into!" 

 "Which parts of England are you referring to?" Asked Peter Ross. His voice was gentle and there was a hint of mirth that indicated he wasprepared to enjoy what was to follow. Peter Ross knew the Gurkhas. He knew them well, for through the war he had served with Ghurkha Regiments as had his father before him.

"I have been to Buckingham Palace,” said Harkadhoj, sticking his chest out even further as he stood to attention.

 Benson was about to splutter about the absurdity of that statement. A mere common labourer on a Tea Plantation – at Buckingham Palace indeed! The Chairman waved Benson into silence to ask:

 “What were you doing at Buckingham Palace?”

 "I was the Queen's personal Bodyguard for two years."

 This spoke volumes for the man since the Bodyguards were normally changed annually. To have been retained an extra year must have significance. Ross was immediately curious.

 "Which Regiment were you with?" He asked.

 "I was with the Seventh Ghurkha Rifles."

 "You were in Tobruk, El Alamein and Monte Casino?" Peter Ross was now fully engrossed and concentrating hard on the features of Harkadhoj.

 "Hazoor! Yes Sahib," confirmed Harkadhoj.

 Were you decorated?" 

 Almost everyone Ross knew, who emerged alive from that arena, had received some award.

 "I initially got the Military Cross. After a few months I was informed that a Bar had also been added. After the War I received the 'Nepal Tara' or 'Star Of Nepal' from King Mahindra." 

 Then reluctantly, almost ashamedly, looking at the ground he whispered:

 "I was cited for the Victoria Cross."

 The silence became electric.

 That night Harkadhoj was the Chief guest at the party held in honour of the Chairman. Peter Ross had especially asked that Harkadhoj bepresent and that I, who was the junior most Assistant Manager in the Company, see to it that Harkadhoj present himself in full Military regalia. This had been difficult. 

 I put his un-ironed trousers under the mattress to be pressed. The coat had to be darned in a few places. The Military Cross, the 1939-45 Star, the Italy Star and the War Medal, along with some attendant Oak Leafs, which signified dual awards, had to be affixed to a piece of cardboard placed under the shirt. This was done to keep the weight of the metal from tugging the fabric askew and thatwouldn't have done at all.

 The Star Of Nepal was attached to a blue ribbon left over from a Christmas present wrapping, and put around Harkadhoj's neck. Shoes? Well he couldn't fit into my size twelve’s with his five and a half size feet but a khaki pair of sneakers, belonging to my butler, served the purpose.

 "Harkadhoj, what was the citation for?" Asked the Chairman.

 "Near El Alamein, a German Panzer division surprised us at dawn. They came over a low hill and we were caught stranded in the middle of the desert. Many of us were killed instantly. Most were able to flee to nearby dunes and escape. One British Officer was caught in the middle. He was alive but a bullet in the spine had paralysed him. I was close by and managed to drag him to safety."

 "My God! So it was you. I was there but frozen with shock. That was my cousin you saved. He has spoken about you ever since. Struth! But you were riddled with bullets. I saw the dust come off your shirt. You shielded Andrew with your body. He owes you his life!"

 "Sahib, it was he who helped put my son through College in England. He has done enough for me."

 This was obviously not enough for Peter Ross. But Harkadhoj refused any monetary help and a saddened Chairman went back to England stilldetermined to do something for this gallant soldier.

 Six months later the Victoria Cross was awarded to Harkadhoj Limbu for Bravery Above And Beyond The Call Of Duty. It was posthumous. Harkadhoj had died a week before the award was made. 

I think he would have preferred it that way.. "

16 Oct 2017

Load Must Go

Before 71 war, and for a few years afterwards in 43 Sqn at Jorhat, flying Daks, when I was a ‘Pitot Tube' & afterwards a Godzilla 'Fying Officer’, none had ever heard about the strange secretive group called ‘Directorate of Flight Safety’ in Air HQ.  They were like Free Masons, recognised only by code words and by hand grips, when they caught 'nones' throat and said the pass word, ‘Goch Ya’, to send the 'nones' to  the firing squad.  

The clarion call in Jorhat was, ‘The Load Must Go, and  fall on the DZ’. The  load to be dropped was decided by some unknown person, or thing, called 'Raso' which at that time none knew was the Rear Airfield Supply Organization. The nones only knew that it was the mighty  Raso  who decided what, or how much, was to be carried, to where daily, day in and day out, all days of the month. Every squadron had a monthly impossible target set by Raso on how many tons of 'thingamado' were to be dropped in a month. If someone didn’t drop it on a particular day as Raso dictated, for whatever reason, others had to go and do double time to do it or die, ‘the load must go and fall on the DZ’, was an inviolable order given by this secretive thing, Raso .

Raso were a union of mysterious men in the twilight zone, much like Dte of FS in Air HQ. The load for the Dak could be anything. Usually Aatta, Maida, Sugar, Rice, etc in 55 kg  double sewn jute bags, Kerosene or Rum in Jerry cans, live goats and chicken in wooden cases attached with parachutes.  Yes, there were also coins in a boxes, Dalda Tins, all attached with parachutes. The jute bags, piled one on top of the other, 6 at a time, were kicked out of the open door of the Dak  and generally fell on the Dropping Zone (DZ). Rum and Coin boxes were jury rigged with parachutes that had its vocal chords cut, or detached,  never failed to not open, smashing itself into the ground silently in inaccessible valleys. There was no effort to check why the parachutes didn’t open. The load was usually loaded when the air crew lined up for their traditional piss under the wing, and hence had no clue of what was the load, they simply signed the manifest. It wasn’t our reason to ask ‘how, why, when, where or what’, but simply to  drop the load where Raso told us to ‘go do it and die’, mostly in deep interiors of NEFA or in Naga Land. 49 Sqn did the same things in other parts of North East, all the way south to Chura-Chandpur, where there were very pretty girls. 

Though we had only 10  Daks in 43 Sqn, we had around 150 odd pilots, even those guys who refused to go back after 71 wartime mobilization, because of temporary duty allowance and free rations, specially rum at 1 ½ Rs / batli (coke at Rs 3/batli) and salary of a Pitot Tube Rs 315 / pm. Of these, only 15% pilots believed in the motto, ‘load must go & drop on the DZ’. These were the ‘Us’ kind, the DCO kind (Duty Carried Out). The rest were ‘Them’, the DPCO kind (duty partially carried out) or DNCO kind (duty not carried out). We had an authorisation book to keep track of 'Us & Them'. 

Obviously the flying programme, which was an A3 size cardboard covered with talc sheet, scribbled with China Graph pencil,  was tampered with daily by one of us rascals, to ensure that only ‘Us’ flew and ‘Them’ stayed happily on ground.  So the 15% were the kind, who with utter disregard to personal safety, or that of the crew or that of the meagre supply of irreplaceable WW-II Daks, went and did it just to write DCO in the authorisation book. That was our raison d'etre. None wrote citations for medals for the ‘Us’ type of nones, though lots of citations for medals were written by the ‘Them’, mostly by themselves. 

Because of the  DCO mentality, we went through bad weather, extreme turbulence, single engines, over load or bad loading with no ‘bill of lading’, bad navigation that got the Dak lost inside one way valleys, a horde of reasons that led to increasing fatal accidents. Around 1974/75, the fatal accidents rose to alarming levels and one day the Free Masons descended down from the sky over Jorhat, grabbing our juggler and saying the pass word, ‘Goch Ya’. 

The result was that I was made a Flt Safety Officer (besides o i/c piggery), both were never seen or heard species in the wild life of the Eastern AF. I had no  clue  of what is to be done, either to the pigs or to make flying  safe, unless the ‘Us' turned to 'Them', the DNCO/DPCO kind,  and sacrificed our bounden duty to DCO and die. 

Among the many things I was asked to do as newly minted Flight Safety Officer, to prevent accidents, I was also asked to draw cartoons and invent catchy slogans, and paste them everywhere, to augment Flight Safety.  My first cartoon had a Dak sitting on its belly with a caption, ‘Fly Safe’. I was asked to tear it down immediately and put a more tearjerker story board. So the next cartoon I drew was a coffin, with a caption, ‘Claim Free Airfare Home’. 

I was removed as Flt Safety Offr forthwith and never had  to cross the floor from ‘Us to Them’ for the rest of my career in IAF. Quite frankly, I still don’t know  anything about flying safe, it was a dangerous profession, for which we got 6 tins of condensed milk and 4 cartons of Amul Chocolate every month. They made me very popular with all the girls in Jorhat and Dibrugarh, and helped acquire the most sought-after chutzpah, even without  wearing a wing or regalia on my overalls !!.

I wish I  could do  it all over again !!!


21 Aug 2017


Maths was my waterloo, which prevented me from becoming Napoleon.

My father PEG was Ramanujam, the decimal man. While he was not administering Karachi, when I was yet to line up as an embryo in his scrotum, he spent all his time writing maths books, ‘Teach Yourself Maths’ series, five volumes, which became the first Maths Ram text books in Independent India as well as well as Pak. Unfortunately, when my turn came to line up as an embryo post-independence, my father did not pass any of his DNA to me, reason why I was Musth Ram and not Maths Ram. 

At ‘Amba-La-Puzha’ where I was born and grew up, when  I was rearing to go and be  the goal keeper in the local junior communist football league match (with a tennis ball) on Sunday mornings, my father  would snigger, ‘Come, let us prove zero is not equal to  zero’; which was  his  funniest joke. 

As I grew  up, under the shadow of the comely Marxist terrorist  Miss Kunnikkal Ajitha, nurtured and tutored  by the Rasputin EMS Bumboo-Thiri-Pad, I became allergic  to  many people besides my father; Pythagoras, Calculus and Arithmatix in particular - all of them considered to be anti-people, all Maths Rams. Sadly, my father deposed my Napoleonic ambitions and sent me to  St Elba (Rimc), where I  was fed scotch eggs, like slow lead poisoning of Napoleon, to kill the commie worms in my tummy and turn me from vermin to soldier, still with  a grudge towards  my father, Pythagoras, Calculus and Arithmatix, the Maths Rams of my life. I didn’t have to worry about Mathematrix or curvaceously comely  Cos Theta, just the silly 1/ 60 rule of navigation, till I decided to become a test pilot at the age of 32.

In the outback of Bidar, where I was posted as a flying instructor, salvation was in Papnash and Nanak Jeera. Life became difficult on a salary of around Rs 850, especially when  my tiny son  started eating  like ‘Bhima’, one  tin of  baby food in two days. It made me bankrupt.  After a combined visit to  Papnash and Nanak Jeera, I got salvation, enlightenment. ‘Do A2 and go to Iraq, Saddam will take care of you’,  the Gods whispered in my ears. So I dusted the old copies of IAP 124, FIS précis, and the ‘Naval Aviator’s Ki Voh’, but got stumped by illustrious finger master Punia Sir who took the viva, mother of all A2 tests.

He  asked, ‘Why are golf balls dimpled’ ?
‘I have no  clue’, I told him seriously. ‘I don’t play golf, only football with a tennis ball’.
He  gave me another chance.
‘Why do bowlers vigorously rub one side, same side of the cricket ball, on their crotch, before they bowl ?’.
‘Perhaps they have a Dhobi’s itch ?’, I  suggested with wit and a QFI’s ‘fault finding’ wisdom, hopping to be sent to Iraq. I was going to add ‘Elementary Dr Watson’, but didn’t, because of Saddam’s wet dreams were not supposed to have humour in it.

Punia told me to go learn Kutta’s theorem and Magnus effect, the things that happen  in boundary layer. He told me to go befriend Maths Ram Mathematrix, whom I had avoided even in FIS.  In any case, the Gods in Papnash and  Nananjeera had given same enlightenment to every man and beast in Training Command, starting from the C-in-C to the AF police at the railway gate in Bidar which doubled as the quarter guard. The same Saddam wet dreams. The queue was very long, from Trg Cmd to AEB in Hindon.  I realised that by the time my turn came, my son would have grown a moustache between his legs despite my bankruptcy.

So I went again to Papnash and  Nanank jeera, bribed Lord Shiva with go-go nuts, put 50 Naya Paisa into Jeera Hundi, and sought further advice. Despite many appeals, the Gods were silent. Apply, apply no reply.  Several days later, it was the ghost of Kutub Shahi Sultan Qasim Barid who gave me good advice. ‘Go  become a TP, you will get Rs 400 per month, a 50% pay hike’.

So it was that I turned up in ASTE begging to be made a TP. They promptly handed me two question papers, and gave me an hour to answer each. The first was about flying and aeronautics, not difficult for a QFI with Saddam dreams. But the second one was pure Maths Ram, with Pythagoras, Trignometrix, Calculus, ‘Tadka Marke, with Khatta Nimbu and no salt’.

I could hear my late father’s ghost snigger, ‘come, let us prove zero  is not equal  to zero’.  I scored zero, because the only thing  I wrote on the answer  sheet, my service number, it wasn’t even a prime number. ‘Go learn Maths and come back  again’, venerable W/C (Later Air MShl) Philip Sir counselled. He was even kind to take me to the library, and loan me about  25 volumes of Abbot’s ‘Teach Yourself Maths Ram’.

While lugging 50 kg of Maths Ram, I missed my father for the first time. He had facilitated seedlings of independent India with only 5 volumes of his Maths Ram, and here I was lugging 25 volumes of Abbot Ki Voh. My Dad’s ghost was nowhere around to consult with, and Kutub Shahi was allergic to the curvaceous Cos Theta.

My wife helped teach me count backwards and forwards using Naya Paisa instead of abacus. She went on to teach me multiplication tables too,  ‘Do  Bata Do, Panch’. Soon she became PhD and I remained King of Zero. It took me about 6 months to become a Maths Ram, befriend Pythagoras, Calculus and Arithmatix and  Mathematrix, even the curvaceous Cos Theta. Yes, I also converted my service number to a prime number. To cut a long story short, I passed the Maths Ram test, by the skin  on my teeth. Immediately Philip Sir  told me to go learn French, which was worse than Maths Ram. Learnt that too, in Alliance Francaise  B’lore.

And that is how I became an ETP from EPNER in France, a Maths Ram using the same logic of ‘Bolivian Algebra’.

19 Aug 2017

Eject, Eject …………….

 After 8 yrs service, flying Daks and Mi4s, about 2400 hrs as 1st pilot, around 3800 hrs on the bottom line, I was sent to FIS to turn from pupa to butterfly, to become a QFI. I went to Tambaram, thinking I was a super stud with a smoking gun. Within a week the establishment used dry ice, deep froze and turned me into a worm with no  self-esteem, perhaps the first step towards beginning of any new learning process, without an attitude. I had no problems re-learning the incredible art of flying the HT-2, and was very comfortable with it unlike my counterpart fighter jocks who had palpitations while flying them. But the  HJT Kiran was something new for me and required much heaving and hoving on my part, nerve wracking palpitations and deep breathing, which could be heard loud  and clear on the intercom, and all the way to Air HQ even without intercom.
 Each HJT those  days had its own handling characterises and none behaved in the same disciplined manner. Indiscipline was rampant even amongst aircraft. I felt acutely claustrophobic in the air tight  cockpit and  was frightened of sitting on an ejection seat, since I was not  used to such a contraption earlier. I kept  thinking, what if the ejection seat fired on its own ?’ !!! Perhaps it was a common phobia  with all non-fighter jocks those days. I confess that I did contemplate not taking the ruddy safety pins out, but the conscientious ground crew were very zestful and  would not close the canopy till they had counted the pins in my hand and made sure that I put  them in my pocket before they closed the hatch.
 Because of the exceptional teaching skill of late Sengupta Sir, an A2 instructor awaiting Iraq tenure,  I was cleared 1st  &  2nd  solo on schedule  on HT2 & HJT without  a glitch. Sengupta was a silent instructor, he was a man of  few words and didn’t offer to teach me, ‘I will show you how’ type of pitter-patter !! He believed that given a chance I would learn on my own. I  did have a major problem learning to do barrel rolls, which usually started as a wing over, turned to a loop, and ended in a spin. I learnt this  manoeuvre finally from venerable Gals (Sr) Sir, who got arthritis and diver’s bends trying to show me how  to barrel using his  hands. We didn’t have model a/c with a danda up its chuff those days in  FIS and the articulation of the elbows had a limit for teaching aerobatics like a barrel roll !!

Then disaster struck. I was programmed the next day for a solo sortie on HJT, with a 75 kg kit bag dead weight on the other seat, a 45’ sortie profile involving solo 3 turn spin & aerobatics on tow line Gudwancheri,  return, do an over shoot and land back.
 Our  daily routine in FIS was met briefing and a 45 mts quiz test of emergencies by then Flt Cdr, venerable  Chilly Rao Sir starting at 0445, mainly to emphasise that one’s silly cheap Casio digital aircrew watch, that couldn’t and wouldn’t keep time with Big Ben,  was the only instrument worth monitoring in the cockpit. I  think Chilly Sir had too many Bingo warning  lights in his life except at the bar where he did ample mid-air refuelling !! The briefing was usually followed by flying till lunch time and classes on aeronautic subjects in the post lunch session till 1730 hrs.  Some evenings, night flying too, after day flying and classes.
Most of us married types lived in a then nameless, address-less, horrible colony, two  rooms  with an ‘Indian Commodore’ to bomb poo in haunching posture,  near what  is now Chinmaya Colony, a 45 mts drive from FIS on my ‘Hamara Bajaj’. My wife had aborted take-offs three times in a married life of less than two years because of my smoking gun, bumpy roads and Hamara Bajaj. Because she was pregnant again (smoking gun) she was advised bed rest during the fourth time, when we reported to FIS. So it was my job to cook, clean, sew, knit, whatever……..while doing pitter-patter’ nonstop. My wife helped, knew it by heart while  I didn’t, and would often comment, ’Ayyo, so  stupid idiot, during stall you are supposed to say, feel the aircraft juddering’, while I was juddering trying to sweep swap under the bed at 0300 hrs before met briefing and ‘Kaun Banega Murga’ quiz contest by Chilly Sir with greater aplomb than Big B !!!   Evenings, my incredibly hungry nephews or thirsty bachelor course mates would drop in and I  had to cook Beef Biriyani and act like ‘Uncle’ the barman in Poona, pour myself as much or more than my guests.
I just didn’t have time to learn ‘pitter or patter’, or learn any lesson from the most interesting and enjoyable lectures of Wg Cdr Rao Sir, the Nav instructor who had mischievous intensions to make us QNIs and not QFIs.  CO FIS Ubgade Sir, unsuccessfully tried to teach us precession of gyroscopes, holding a pointer above his head and rotating his hips like Hellen doing ‘Mera Nam Chi Chinn Chu’. But our gyros were rigid and refused to precess or process Kutta’s theorem and Magnus effect from Naval Aviator’s ‘Ki Pen Di Who’, the Bible fished out and smuggled from test pilot’s school in Patuxent River. We generally  slept in class because afternoons were siesta time in RIAF. The strategic location to sleep in class, learnt in NDA, was the front row;  right under the instructor’s nose. The only persons  who didn’t sleep in class was my cm NV Tyagi,  and the youngest in the batch, Raha. Both used precession and rigidity to navigate and climb to flight levels DCAS/CAS; rest of us either killed ourselves or retired due to  lack of any knowledge, to learn or to teach.
Just joking !!!
 It was a rainy day when I  was programmed for 3rd solo and took a while for  the  weather to clear.
So I signed the F-700, walked to  the HJT emulating a fighter pilot’s zestful gait during a scramble, kicked the tyres, peeped into the poo hole jet pipe, noted the number of asymmetric saw tooth vortex generators on and under the wing (very sharp to touch or fondle), jumped into the cockpit, buckled up, hesitantly  took out  the pins to show off to the  ground crew that I had courage to sit on the hot seat. They closed the hatch and  incarcerated me in the HJT, no escape. So I pressed the tit, released brakes, fondled the ‘Dooshang’, and was ready to go, looking for tryst with my destiny.
 I lined up on the dumbbell, arrow  straight, held the Kiran on brakes, opened full throttle. I checked my watch to see if it was still working,  just as Chilly Sir had told me to, and let go the brakes. The HJT rolled down the centre line without my intervention. I only looked at my watch and not the ASI, as Chilly Sir had advised during ‘Kaun Banega Murga’ quiz contest, without ‘phone a friend’ option.
I was just getting ready to pull back and unstick when I got ‘Hicum Fookum’,  sudden vertical rush of poo, from butt to brain . The A/C was on fire. Smoke was billowing out  of  the air  conditioning ducts below the instrument panel. I was just about to pull the ejection handle when I remembered that HJT didn’t have ground level ejection. So I unstuck and climbed like a bat out of hell. In my panic, I also forgot to  give a  mayday call, but did remember to raise the undercarriage.
I hauled on the straps, looked at my watch, straightened my spine, sat erect, reached for the ejection handle between my legs and pulled.  Sadly it was not the ejection handle that I was holding and violently pulled, but my precious  gonads. I screamed. The trachea and eustachian tube choked the juggler and the upward flow of poo, hicum  fookum stopped. The HJT kept climbing without any intervention from me.
 When hicum fookum stopped, my wits returned, I began to look around and not get overwhelmed by the cheap Casio digital air crew watch. All cockpit instruments appeared normal and there were no  warning lights blinking at me. Strangely the smoke coming out of the air conditioning duct had  no smoky smell. When I crossed 5 or 6 thousand feet, smoke stopped coming out  from the ducts. The  smoke was just condensation, I remembered that it was a wet, rainy and humid day.
 I then went and did whatever I  was to  do over Goodwancheri and landed back without any fuss.  Became a QFI without much ado.
 On a  recent Indigo flight from Hyd to Mumbai, after take-off, the  passenger sitting next to me, started shouting ‘fire, fire, fire’. Smoke was seen coming out of the  air conditioning duct behind the overhead baggage compartments. He had hicum fookum. So I told him to eject, by  grabbing and tugging his gonads. His trachea and eustachian tube choked the juggler and the upward flow of poo, hicum  fookum stopped. But it gave him erectile dysfunction like me. No more smoking guns.

 Be careful, look what you are holding, before you pull the ejection handle between the legs !!!