MUSING - TROUBLE IN PARADISE...

An open letter (ARMY WAR COLLEGE ,MHOW)

Albeit late, I owe an apology to all…I really am sorry and very regretful for doing what I did -especially what I put you all through. You may find in your heart to forgive me when you know the entire story. You have to know how it all began…

Here I was – relishing my daily cuppa, admiring the slow drizzle glazing the tarmac every morning. I was sipping in the sweet scent of the geeli miiti and letting the Shab- e-Malwa tickle my spirits, far away from the baked and cracking earth beneath me. I was remembering the time I was in Rajasthan, counting dead carcasses of animals strewn on the roadside, to evaluate the magnitude of the third consecutive famine, in God’s own sauna. Its greedy earth would have soaked in the mightiest torrent, but it never rained there. Mhow was such a contrast - low hovering clouds bringing in a pitter patter all day. It was such a soothing song for the soul. We had momentarily forgotten the remote which controlled our lives. We had forgotten our fights over the CNN, POGO and STAR WORLD channels and were out to embrace this unique experience. From couch potatoes we had become kosher nature lovers, and we just loved every minute of it.

I had been observing the same spirit every where. You must have noticed it too. Drizzle or no drizzle, Sameena was out on her ritual 7.30 “musical” sojourn. Upasana had wrapped up her kitchen by nine and was there at the gym, pulling weight with her friends. Shailesh, who would run anyway - sun, blazing sun, or scorching sun (10 Para is in Jodhpur, remember?) was running an extra mile – but without his inimitable frown .Lost it to the cool breeze I guess. I was happily drenched myself, cycling with my family, waving at the smiling Sabrewals and merry Mathews, enthused Edwards and the happy Yadavs (under their umbrella looking every bit like the pyaar- hua- ikraar-hua couple) – all out, to catch the happy hum in the air. Virender seemed to have a hunch that pint sized Paree had could make it big at the basket ball someday and wouldn’t miss his practice sessions with her, for anything; as for Tiny Dhillon and his buddies they were resolute from day one, that nothing would dampen the spirits of the HC jees (the hardcore golfers).

Meanwhile among the Bong community (two bongs one political party, three bongs a mutiny) there was a riot of different kind. A conspiracy brewed in their kitchens. Rupa and Suman could hardly hide their rupture over their greatest catch of the time -the Pabdas and Chitols and Tangras if you please. If you got a waft and smelt something fishy, well you know who to blame... Now that you are in the know, you may as well charge in before the jhol (oops! the plot) thickens.

While on that thorny subject, a fortnight before the great deluge struck the headlines, we went to the Biercha Lake, one Sunday, for a family picnic. Standing there at the view point, on the high embankment at the entrance (enjoying the balmy breezy and the quiet slapping of the water on the barrels of the wooden pontoon), I wished I had a fishing rod. On a slightly cloudy day that place is heavenly and just right for some peaceful angling (while the kids can keep themselves busy with the paddling and rowing) Anyway watching the little droplets tap dancing and letting the water frill and curl in joy with the wind; The gulls skidding and rising slowly above the water enjoying the rain and the sun all at once; The mountains in the yonder seeming to be up in smoke with billowing white clouds erasing their conical tip from your sight… I was thinking to myself and thanking God for little mercies. At least this patch of earth is still green.

So everything was fine or seemingly so, as you can see, till I met Col. Bedi. Infact everything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong only after I had this little conversation with him. I happened to tell him what a beautiful place he had chosen to build his little dream nest ...The weather was so perfect too. I went on and on about the bounty and the beauty of the place, when at last he lifted the haze. You can imagine my shock when I was told that men bent like a sickle, tending their small patches of crop, were apparently counting every drop and agonising over their withering crop; That throughout a 40 kms radius, people were likely to go hungry if there weren’t a few more inches of rain - a fact that got swept under the proliferating carpet of the tropical shrubs! And here I stood enjoying the lush green rolling hills, all dreamy and starry-eyed .The ground water too, it appeared, was abysmally low and needed an urgent recharging. Infact where Col. Bedi lived (away from the municipal water connection), the bore well was all but running dry. Now how on earth would I know all that? Within the walls of the combat walls we lived a life of plenty. Sahayaks were busy weeding and cutting and playing hooky (or hockey whichever way you . Little puddles of water spraying fountains with passing vehicles ensured enough of the sticky black muck to be carried home to be washed…

It was hard to believe I would be in the midst of another impending famine and scarcity. I thought I had run away from all that.

All at once I woke up to the gloom in the eyes of the farmers on the roadsides. I thought I saw a glint of that pain in the smile of the shepherd, who shoos his cattle to help you drive by. All along the rolling thoroughfare the cultivated patches looked parched and thirsty as did the men and women in their colourful clothes.

And then I did what I shouldn’t have done. I prayed… and prayed hard for some more rain.

And lo behold the South West Monsoon in its frantic effort to reach Mhow faster, deluged Mumbai on its way. What a shame!!! Soon enough Col .Bedi had also got marooned in his villa - an impromptu rainy day for him while the canteen wore a dismal look without his cheerful presence. But what could he do? The bridge on troubled waters that led to the serpentine uphill road to his villa, across the golf course, was completely submerged. There was a four ft wall of water standing there instead. Ah! I shouldn’t have prayed so hard. (I sincerely hope his ground water got recharged at last ) but look at the havoc I created all over- leaking rooftops, seeping walls, rooms turning to dhobi ghats overnight, mute telephones and unending power breakdowns. Suman to her chagrain had to ignore her tangrar jhaal to attend to her trunks of woollens in the garage instead. There, meeting her immediate neighbour Rakhee (on a similar mission) she learnt how her son who had to go back to Ooty was stranded at the Bombay airport for a day. Thank heavens he reached Coimbatore safely atlast! Thank heavens the woollens were all safe! Alas for poor Kajal things were murkier and literally out of hand. Unfortunately for her every little trickle seemed to have found a safe sanctuary in her garage. When she opened its doors that fateful morning, not only were her priceless carpets doing a little wave dance but joining in the fun were foot long creepy crawlies. On the other hand her box of electronics needed a scuba diver to locate and retrieve it. You may console her over her pickled baggage if you wish but a word of caution – don’t remind her of her electronic items ... it will be oil over troubled water and Seema will vouch for it.

…As for me, I could have kept quiet through it all, but soaked in guilt, decided to come clean atlast.