Author: Swati Sani

Close Encounters with the Fairer Sex!

This one goes back to my junior college days in a small town during the late seventies. The draconian regulations of the school had just been superseded by the lax discipline of college life. I had recently joined the Rotaract Club of Nagpur. It’s always the neo converts to a cause who are most fanatically zealous! So Rotaractor Nadeem Sani was the first to arrive for all projects and dumb enough to be saddled with the most inane jobs.

As part of its activity, the Club annually organized a charity film show wherein the proceeds were donated to a school for underprivileged children. During my first year at Rotaract, the charity movie was ‘Close encounters with the Third Kind’. As a zealous guardian of faith, I promptly volunteered to sell an entire booklet of tickets. Selling an English movie ticket amongst college crowd at an inflated price in Nagpur of seventies wasn’t really easy. I had to cajole, beg, request, threaten, call in past favours and pull out my entire repertoire of emotional blackmailing to sell those tickets. Amongst the dubious deals for selling tickets struck was one wherein I was to sit and watch the movie with Miss Specko – the buyer of a premium charity ticket. The general opinion of the class put her as an ideal candidate for a mental asylum but if the Knight Templar could ride halfway across the known world as saviour of Faith, I could definitely risk watching a movie with the girl-off-her-rocker for the cause!

So, on the movie day, I waited outside the Liberty cinema in my best pair of threads. Thankfully, she came on time and we sat down to watch the movie. After the initial period of being on the tenterhooks, I relaxed and concluded that Miss Specko is not going to spring a surprise today and concentrated on the movie. But girls and destiny have this cruel habit of unpredictability. Post intermission, Miss Specko failed to reappear. I waited for a decent amount of time and then went outside to check. She was no where in sight. Little alarm bells started tinkling in my mind. I went to the Rotaract President and whispered my predicament; all the senior members were dragged out to help. One of the girls checked the Ladies Toilet – no sign of her. It was now 30 minutes past intermission and the alarm bells started to clang loudly. There was a barrage of questions, advice, chastising and angry abuses hurled at me. And the pundits of doom started muttering words like abduction, kidnapping and what not. Thousands of very scary ‘what if’ scenarios ran through my mind. My imagination was working overtime with visions of parents, teachers, and policemen as major actors in the next 24 hours. After about an hour of searching, we formed a posse and extended the perimeter of our search to nearby lanes. This again proved futile. By now, I was a nervous wreck and cursing my luck, the girl, Rotaract and the world. The movie ended and the theater disgorged its occupants.

The whole of Rotaract club was mobilized and we had a hurried war Council as regards our next course of action – parents or Police? I died a thousand deaths thinking of the consequences. It was decreed that we contact the girl’s parents first and then take the campaign forward depending upon the situation.

We reached her house and I was expected to inquire about the whereabouts of Miss Specko from her parents. I had my first experience of what it must be like for the infantryman to charge through a minefield   towards enemy position, little knowing which bullet has his name on it! I rang the bell and probably broke the world record of holding the breath. It was opened by a sleepy eyed, tousle haired, pyjama clad Miss Specko. She looked at me – I looked at her and we all looked at each other. There was a lot of looking around during that couple of seconds. “How come you are home?” I finally managed to croak. “I was bored during the movie, so I left” she replied angelically.

Years later, a wiser me had a whirlwind courtship in Bombay with my (now) wife, hitting all the high spots of Bombay together. She still wonders as to the reason I never ever took her to the movies during the courtship.

– Nadeem Sani

The Old Pier at Port Blair!






I wondered at the magnificence of the pier in eighteenth century made,

And thought why its beauty with passage of time does not seem to fade.

The pier stood proudly with iron legs embedded in waters oh so blue,

And the docks below came alive, spoke to me and offered some clue.

“Glorious ships, men and action I have seen” to me the old pier spoke,

Heroes and beautiful ladies as well as dastards who went plain broke.

My heart holds enchanting tales of success and defeat, sorrow and joy,

Many untold stories of romance and grandeur, of the great days gone by.

The grand and splendid memories of yore make me evergreen and gay,

The reminiscences of yesteryear act like magic, keeping old age at bay.

– Nadeem Sani

Bartimaeus – The Genial Genie!

Recession is biting! And amidst home budget belt tightening, the mistress of the house decreed that my extravagant book buying budget is to be slashed to zero with immediate effect! Funny thing this globalization – some wise guy in Lehman Brothers attempts to subvert the system in America and poor me is deprived of books to read…. Being a wise and domesticated husband, I did not dare ask my wife if her exorbitant cosmetic budget had been pruned.

Reading is an addiction. Deprived of my daily fix of mental stimulation, I reached out in desperation to the children’s stack of books. And, in the process, stumbled upon a trilogy by Jonathan Stroud about this genie and his young master. The books are ‘The Amulet of Samarkand’, ‘The Golem’s Eye’ and ‘Ptolemy’s Gate’.

I have happily avoided reading all of JK Rowling, smug in the self –belief that children’s book are juvenile. My idea of kid’s book stemmed from the Enid Blyton’s I had read eons ago. ‘The Amulet of Samarkand’ was a pleasant surprise. To begin with, the language used by Jonathan is crisp, elegant and lucid. The second part I liked is the sheer simplicity of the plot – good is good and bad is bad. No moral dilemma to judge, no grey areas to navigate gingerly about. The best part about the book is that it seamlessly blends the myths and fairy tales of yore with the contemporary world. The hero is a minister in UK government. This modern setting does not make you feel that you are reading the typical archaic children’s book of hero–slays-the-fire-eating–dragon type.

The most amazing character of the series is Bartimaeus, the genie. The story about djinns and how to control them is a central part of oriental folklores. As a child, I remember being told all about drawing a circle in a graveyard and staying within it for 40 days and night to be able to exercise power over djinn. In Jonathan Stroud books, our young magician hero has control over thousand year old djinn called Bartimaeus. The genie’s character is sketched out very nicely – naughty, with a great sense of humour, wicked and a tad sentimental. Aladdin’s djinn is servile whereas Bartimaeus has a mind of his own. His ranting and raving, his humour and benign wickedness are amazingly original. The book is narrated in first person in parts – some bits by the genie and some by the hero. This helps the reader in identifying with the character very well.  I can very well imagine Eddie Murphy as the quasi cartoon character of Bartimaeus in a Hollywood movie. After a series of sinister plots, our young magician hero emerges victorious with the formidable help of his genie friend.

There can be sober parallels drawn between these stories and the real world but I deliberately desisted from this intellectual exercise. The books are meant to be enjoyable reading by children and I wanted to enjoy them at that level. After a series of rather drab, brilliant books by award winning authors which leave you drained at the end, this one keeps you riveted by its action, simplicity and comedy. In the end, it leaves a warm, fuzzy glow and the positive feeling that heroism and romance is not dead. A must read for all adults who have got accustomed to a cynical, descriptive, blurred morals diet. These books are fun with no pretensions about dealing with a broad socio- historical canvas or depicting depressing reality. And no – I am NOT regressing with age!        

Covenant

Eons ago, a covenant made between us so true,

In every life and form, our meeting was to be due. 

Meet, befriend, love and be together in every life,

But this time you chose to be someone else’s wife.

Through different times we have nurtured this pact, 

And met in different lives, that’s an irrefutable fact.

For you my beloved, I have fought glorious wars,

And our name and fame had spread wide and far.

You were a princess and me an infatuated slave,

Contrary to the royal decree, for you I did crave.
Our covenant held true and when you  came to me,

Killed for love in that life, we were destined to be.

And once, a poor farmer I was who tilled the land,

Everyday you brought me lunch, fed me by hand.

Together we eked out a living from the fertile soil,

Happy and content, the whole day we did toil.

Throughout this life I have sought you far and wide,

Now that we met, by our covenant you must abide.

You are citing reasons, limitations and obligations,

And breaking our covenant without real justification.

This life is different, my endearments you don’t brook,

Violate all vows of togetherness you and I once took.

Covenant, promises, love, eternity don’t mean a thing,

You only look for security and comfort this life can bring.

Grant me a wish, let us meet once again I pray,

Let us keep the covenant even if only for a day.

Joining National Defence Academy


“Can you help me with the venous system of the frog?” The question was directed at me by a pair of emerald green eyes in the Zoology Lab. As a 17 year old, I could feel my knees go weak, my heart fibrillating and the face flushing. I did help her – every neuron short circuiting, the blood cells whooping and dancing in the arteries, pumped by a heart now afflicted by tachyarrhythmia, the olfactory nerves surrounded by the ions of Havoc perfume she was wearing. The spear eagled belly-up frog in the dissection tray shot the Cupid’s arrow and within a month, I was proposing to the Colonel’s daughter. Proposal accepted and feelings reciprocated, we sat down to contemplate marriage, parent’s reaction, career and all other issues which two 17 year old in a make believe world could possibly contemplate. Its amazing how as a 17 year old, I was absolutely confident of my wisdom – a trait which I no longer possess at 46! She produced an omnibus solution for all our problems – real or imagined. “Why don’t you join the National Defence Academy? That way, you will be in Pune and have a better chance at asking for my hand.” The Colonel’s daughter advised.

That single sentence changed my life. She finished her Board exams and went off to join Fergusson College at Pune whilst I aimed for the NDA exams. The Board results came – I I managed decent marks and was eligible for admission in the local REC for engineering but my heart was set on her. And the path to her traversed through NDA. My parents advised me against the folly of changing my life’s goal on a chance teenage remark, my friends ridiculed me. But I had recanted my life’s ambition of joining Indian Institute of Science for Nuclear Physics. I now wanted to graduate from NDA, get married to her and live happily after. No one – not even a distant cousin – in my family had served in the Armed Forces. The brighter lot became Doctors and the not so bright became teachers. Now the brightest amongst them had just turned into a renegade and was doing the unthinkable. The family elders called a council and ordered me to be present. I was made to sit in the centre and advised, threatened, cajoled and blackmailed to give up my obsession. But love is steadfast in adversity and so I remained stubbornly committed to my goal. There were mutterings about my dad not bringing me up properly, about me becoming the black sheep of the family etc etc but I just did not give in. So, NDA it was – I had prevailed, our love had prevailed!

So, on 23rd of January 1981, a romantic me arrived at Pune railway station with eyes full of stars. Prior to reporting to NDA Wing, my primary task was pilgrimage to Fergusson College to meet her. I walked across the gravelly path to meet her in front of the Stats department. She was looking so heart stoppingly pretty in a dark brown harem trouser and a white kurta…… “Let’s go and grab a cup of tea at Vaishali” she suggested. We settled down at one of the table and ordered tea and samosas. She kept her books aside, opened her bag and extracted and envelope. “I am getting married. Please do come for the reception” she said as she handed me the wedding invitation card.

Retrospection!

Like cats hissing and spitting in an alleyway dark,

Or dogs who snarl, growl and at each other bark.

With a feral, ferocious, unholy intensity we fight,

Trying to annihilate each other with all our might.

Of what use is this fierce battle, this pointless war,

                      Where both you and I are the losers by far?

Literature and Patronage

Literature is a barometer of the degree of advancement of a civilisation. At its nascent stage, a civilisation or empire is Spartan, struggling to survive and extend its boundaries and influence. Economic prosperity follows this period of expansion. Free of the need to survive and fight for its existence, it turns to encouraging and patronising literature, arts and culture. The Sistine Chapel would not have been possible without the patronage of a cash rich Vatican, Shakespeare may not have written if the multitudes thronging Globe Theatre were missing.

Coming to the present day, it is but obvious that most writers require financial patronage not only to get the bread on the table but also to have their writings published, propagated and disseminated to their audience. The trigger for writing may be a deep seated angst in the author to express himself but he still needs the patronage of the critics and the adulation of the multitudes to spur him on! As my daughter so succinctly put it – even God needs devotees to worship him. Without the devotees, God is just a figurine on a cross or a grand marble statue in an equally grand temple.

The moot question is – who judges a book and deems the author to be worthy of adulation? In pragmatic terms, the common masses judge and deem a book good by buying a copy. This brings us to a more elitist question – who ensures that the taste of the hoi polloi is good and their money is spent in promoting a good author? An obvious dichotomy exists here – for if the critics are to decide the vexed issue of judging and promoting good literature, what happens to the individual free will and choice? And if free will and popular concept is the final arbitrator of good writing, mankind may be saddled with kitsch imitating as literature! 

Fortunately, I don’t seem to have this dilemma in my personal reading habits. I read esoteric stories recommended by critics and borrow vampire romances from my daughter also.  What I am able to appreciate as an individual is good, what I don’t like is bad – sort of MY WILL, I WILL. And I don’t force my version down anyone’s throat. Am I wrong?

The Admiral


“Please ensure that everything is done exactly as I have instructed you Commander”. The voice was dry and crisp; devoid of any personal warmth. He was sitting behind a polished mahogany table adorned with the usual paraphernalia of trophies and stuff  that Admirals have. I was conscious of the soft carpet beneath me, the background hum of the AC and the aura of power the cabin conveyed. The last sentence was a signal to me that my audience was over and I was politely being told to get out. As I collected my files, charts and other papers used for briefing him, I could not help being transported back in time.

Those days, an armed force’s Training Academy was everything a small town teenager could possibly dream of and aspire for. Well maintained hedges, wide avenues, imposing stone buildings and a huge mess with Italian etched glass façade at the main entrance – the works. The routine was tough but enjoyable – we got up at 5 AM and after a hectic day of PT, Drill, academics and weapon training, we passed out by ‘Lights out’ at 10 PM. Spit and polish, starched khakis, weapon training, horse riding – these were the ingredients of fantasies for an Indian teenager in the early eighties.

There were fourteen of us from the same term in the squadron. We front rolled together, drilled together, did our mischief together and were given disciplinary punishments together. Sort of ‘One for all and all for one’ if you get the drift. And yes, we competed fiercely with the other squadrons together. The competitive flame was fanned and kept raging by our officer instructors. Fauj, after all, was and is about winning – there are no runners up in War! And to win, the magic mantra is to continue even when you feel like giving up – to throw in that extra punch when your muscles are screaming for mercy, to run that extra yard when the lungs are burning and bursting.

There were competitions in almost aspects of Training – games, drills, PT, academics, riding etc. But the most prestigious competition to win was the Josh Run during the Camp – an event which was the ultimate test of endurance, raw guts and sheer will power. The camp itself was a 5 day affair wherein we stayed in tents and trenches amongst the Western Ghats, practicing our military skills. Josh Run was a 40 Km point to point run cum forced march in the Ghats carrying our rifles and full military back pack. The teams had to move over the mountainous terrain using contour maps (No GPS those days) for navigation. It was tough grueling effort even for a bunch of physically fit cadets – more so because you were competing against the other teams and just did not want to lose. Moreover, it was a team event – you could not leave stragglers behind – either your entire team made it or it did not!

Our team was hell bent on winning the trophy and we had a game plan. The comparatively weaker cadets in the team were divested of their rifles and packs to ameliorate their efforts right at the beginning of the run. So Shyam Saxena and his ilk ran unencumbered in their military fatigues with no other weights to tire them. The competing teams started were flagged off at 15 minutes interval that November morning amongst the green mountains and valleys. Each team had to navigate to the given point where the “All In” report timing was recorded and grid co ordinates for the next point were revealed. We ran as if our lives depended upon it. The tougher amongst us carried double rifles and pack to atone for certain other’s inability to carry their load and keep up. Till the penultimate reporting point, our team was coming first as per the recorded timings. 
 

Disaster struck just 2 km short of the stadium which was finishing point. One member of the team fainted and collapsed. Remember, Josh run was a team event and there was just no way we could leave him behind. The stretcher was unrolled and the team re organised. We made two groups to carry the stretcher and asked the weaker group to carry their own stuff and additional rifles for the last stretch. Not tied to the beleaguered stretcher groups, Shyam moved ahead and was the first cadet to enter the stadium with two rifles slung on his shoulders. What a tumultuous welcome he got from the spectators! The Commandant was present at this time and he was suitably impressed by a cadet who came in first with TWO rifles slung over his shoulders. We laboured into the stadium carrying the still unconscious cadet after 30 minutes. Things had become normal by then and we got some polite applause. In his valedictory address, the Commandant praised Sam no end, obviously impressed by what he saw with his own eyes!

Jerking my thoughts back to the present, I finished collecting the papers. I got up, saluted the Admiral and turned towards the door. While passing through the door, the gleaming brass name plate was in stark contrast to the faded golden Commander’s stripes on my shoulders. The brass plate read “Admiral Shyam Saxena“.

My experiments with riding!

One of the benefits of spending 22 years in the armed forces is that you can conjure up an anecdote almost at will. I find this attribute very helpful in a social gathering wherein starry eyed pretty women listen very attentively to my fiction-based-on-truth tales. It is indeed unfortunate that no HR Head seems to have been impressed by my story telling ability so far………..

This one goes back about 8 years to a time when I was posted to Defence Staff College in the salubrious climes of Coonur near Ooty. It is amazing how responsible and mature adult males can quickly regress to behaving like teenage rowdies when placed together in a group. Perhaps it’s that exclusive masculine bonding wherein males come to their actual mental level; as explained by the popular saying that men will always be boys!  Or maybe it’s the resonance of masculine hormones in company of each other that lowers the overall IQ level…

As a part of this regression effect, I developed an insane passion to learn horse riding. This overriding (no pun intended) passion overcame all rational thoughts and sane warnings. Mothers who have seen their boys often loose their brains in obviously stupid pursuits will vouch for the fact that once bitten by the masculine bug, no boy will heed to any amount of reasoning or restrictions. So, right at the beginning of the term, yours truly announced from the ramparts of his drawing room that he will be taking up horse riding. My wife pleaded and cajoled, begged and threatened in equal measures, but then, masculine pride ……..I could envisage myself galloping away, mane flying, the thud thud of hooves, cool wind on my face on the green slops of Ooty. After all, don’t the westerns depict the hero doing the same gracefully and effortlessly?

So the home budget was adjusted and my wife’s lipstick money diverted to acquire white breeches, new tee shirt, riding boots, pith hat, gloves and riding crop – the works. Unfortunately in India, they don’t allow you to carry the trusty old colt six shooter in a low slung holster! And the College did not allow the novices to wear jingling spurs … but so what? A bit of adjustment here and there to chase my dream was fine by me.

The fateful day dawned – the entire household was in turmoil since the master-turned- cowboy of the house was to court the first equine (making others canine?) love of his life! My wife got up early and watched me as I strutted around in those high heeled riding boots feeling the master of the Universe. She was decent enough to see me off at the door to see me and tell me to have a good time.

I reported to the riding school half an hour before time to choose a handsome looking mount. The new riding shoes squeaked, the hat and gloves gave off that off-the-shelf smell while the old hands at riding looked on indulgently and even had the decency to wish the imposter-me good luck. The first shock came when I had to mount the horse – to my horror and chagrin; I discovered that when I raised my foot with great difficulty to place it in the stirrup, the horse had this wicked and uncanny knack to step forward. Damn – this never happens to Clint Eastwood in the movies! After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I could slowly feel my ego floating earthwards. However a timely advise from the riding instructor saved the day and I managed to haul myself up on the saddle.

Reins in hand, feet in stirrup – from my regal perch I surveyed the mortal world below. Our group started walking towards the enclosed riding area. At last cowboy Nadeem was in his rightful place, one hand on the thigh, other holding the reins, back erect. Who said that dreams and fantasies cannot be converted into reality?

Once inside the riding area, I was introduced to trot – a gentle run by the horse where the rider gracefully rises and sits backs in consonance with the horse’s motion. Ha! there seemed to be something wrong with my horse – when I rose the horse went down and vice versa. So I spent a jarring 15 minutes trotting. The gluteals got sore; the inner thighs chafed against the horse-saddle combine and got scraped. The charm of horse riding was fading fast. But two factors kept me at it – sheer, stupid masculine pride and off course the ‘selection and maintenance of aim’ bit drilled into us as armed forces office.

After warming up, we were taken to the open filed for ‘advanced riding’. You know, there are various descriptions of being hurled in the air and falling. The protagonist in most books float in the air, have the time and presence of mind to note the details of surroundings and the exact position of the antagonist. He breaks his fall gracefully and executes his next move to defeat his opponent. Movies tend to show the same situation in slow motion with the hero triumphant in the end. In my humble opinion, this is all hogwash. One moment you are on the horse all hoity-toity and the next, you are sprawled in an undignified heap in the nullah struggling to decipher what happened. I could feel the ice cold water and muck. The horse threw me off and bolted. Thankfully nothing was broken except my pride. My riding was not over as yet – as per traditions, I had to catch  the horse and get it back to the school. The next 3 hours were spent walking in swishy cold boots trying to seduce the horse in letting me pick up the reins so that I could lead it back.

Hungry, wet, smelling of slime and streaked with mud, I struggled home. The sparking white breaches had taken a curious hue of black – green and brown; the shoes were muddy and the helmet broken. It was a weary ex cowboy who rang the bell of his domain to be greeted by the lady of the house. My wife inspected me from head to toe and said poker faced “What happened cowboy? The horses not behaving today?” Till date, I have not forgiven her for that remark.