THE HUKAH AT THE MESS
We were located in 'Operation D' in the High Altitude area.
Of course, it was not earth-shaking an experience. It was just that there was this daily unpredictable incessant, intense and unrelenting exchange of fierce shot and shell, especially in the hours when people elsewhere curl up with the warm hug of sundowners. It is nothing much really, except that one could make his Maker. Bookmakers would make a killing and it was but a daily lottery and that's all!!!!
Our Division's sector was sea of tranquillity. It was this place alone where we were that was the hot spot, if you did not count Siachen. Siachen: Those desolate waste, the land of Guns and Roses! Ours was equally desolate, heights were similar and it was horrifyingly stimulatingly exciting environs. It was also excitingly horrifying to helicopters in the vicinity.
They kept far from our location. This, however, did not deter all and sundry – the 'war tourists' in their pursuit of the 'been there, done that' rubber stamp! The only rider (caveat) being was that the war tourists, desired ringside vistas.......but from safe distances!
The intensity of firing reached the crescendo at night and the 'tourists' were gone by then!
The GOC was one who had to visit, not because he liked to be in the line of fire, but he was conscientious enough to do so in the line of duty. To be fair to him, he did visit even the forward most post, when the preceding unit was there, though on that occasion, he was wounded – not a battle casualty in its strict terms, but he could have claimed the Wound Medal, since it was a North Indian unit he was with. And we all know that the North Indians do mix up their 'W's with 'B's, like Bapas, for Wapas. And so 'Wound' would be pronounced as Bund. The said GOC had been injured while attending his morning ablution because of a jagged used fruit tin as there was no standard toilet at those places and was wounded in the you know where!
Of course, the GOC was not too pleased at the experience. Though he did not claim the Medal as the Citation would be too revealing, he did give a diktat that the 'quality of life' had to be improved. The improvement started when my battalion took over and there were Field Flush Latrines galore. It was in such abundance, that it did not matter even when one of them toppled under enemy fire with a boy still inside at the act!
The GOC was to visit us. To top it all, he was to have lunch. It was not that we were stingy and did not want to host the GOC; it was just that our Regimental Centre, then being commanded by a soldier Brigadier, thought that our unit required to be real battle hardened under strict combat conditions – and so he had posted out our Mess Cook, and to add insult to injury, also the masalchi (the condiment grinder man) to Ferozpur so that they exercised their culinary delights for a Brigade Commander! This left us at the mercy of Joe - who actually was borrowed lunger (troops' cookhouse) marvel. His name was not Joe. We called him so, to assuage our ego, and what could be better than a cook with an English name?! It also gave him the personality fillip, wherein the food was still of the 'lunger' class, but the English name ensured that his enthusiasm for dousing his culinary marvels with an overdose of condiments, though less on chilles to appear very officer like meal!
Under these circumstances, the Pakistanis were easy meat to challenge compared to hosting a lunch for the GOC. And as they say, a way to a man's heart was through his stomach, we decided this was the best weapon we had and our GOC was reputed to have an ample stomach!
When a GOC wants to break bread, it becomes more serious an operational problem than the Pakistanis peppering shots at random and into the blue. As is normal in the Army, when people are clueless, they hold a conference, and we were clueless how to organise this lunch! The Second in Command, true as rain, suggested a Conference and herded the officers of the Battalion HQs, namely, the Adjutant and the Quartermaster (QM), for their 'valuable' suggestions. I presided, being the Commanding Officer. And yes, forgive my memory relapse, to put the records straight, our post dog, William, also attended. He was an honorary member of our Mess, having the right as he consumed the major portion of Joe's culinary marvels that were actually unfit for human consumption!
It was decided that I was the best cook. My qualifications? I survived on extra messing of the lunger version of scrambled eggs – bujiya. Hence, not having tasted Joe's own, I was definitely the sole one who understood food as it was eaten in more respectable and congenial environments. The QM, rotund that he was, was selected as the masalchi, since he did not have the rank to outmatch me, and because he was a gourmand, living to eat and not eating to live!
The decision taken, the QM and I hotfooted it to the Officers Mess kitchen – an underground bunker, dark, damp, dismal and squalid! The Second in Command, the honorary Officers Mess Librarian since he controlled the finances, helpfully brought the book, 'Maharaja's Cooking' written by some minor Raja of Madhya Pradesh. Very apt title, but were we the 'cooking staff' up to it?
The pages of the Maharaja's were frantically turned. "Jungle Roast" appealed. It was the easiest and yet the most exotic! It was a capital idea, sirjee! The GOC having been feted at a surfeit in Messes, his palate could only be jiggled with surprises that separated the class from the crass! The recipe was simple. A hole in the ground, a chicken well marinated, wrapped in leaves, covered with wet mud and left to roast in a slow burning charcoal fire, turning it occasionally. Viola! But no, the problem was that we lived in stark surroundings and there were no trees and so there were no leaves. So, that was out.
More pages were furiously thumbed. Nothing seemed to click. Some condiment or the other was missing from our larder. No fault of ours either. We were not the ITC of MaJor Rehman nor the Taj or even being impoverished Mahrajas writing cookbooks to keep the home fires blazing and warm!
We were at our tethers end.
I took a calculated risk. I wanted to surprise ourselves and leave the GOC surprised and guessing as to what Fate deemed his way! And one cannot challenge Fate, can one? So to Fate we let the GOC stomach lie!
The masquerading mess cook Joe cut the chicken dexterously, he having been cautioned earlier that it had to be cut Officers mess style, where the chicken could be recognised to be so and not mistaken for crow.
We wanted the GOC to realise it was a chicken and not a crow. This was some feat too, since live chicken was a rarity in these parts where food came in tins, bottles, in dehydrated form and in pills that only the famished of Somalia could relish, notwithstanding the ASC's claim nothing fresh could be issued as everything shrivelled in the cold, including human beings. As if, someone had asked the ASC to supply human beings as Meat on Hoof, even if most in uniform were but sheep!
That chicken was cut the officers mess style. I attacked it with a fork stabbing wildly like a cadet attempting the 'Best Bayonet' at the National Defence Academy.
In the meantime, the QM, my honorary masalchi, pulverised the High Altitude rations of raisins, cashew, almonds and the works into a paste and stirred it into a bowl of milk powder turned curds. There being no chillies, he doused the mixture with Hongtu's Chinese Chilli Paste, a welcomed gift from an officer's wife on the Delhi – Hong Kong run of Air India! And then... into this goo..... we threw the Officers Mess style cut chickens to marinate for four hours!
The QM went into an overdrive with the remainder of the menu since the dal and the vegetables were no problem – the Maharaja's Cookbook proving quite adequate and the ingredients being available. Joe, remember him? - Our lunger turned officers mess cook? - He prepared the dessert, which in the Army, is known as the 'sweet dish'. It was some exotic stuff from where he hailed and was his Mum's favourite. We fervently hoped that the GOC and his Mother shared the same tastes!
The marinating done, the chicken was cooked over a slow fire on a slow burning charcoal fire and once done, it was declared ready to eat.
The main part of the battle done, we awaited the GOC.
He arrived on a mule, helicopters being no go in our area. I cannot vouch that he had a sore bottom, but he certain did not look pleased. He had made no secret that he did not like me too much ever since the Spotterscope demand incident (another story, some other time). But I will add the feeling was mutual.
Tea and small eats served, I launched into the Briefing. It had become hackneyed, having given it to all and sundry, be they VIPs or 'war tourists'. I could have given it with my eyes closed and as parrot like as Long John Silver's parrot saying "Pieces of Eight'! The GOC too had heard it many a time and so he flitted his head left to right and vice versa like some mountain bird from Salim Ali, the naturalist's, book! Both of us played out this charade to the hilt!
The Briefing over, the question hours was on. He looked at me as if he had suddenly discovered a worm emerging out of an apple! He blinked twice and rubbed it in, "Still hankering for that Spotterscope, what?" He chortled. "Carry on hankering. You will not get one!" He beamed having said it. As if I cared; I had already bought a Russian telescope from the moth eaten local market!
He had no question and somewhat relieved that the charade was over.
"Shall we have lunch", said the GOC.
A good point! After all, none expected him to go and man a machine gun and go on a pigeon shoot, even if it meant the Pakistanis.
We repaired for lunch.
While we waited with bated breath, he enjoyed every morsel! He was ecstatic over the chicken dish and went so far as to say, "The bird was fabulous". General classify all types of fowl as 'birds'. I believe it is classy to do so! I made it clear that though it was fowl (note the spelling and not the pronunciation), it was clearly was a chicken and not a crow by stating thus:
"Ah yes, sir, its from our poultry, fresh live chicken, prepared just for you!"
"My compliments to your cook and say, can I borrow him?
I will leave the borrowing of the cook episode for another time and instead move on with the story.
After the General had knocked off his 'sweet dish', I asked the General if I could smoke. He was not too fond of smoking.
It was my mess and not his and so he grudgingly waved his arm and said, "Burn yourself for all I care".
The good General had been needling me throughout the lunch and so I was seething.
I delivered the coup de grâce. The time had come for one to have a spine, even if he were only a CO!
I clapped my hands as if I were some Sheik for the Arab world.
The GOC beamed. He thought I applauded his smart repartee, as most CO did and do!
Clap done and in popped Andy, the lean and tall Jat soldier, all decked up for the occasion.
He carried a silver hookah (hubble bubble) perched on a red stain pillow with flowing tassels in gold colour.
He handed me the hookah, took the nozzle, gave it two puffs, changed the mouthpiece and extended the nozzle towards me.
With all solemnity and grace of a Guard Commander of a Presidential ceremonial guard, he saluted and exclaimed loud and clear – "Shariman, hookah taiyar" (Sir, your hubble bubble is ready).
The General jaws dropped, eyes popped and he was left unceremoniously gawking!
"Time to leave, I presume", the General squawked. It was Veni Vedi but not Vici!
He climbed the mule and went into the sunset as Lone Ranger does in Universal Pictures films!
