Thought I was dead in Nineteen Eighty Five,
made into Prestige pressure cookers at Rs Thirty Five.
But I am now reborn, back at Hindon,
It was a long journey, from grave yard
abandon,
My soul is now in a new virile body, all the
way from London.
It seems so long ago, that I crept along, in
peace and wars abound,
Through dismal rain and darkness, on ground,
all around.
My ‘Spanners and Jocks’, some very young,
they were professionally sound,
And that kept my body and soul in good state
of mind.
At Srinagar, where the frozen winter nights
were long,
They double drained the cocks, even heated
the cooler.
When battery fumed, they manually turned my
props,
All of it lovingly for me to jog along
apropos.
At dawn, beyond the clouds and mists of
clinging grey,
I would go, destination not well known,
To the midst of the ‘White Mountains’, which
the world had not known.
There daily awaited the pregnant loads, ready
to be air lifted,
Rations, live goats, ammo or rum, all to be
gifted,
North, or North East, right into the hands of
the valiant guarding our land,
Which neither had yak, yeti, abominable
snowman, nor a dancing band.
Beyond the clouds, and mists of clinging
grey, the load had to go,
And by jove, whether the engines quit, I did
go,
My ‘Spanners and Jockies’ of IAF, they were
the DCO type,
They were freaking nuts, all ‘Go Go’ nuts,
with clarion call ‘Load Must Go’.
When my tapestry is unfurled,
Such memories hold my soul content.
If now per chance I’m abruptly hurled,
Backwards in time, there shall be no lament.
Vintage ? Like hell, I am back as sound as a
bell.
By an unknown Bard
