Living and entertaining in the army style

(DGC newsletter Oct)  )

If you visit a senior army officer’s house, you are likely to be awed by the experience. Uniformed guards will salute you smartly at the entrance; a beautiful avenue of bottlebrushes (or other trees) will lead you to the main entrance of the house. There is usually a splendid and well-maintained garden or two outside the home. Once inside, you will find there are several large tastefully furnished rooms. Liveried waiters will hover over you as the hostess tries to make you comfortable. You will get a feeling of grandeur.

However, you have to put in a long career in the army to be eligible for this. You have to start from humble beginnings at the other end of the spectrum and the journey can be very interesting. A junior married officer may start out living like a monk with very simple and basic accommodation. This accommodation fulfils the basic necessities of having a roof over your head and walls around you with little else. As the demarcating walls between adjacent homes can be very thin, one has to whisper all the time or else risk the whole regimental unit knowing your entire family history, secrets and points of disagreement. However, things do get better and better with each rank and after a few years one ends up living on some fantastic properties in the cantonment. 

I distinctly recollect one of the accommodations from my father’s junior officer days. It consisted of three long dark barrack style rooms which we called home. One of these long rooms was our bedroom or rather, a dormitory where all four beds were laid out in parallel. The demarcation between parental area and childrens’ area was three feet of space. The lucky parent and child on either end of this space could swing their legs out of bed more comfortably. As this was deemed a special privilege, my brother and I exchanged beds by rotation. The attached bathroom was large with simple flooring and a very noisy flush. The flush chain was situated quite high (as was the accompanying cistern)  and we both had to draw ourselves up to our full height, which included standing on tiptoe with hands fully outstretched, to pull it down. Along with genetics, these stretching manoeuvres have probably contributed to the impressive heights my brother and I currently enjoy. The deafeningly loud sound of this cistern ensured that everyone knew when someone had visited the bathroom. During dinners in the long drawing room which was adjacent to the bedroom, we had been encouraged to sleep early and try to do the needful for our bladders well before the party commenced. This was because if we used the flush at night, many an interesting story recounted by a guest in the adjoining drawing room had been rudely and dramatically interrupted by a strange loud noise suddenly emanating from somewhere in the house….

Guests were offered the ‘good’ bonafide chairs. There was also the ‘home-made’ furniture in nearly all army homes, which consisted of steel trunks, cleverly covered and concealed with cloth to simulate divans. These were fairly comfortable with all the cloth padding on top, but years of use and abuse (over long distance train luggage wagons) had made some surfaces uneven. Just as the proverbial saying that artificial roses can never emit the smell of real ones, this furniture invariably got ‘caught out’. This was when a guest sat too much to one corner, and the structure rattled because of the unevenness. This was anticipated by army friends whose homes also had plenty of such home - made furniture but it could somewhat unsettle (literally and figuratively) a civilian new to this genre of furniture.

Like the dark rooms, the cupboards were also cavernous and dark as well as dank since the climate was very humid. In an effort to keep out mould, the cupboards had these dim lights in their interiors to render them drier. It made them look a trifle like a hot refrigerator. The light was not bright enough however to identify clothes correctly and one would often pull out seemingly matching clothes only to discover their true colours a while later in the sun. It was a common sight for the guards at the gate to observe family members stepping outside confidently to start the day, then rush back screaming inside and re-emerge a bit later in what appeared to be slightly different clothes. The guards maintained excellent decorum during this drama, not making any expression that would reveal what they were thinking.

The drawing room decorations were predictable (almost universal throughout all the neighbouring army homes) and included several daggers, swords and trophies. These were the traditional gifts when officers visited neighbouring regiments for inspections or other official visits. Civilian friends privately felt that the drawing rooms of their army friends looked more like armouries.

 The army wives had a strong network and not being terribly wealthy, had a keen eye for a good bargain. Loyalty being high, almost everyone ensured that their friends benefitted from the same economical purchases. So there was homogeneity in non-warfare decorations as well, and no matter where you went, you always felt you were somehow in your own home.  The glasses and crockery were the borosil ones available in the army canteens. Since army families were used to the subsidised army canteen fare they were not comfortable spending higher amounts in the civilian markets outside the cantonment.

It was easy to guess what the menu would be when one was invited for a party. This was because the army families were provided free food rations. The rations were, however, hierarchy based. The Commanding officer’s orderly would get the choicest vegetables. Next in turn were the Majors and finally, the poor lieutenant and captains. There was a popular joke doing the rounds that if a dish of potatoes had to be cooked, in the senior officer’s house one potato needed to be cut in two (being so large), a middle level officer’s wife could serve them whole (being nicely medium sized) but a youngsters’ wife had to fuse a few together to make a glob resembling a potato!!

All in all, we had a lovely childhood, progressing over the years from cramped to spacious accommodation, muted speech to full throated yells that could not even be heard at the other end of a palatial house, make-shift to real furniture, homogeneity to taste and style…and finally ending up living in great splendour!!!

A winter’s day spent at home ….sometime in November 2012…..

I recently gave up a bi-weekly hospital attachment and am not contemplating a structured work plan on those two mornings as yet. This allows me to be a home bird for the day till the evening OPD time. I am thoroughly enjoying the new experience and this is what a ‘home’ day sometimes looks like…

I wake up early and get ready for yoga class. Ideally, yoga is performed after a bath but since we are in the middle of a cold winter a face wash is going to have to suffice! I try to look and feel as alert as possible in front of the teacher. For an hour, Kapil and I try to twist and bend our non-compliant bodies into various asanas. The clicking and creaking sounds given out by our bodies make it clear to the teacher that this is not a cakewalk for us! Some asanas are executed correctly enough by us and some not. The balancing ones in particular see us teetering and swaying from left to right like drunken beings. Trouble brews when we get to the lion pose. This involves squatting in a particular way and making roaring noises with your mouth wide open. Kapil thinks my roar sounds more like singing and starts laughing. I see our pet dog staring at us through the glass with his ears cocking up in amazement at the strange noises we seem to be making. The reactions of husband and dog are enough to set off an acute attack of giggles, just like my schooldays….. we finally give up on this asana as we can’t stop laughing. The teacher, instead of disapproving of this disruption, also joins in and tells us that laughing is excellent for health! The session ends with yoganidra, a deep relaxation technique. We tend to drift off to sleep and are caught out by our snores.

Later, I walk with the children to the stop near the main colony gate to await the school bus. The stray dog outside our home gives us company for the first few metres, then decides against getting a formal education and runs off. My daughter tells me to do a headcount of all the puppies on my way back to ensure that all are safe and sound. She regularly appoints me as a grandmother to all the puppies produced in our colony. My son shows me the paper origami boomerangs he has made and wants to throw them on the road to demonstrate how well they return to the sender. I am able to convince him to defer the time and venue of this demonstration to home, in the afternoon.

When I get back home, I catch up on the daily news by reading the papers over a cup of coffee. My better half, Kapil gives me an envious look as he heads out to his office. However my leisure is short-lived and very soon I get sucked into the daily chores of a person spending a day at home.

Our bathroom is undergoing repairs as a leaking pipe had led to seepage in the flat below ; the floor is lying completely dug up with pipes surrounded by debris .Two leaky pipes have been identified but the suspense is apparently not over .There is a small chance that a third pipe may also have contributed to the seepage. The head workman says that the only way to be absolutely sure is to break the side façade of the building where the pipe is going down. I tell him there has to be a better way. We have a long discussion. Finally I use a professional example to drive home my point. After all, doctors don’t open bodies of patients and look inside every time. They figure out from the surface. It’s called having good diagnostic abilities. He gets my point now and gives a presumptive ‘diagnosis ‘that the pipe must be fine. I sigh with relief… I am eagerly waiting to get back possession of my bathroom. Currently I am sharing my son’s toilet and find myself surrounded by Rubik’s cubes, baby Colgate gel and ladybird bath towels… I am missing my old familiar crèmes and perfumes…

I then drive down to the market to buy a pair of shorts for my daughter. She has emphasised that I must keep an open mind on the length. She disapproves of parental shopping instincts: “you all tend to choose shorts which end close to the knee rather than those which are stylish!” Her lecture to me the evening before about not being too old fashioned has the desired effect and I end up buying a pretty and rather short pair.

Later in the afternoon, when she’s back from school, she inspects the shorts and says she is delighted with my choice but I will have to return them. She says they are not long enough. At this point I remind her of last evening’s brainwashing session. How she spent hours convincing me to keep an open mind and not reject a pair simply because it fell half or one inch short of my expectations! “Yes indeed!” says the wise one … “but there is a difference between being flexible and not using your common sense!” There’s no getting it right with this age group!! 

I also pick up my son separately from the bus stop. He tells me about his day. It seems to have passed off peacefully and I heave a sigh of relief. I look at his blackened knees and wonder how he manages this on a daily basis. At home, the children change clothes and go and investigate what is in the fridge to eat. They are presented with a bowl of fruit and a bowl of beetroot. They screw up their noses and exchange glances. I inspect their tiffin boxes; I complement my daughter on actually eating her food for a change. She coolly and truthfully tells me that it’s her friends who love paranthas… 

I go off to settle my wardrobe with the help of the nanny. I need to wear a sari for a reception and haven’t worn one in a while as I usually wear other traditional dresses. I take out my old blouses and start trying them out one by one to see which still fits. Archana looks at the fashionable blouses with a sense of wonderment. She finds it difficult to believe that at some point in my life I could have been slender enough to fit into these or even remotely glamorous enough to carry them off! One blouse which she is riveted by has two flimsy side panels held together only by a lace string in criss cross fashion. She repeatedly looks from it to my frame! I am reminded of the tailor in the small town I was posted to who stitched some of these. We would have these intractably long measurement sessions which were more of bargaining sessions. I would ask for a particular depth of neckline and he would disapprovingly insist that no one there kept it that way. I would point out that I would return to Delhi in a year or two and there the high neck blouses suggested by him would be considered too dull and unfashionable. He however considered it his duty to protect me from what he considered was moral degradation. Sometimes, though, I did manage to convince him and these more elegant blouses are testimonies to my little victories.

In the evening, I get ready to go to the clinic and the kids to the park. I apply perfume and they grumblingly, odomos. Their homework is set by their father or me and involves a fair amount of bargaining and compromise - ‘compromising’ as my son wrongly calls it! Kapil will be coming in soon and they will settle down for their homework.

At night, once I am back, we watch the children’s favourite TV serial, Master Chef with them. They keep the remote with them at all times and like to replay dramatic moments again and again-a habit we are unable to get them to give up. At least the habit is a milder version of their very young days when they wanted to hear the same story every night!

After TV, we tuck them into bed, and occasionally tell them stories…it’s usually different episodes of a seafaring group (based loosely on Sinbad’s tales). They sometimes get fully engrossed and are wide awake, completely engaged with the sailors’ lives…. and sometimes the adventures thankfully lull them to sleep soon…

Finally after a busy day, I curl up in bed with a good storybook. I have stopped reading scary mysteries at night ; I once read a scary murder mystery aptly titled ‘night time is my time’ where the killer uses the cover of darkness to bump off people rather than getting his hours under the sheets. I took a long long while to drift off to sleep as my fearful brain misinterpreted every night time sound in our house! I now confine myself to more sedate stuff, which eases me into a restful state….in preparation for the next day…..

My first ( disaster of a ) dinner party

Living alone in a small town, I was often invited for sumptuous meals  at people’s homes. Being poor at cooking, I used local catering services to return the hospitality. Life followed a smooth pattern until one day, a senior officer insisted that I cook a home meal for everyone. No amount of protests by me or my divulging what a hopeless cook I was would cause him to relent.” Ours is not to question why, ours is to do or die! ” I thought and took up his request. A date was chosen and invitations made.

Being the only other medical officer, apart from the commanding officer (CO), I could not get leave from my morning OPD duties for that date. Also,the CO did not at all seem to share my perspective that the situation fitted the ‘emergency leave’ category. I enlisted the help of two bais (lady helpers) for the cooking.  My Sahayak (male helper) was entrusted with  sprucing up the house and carrying over drinks from the canteen.

On the day of the party, I returned from work in the afternoon to the aroma of cooking and assumed the menu would be mostly prepared . I thought of the special finishing touches I would give. I was in for a rude shock : only two dishes were done; one bai had not turned up at all  and the other had to leave in a hurry as she was urgently needed at home. So there I was, with five hours left to go for a big party with poor culinary skills and no manpower ! Various plan ‘B’s raced through my mind. A cancellation would seem I was evading my social duties. I wondered if I could ask one of the invitees to come and help cook ( their own dinner) but then decided against it. Whereas this practise was acceptable on travel and living shows, in real life it would not go down well at all !

Desperate measures were needed. I explained my predicament to the Sahayak and told him that he had to venture far beyond his normal call of duty for that day. Some time later, I was preparing the gravy and seasoning and the Sahayak, whose only relationship with food so far had been eating it , was cutting vegetables. I tried not to let it perturb me that the vegetable pieces , being so slowly and painstakingly cut by him, were of completely different shapes and sizes or that tiny bits of peel were still sticking to them. I reminded myself that at this juncture our sole aim was just getting food (of any sort) on the table. Anything else was a luxury. I strategically put large quantities of gravy over the vegetables to hide their unevenness.

Later in the afternoon, a dear friend, my CO’s daughter, called to check how I was doing. In the course of describing the reasonably grim situation, I discovered that I had not factored in dessert !  My wise friend had a brainwave which mitigated my feeling of despair. All we needed was a  quick ride into town to pick up fruit and fresh cream -a timeless classic. She soon brought her moped to my house and I instructed  my Sahayak to keep a benign overwatch on the last dish, mutton curry, for the short while I would be away. The reluctant chef was petrified at the thought of being left alone in a kitchen with a simmering dish but I told him the situation just could not accommodate a breakdown on his part. I pointed out to him his robust innings with the vegetables. I told him the tough part was over, now only a delicate flick of his wrist was needed - to turn the burner knob from high to sim after the requisite whistles.  My counselling worked.Thankfully.

We quickly found the fruit and cream but on the way back, luck deserted us as my friend’s moped had a flat tyre. Providentially,a boy she knew lived nearby. I was greatly releived to learn this. She told me however, that she found his attentions unwelcome and  normally went to great lengths to avoid him. I pleaded with her to make the supreme sacrifice of being showered with unwanted attention for the sake of my dinner. Half an hour later, the boy, whose cup of joy had run over ,was dealing with the puncture at an unhurried pace (he wanted his lady-love near him for the longest), my friend was fuming  and I was fretting. The supreme irony was eating the tasty snacks served by his mother even as I worried about my own amateurish  menu.

When we reached back home around 7.00 pm, the first few guests had already arrived. The Sahayak (who was in the loop over telephone) had told them I would be back very shortly and they were wondering about this most unusual welcome. I tried to slip in quietly, but unfortunately, the guests managed to glimpse my dishevelled clothes and the large packages in my hand. I smiled weakly at everyone, murmuring excuses, and they smiled back encouragingly. I changed faster than Superwoman and went to the rescue of the dishes and the chef. My heart sank completely at what I surveyed-the Sahayak had clean forgotten the whistle count and the mutton was in shreds ! I thought the only way out was to give the dish an exotic name and pretend they made it like that in some less-visited country. My brain toyed with names such as ‘Rare fibril mutton venison’and ’gourmet stringy surprise’as I regarded the damaged dish.

During the course of the evening, I alternated between kitchen and drawing room while the guests chatted amiably. My friend helped me cut the fruit and blend in the cream. Finally,the time came for dinner to be put on the table. The women called their little children to eat first. One look at the dishes on the table and the adults quickly grasped the situation. The innocent children however, stared suspiciously at the slightly strange looking food and loudly asked what each dish was. Even after their mothers had somehow correctly identified the base vegetable, and told them the name,they were not easily convinced ! They kept voicing their doubts loudly, despite stern gazes from their parents and my ears kept turning a deeper shade of red. The adults, in contrast, were kindness personified, going about their business of eating very silently, hiding their disappointment  well. I noticed that all took very small portions of everything except the two dishes which the bai had cooked. Many asked for bread alongside, which thankfully, I had.

When the dessert came on, there was a palpable sigh of collective relief.  Everyone was still very hungry and there was nothing that could go wrong with fresh fruit and cream. All heaped their plates high. But they had not reckoned with my persistent streak of bad luck that day. The grapes were sour. The guests laboriously picked small fruit pieces off their plates trying to avoid the grapes, which was rather difficult given the creamy disguise each little fruit  piece wore. Unfortunately for all (by Murphy’s law of disasters - if he has one such) grapes just  happened to be the signature fruit of the dish.

At last the guests left. I imagined hearing hunger rumblings in their stomachs as they said their goodbyes. In silence, I  contemplated the day’s events and the used plates with uneaten grapes arranged along their perimeters. I consoled myself with the thought that the guests had certainly enjoyed each other’s company at least. Life went back to the usual pattern and for a long while no one tried to disturb the system by introducing novel concepts such as home –cooked meals at young officer’s residences!

Delights of a small town …

    (Indian Express Buzz.... edited)

Dr Anjali Mehta

I had just got my posting orders to a small rural town and I was excited about the work. Well-wishers seemed worried about one aspect: “It’s a very small town” they said ,”you will find it difficult to get any entertainment  there”. Ultimately, we did find ways to amuse ourselves.

Fine dining

The town boasted of a single restaurant named ‘Surya’. Or rather, misnamed ; given it’s spectacularly dark interiors. The designers , while possibly trying to imbue the restaurant with romantic lighting had somehow crossed the line between invitingly dim and eerily dark.The easy part was getting a table there as the majority of the locals preferred to be able to see what they were eating. Only the waiters there were comfortable in the dark, the diners had to struggle. When attempting to serve oneself with food, one had to surreptitiously feel for the outline of the plate with the other hand.  Some of the food invariably missed the margins and some food missed the diner’s mouths.When the waiters cleared the plates , almost everybody had embarrasingly  dark shapes scattered on the tablecloth in front of them. On reaching home,people invariably  put on many lights as a reflex.

Shopping in the market

The markets bustled  with locals wearing flamboyant  dresses edged with gilt and designer glasses. Usually wealthy, they bought items in kilofulls, without even asking the price first. Our army crowd was very conpicuous due to our understated dresses ,modest purchases and detailed inquiries about prices prior to actual purchase. But what made us stand out was the vehicle we arrived in.The army typically earmarked it’s  old and not very  roadworthy (‘condemned’ in army parlance) vehicles for ‘family welfare’. We would arrive for shopping in this giant three tonne truck whose protesting engine sounded like a racing Ferrari. Consequently each eye in the market-place would be upon us. The disembarkation ladder at the back of the truck stopped well short of the ground and to actually touch earth we had to leap down from the last step. All in all, it was a rather dramatic entrance for the small scale of purchases that followed.

Sports

There was a single makeshift badminton court  which had very quicksand like, sticky mud. It tended to swallow up players’ feet which made the game highly challenging. The winning strategy was to first lob the shuttle to the back of the court , followed by a deft drop shot. Even the most nimble-footed  players  could not extricate themselves fast enough from the back of the court to reach forward in time.One might  wonder why we didn’t end up like Saina Nehwal given that we had such rigorous training. The answer lay in the fact that we were never able to play well on even or level surfaces.

Post prandial entertainment

There was a time-honoured tradition which called for all guests to sing at their host’s house after supper. The shy folk would  feel a slight sense of impending doom throughout dinner. Many people were sporting enough but there was a paucity of real singing talent. We did hear some wonderful songs occasionally but for the most part such evenings were merry but tuneless. It took a lot of management on the host’s part to ensure that things went smoothly. The host had to tactfully supress any laughter that threatened to erupt in the audience ; to not openly wince as song after favourite song was mauled to bits, and most of all, firmly take in hand those drunk guests who would begin singing and then refuse to stop!

As you can see, we did steal the little pleasures of life, make regular fools of ourselves… and ended up healthier and less self-concious…

A Wartime Family Tale

Dr Anjali Mehta






Republic Day preparations bring to mind the great valour of all our soldiers. What is not remembered are the smaller but equally heroic struggles of their families left to fend for themselves while the men are at war. A superb book I read “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” highlights the trials and tribulations of war–impacted civilians in a very elegant manner. It also brings a generous dash of humour to the rather morbid subject of war. I was reminded of my mother’s delightful wartime routines during the battle of 1971 as my father fought at the frontline. Sample this:





As in all wars, accidental civilian casualties were a common occurrence. So, a safety drill had been put in place for the families stationed in towns along border areas. Whenever any siren sounded, people were to quickly run out of the house and get into pre-dug trenches in the gardens. The sirens signified that enemy aeroplanes would soon fly overhead and could wreak havoc.





The instruction, seemed easy enough to follow, but not so in my mother’s case. In fact, it often proved to be a fierce battle (amongst the backdrop of the larger one). The motley group of which she was in charge consisted of : her five year old daughter, a six month old son, her pet pug named Moti, my paternal granny and a female neighbour who lived alone.





The moment a siren sounded, my mother would first gesticulate dramatically to granny (who was hard of hearing) to get into the trench with me, and then hand us the baby. Next she would go back for her beloved Moti who would invariably be cowering under the bed. My mother would get down on all fours near the wide bed and make attempts to swoop on Moti from different positions much like a snooker player seeking the right angle to pot a ball. This ‘ball’ however, not being inert, retreated to the farthest corner and so proved difficult to ‘pot’. All through this game, Moti, anticipating his inevitable capture, would keep up a furious barking. As if on cue, the baby would also start wailing loudly from outside. The siren, the dog and the baby formed a loud, discordant and deafening battle orchestra. By the time the portly Moti was hauled out by my mother, it was difficult to determine whether victor or vanquished was more physically exhausted. My granny, being hard of hearing, smiled serenely through all this cacophony!





Now the second part of the saga would begin. The neighbour would refuse to get into the trench with Moti citing reasons of discomfort at having to share a small intimate space with a hairy beast with bad breath. Having barely recovered from the physical labours of hauling the portly and wriggling Moti, my mother had now to engage in mental war games. Her tactics included oscillating rapidly between cajoling and threats. She hoped a judicious balance of the two would get the lady into the trench. The neighbour, however, would take her time weighing the risk- to-benefit ratio before reluctantly and cautiously sliding into the corner farthest from Moti. My mother would sigh in relief that her life had not been cut short by a non-dog-loving neighbour’s indecision.



After finally shepherding the entire group safely into the designated pit my tired mother would wonder if this is what ‘field exercises’ and ‘war games’ meant.



It is not difficult to guess which “warrior” was the keenest that the war should end real soon!

Indo-US Ties: Perspectives from a Mofussil Town

 (middle, The Statesman)

Dr Anjali Mehta






President Obama’s current visit has sparked off considerable discussions on Indo-US ties. Many years ago, I was stationed at a small Indian town, where I witnessed a small scale attempt by the locals to strengthen Indo-US ties, which inadvertently went awry. The local club members had organized an exchange programme with a sister club in America. The invited delegation consisted of two knowledgeable (and coincidentally, beautiful) lady American psychologists. The locals were enthralled by them and wanted to give them a special send-off at the concluding dinner.





The club members specially procured some bottles of expensive red wine as a treat for their guests. This decision had some path-breaking social implications. Consumption of alcohol by women was socially taboo in this town, so none of the local women drank (if we discount the sorority’s secret imbibing in glasses camouflaged with opaque napkins to disguise contents).





At the farewell dinner, the two ladies arrived, looking glamorous in short dresses. A small group of club members walked up to the Americans, welcomed them, and enquired what beverage they would like to drink. The hosts were dismayed when the foreign guests said ‘water’. They then produced the trump card, announcing with a flourish, that they had very tempting fare which would surely make the ladies reconsider their choice. Their mispronunciation of the wine’s name (‘chateaux’ sounding like ‘chat ox’) took away some of the sheen from the offer. This got restored by the wine’s vintage. To the men’s astonishment, however, this new input did not bring about the desired result.





The hosts, overcome by a compelling sense of duty, used every form of verbal persuasion to prevent the ladies from making what they perceived to be a serious error of judgment. The foreigners, however, stood by their original choice. “Why are our ‘no’s’ not being taken at face value?” they wondered, greatly baffled. “Are we missing something here?”. Their life in America had not equipped them to deal with a situation where even multiple refusals did not have any effect whatsoever.





The two sides having reached an impasse, one of the club members resorted to a bit of emotional blackmail, indelicately hinting to the ladies that that he had gone to great trouble to procure the wine.





In light of this disclosure, one of the foreigners (who was suffering from a runny tummy) felt obliged to explain their refusal more fully. “I have a bad stomach” said she.



“Of course not!” suggested the leader of the delegation with a leery twinkle in his eye, “your stomach is very good and shapely.”





The American gasped in shock; no one had flirted so outrageously with her in a formal setting. She flung an angry stare at him.





With complete disregard for the nuances of the situation, another bold member of the delegation declared firmly, “I am getting the wine for you anyway.”





The now furious psychologist threatened the man “Bring it and I will pour it in your pocket!”



The male delegation had no idea what to make of this statement, though they realized from the tone that things were not looking bright. Some members of the delegation privately compared her to the goddess Kali during a phase of wrath. Some others, who had more common sense and a well honed survival instinct, prevailed upon the others to leave the foreigners alone.





For the rest of the evening, the American ladies kept largely to themselves. The ‘vanquished’ delegation decided to drown their sorrows in fine wine (with soda and ice added for good measure!) and for them the evening passed in a pleasant vintage-wine induced haze.





The lovely foreigners left for their country the next day having tasted Indian hospitality, if not the wine!

An unusual friendship….

  (Middle, The Statesman)

Dr Anjali Mehta




Friendships happen in different ways - a chance meeting with a kind stranger, work colleagues discovering they have even more in common than just their targets or boss, parents whose children attend the same school and so many others….

I reflected on some unusual starts to my friendships :



In our student days, we would sometimes be made to stand in the corridor outside the classroom as a punishment for various little misdeeds . While serving one such sentence, I noticed a skinny, timid looking boy also standing outside another section in the corridor nearby. Feeling rather maternal and wondering how on earth he fell foul of authority, I went across to cheer him up . A half hour later, I was in a mild state of shock - it turned out he was a corridor “regular” and even my mischief paled in comparison to the range, audacity and repertoire of misdeeds recounted by him. Awestruck, I vowed never to judge a book by its cover. Our friendship grew over the next few months as we happened to get punished often together and he became a sort of “naughtiness consultant “ to me in school.



In medical college , we had just begun to form a loose knit study group of girls who used to sit and study together in the hostel balcony at night. To try and enhance our beauty along with our brains, we would apply colorful mud and vegetable face packs. One night, an intruder jumped over the compound wall and we heard his footsteps in the dark below. We all crept to the edge and peeped down. We found ourselves staring into a man’s face. On catching sight of our bizarre facial colouration, his own face drained of all colour …he simply fled in shock (we never saw him again !) The incident led to a lively discussion on topics such as beauty masks, intruders (anything other than medicine) and the ice was beautifully broken amongst us all.



The most unusual for me however, has been a friendship forged from the labour room! Eva (name changed) and I were admitted to the same hospital on the same night for onset of labour pains. Her pains quickened before me and her loud groans attracted the attention of my family members. Feeling fairly underutilized as far as I was concerned, they went to her bed to soothe her . My pains, on the other hand, froze my tongue with shock and no sound emerged. Time passed. Eva continued to cheerfully yell the place down while I remained dazedly silent willing to expend my energy only on bare necessities like breathing. My family was largely focused on comforting Eva, believing her to be in greater pain (though any good medical book and life’s experiences will tell you labour is painful without exception and shouting is an inaccurate barometer, being personality based and not pain based). Meanwhile, her family watched me with increasing awe. They thought I was the epitome of dignified, silent suffering and came over to congratulate my parents on harboring such a seemingly stoic being in the family.

I think in our lucid moments , Eva and I felt cross with each other. I felt she had garnered all the sympathy and she felt I had garnered all the admiration. We delivered within minutes of each other.



Over the next few weeks we met at common vaccination dates. We saw a relatively more glamorous version of each other (a human shape rather than balloon shape) and were exposed to facets of personality other than reaction to pain . It was in these visits that the friendship blossomed….



I have learnt that in any of life’s little twists and turns..there just may be a new friend round the corner…

Early morning dilemma : to swim or to walk ?

By Anjali Mehta




We are fortunate in having a huge, lovely park in our colony and on the days on which I can’t swim in the nearby pool, I walk around there.

I tried to reflect on which of these two activities I enjoyed more….



Swimming, apart from being an excellent all round exercise, also has the great psychological advantage that one is actually lying down (in a manner of speaking) while exercising. Also, minor personal embarrassments, such as a rather ample paunch can be concealed under the water while one goes about the task of getting them into shape!



The vibrant park environment has beautiful surroundings, friendly birds (who occasionally gift droppings from above), small animals, and also a human spectrum spanning all ages. Apart from walking, many older people are still able to contort their aging bodies into impressively difficult postures on the grass – truly a yogic triumph of mind over (resistant) matter! Sometimes I find an older lady dressed in a sari for her morning walk. In the vast sea of casual sportswear, it is quaint and strangely comforting as it somehow projects a seamless continuity between the generations. The tee-shirts of teenagers have funny sayings over the front. Sometimes I am able to just glimpse half a line and have to wait for a couple of rounds to get the full message in surreptitiously gleaned bits (given the poor social graces involved in staring at peoples stomachs). I specially enjoyed “I was an atheist till I realised I was God!”

The laughter therapy group often catches you off-guard making you jump out of your skin by suddenly erupting into loud laughter. It’s delightful to watch the effect of this on little kids nearby – they roll helplessly on the ground in mirth all the while pointing at the laughter group. The group’s objective of spreading happiness is clearly achieved!

Sometimes while walking, you feel many people are craning their necks this way and that to glimpse you better – it feels like a good antidote to your midlife crisis, till, on closer inspection, you realize that neck exercises are being performed.. Occasionally, a group of people walking by tell an interesting story loudly and one just has to resist the temptation to match one’s pace with them just to find out how the story ended !



In contrast, the swimming pool micro cosmos is more homogenous with a Marx-like socialist feel to it, consisting of a large and fairly uniform group of partially submerged bodies in a big water body. Identities also get concomitantly submerged as individual recognition clues like hair, eyes and body shape are obscured with cap, goggles and water..

This is the place to enjoy a spirit of collective belonging with fellow humans much like a school of fish swimming synchronously together. The interaction with nature can be stark – (all of) you and the sky directly above - a powerful experience.





What seems to emerge is choosing between a bracing environment with pleasant diversions vis a vis the enveloping, secure feeling of surrounding cool waters… best to wake up each day and decide what the need of that particular hour is…

Does the early bird really catch the worm ?

   (middle, Tribune)


We have been hearing since childhood about the early bird catching the worm. It conjures up images of gaining a great deal of advantage by entering a situation early, having a pick of things.

Recently, I reflected on the times I had been the early bird..

Early one morning, I was the first customer buying medicines and I was in a bit of a hurry as my sick son was waiting in the car. After trying to expedite the process by actively scanning the medicine shelves to help the shop assistants find the requisite syrups, we soon came to the stage of payment. There an unexpected delay occurred. As I was the first customer, the cashier was apparently not ready. Totally ignoring my proffered hand holding the money, he first bent and touched the account ledgers with his forehead. He then systematically kissed the cash till and some other books and papers nearby and then said a prayer. I was half fascinated and half impatient and was wondering how many more things this courtesy would be extended to. I started musing about those who kiss objects - winners like Federer, Martina et al certainly kissed their trophies – and wondered whether this man too was a champ among chemists. I also thought of my OPD and surgical instruments and how (in comparison) they were a neglected lot, never having had the benefit of my lips planted upon them…I kept musing (and he kept kissing).. Suddenly, I was startled out of my reverie by the rupee notes being pulled from my hand. I was glad to be able to finally pay and leave. I realized that though I did not get a discount or other tangible early bird benefits I was privy to an interesting opening ceremony.

I thought about other times I had been early..

The one time I had dragged myself terribly early to a medical conference and been a lucky recipient of an “early bird prize’. Though I had a shiny new suitcase to accessorize my travels, I remember sleeping through most of the later part of the conference. Clearly, my aging body had not fully been able to tackle the challenge of jumping out of bed so much earlier than normal.

Or the time when being a stickler for being on time at airports we arrived so early (at my insistence) that even the check-in counters were not open. I can’t either define or forget the strange look that my husband (who had tumbled out of bed at 4 am) kept giving me in a sustained fashion till the counters finally opened. At least the early (lady) bird got some pure undivided attention from the better half even though she was not keen to interpret the accompanying sentiment!

Or the times when one has actually gone to a Delhi reception at the exact time specified only to find that one is earlier than the host/hostess and are mistaken for the bride’s (underdressed) parents (no guest could possibly be that early !). At such times one can give useful tips on the final touches to the décor as the event managers have only you for an opinion ! Or you reach a dinner on time, patting yourself on your back for your punctuality only to find your dinner host opening the front doorbell with his tie yet untied around his neck . At that time you are not able to fathom whether he is cross at being caught in a half dressed fashion or delighted at seeing his first party guest…

I decided eventually that all that the early bird picks up are some intangible lessons and it should not really hope for any tangible worms!