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