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!
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!
