Memory lane musings

From June 3-10, 1956, 8216;Kashmiri Operation Birdie-Eagle8217; is in force on grassy banks that the great Babar described as a uniquely ambrosial meadow of white and golden flowers. I open my innings as a cub reporter, prowling the serpentine streams, nakas, bunkers and flagged targets called holes in greens in golfing jargon on Gulmarg8217;s upper cross-country course. And then I catch and photograph a sporty army commander fiddling his lie on the 18th, just below the charming old Nedou8217;s hotel.

The Express puts their cub8217;s report on the front page, and I8217;m almost 8212; although not quite 8212; served a deportation order. I presume it would be a deportation from India to India, but a supportive, non-golfy father confronts the commander over a chotta in the bar, and warns him that he would be committing a grave constitutional impropriety should he 8212; the commander 8212; whack me.

Cut through to the eighties to Kasauli. I8217;m resident in cantonment territory, an active freelancer, a keen hobnobber-friend of the likes of celebrated generals and small-fry brigadiers. As a keen observer of the forces, and happening to come from an army family myself, I cannot but observe that many of our army officer are grossly overweight and appear physically unfit for the job. The Express features the story on its Sunday pages, under the heading,8216;The army marches on its stomach8217;.

Flashback to another eighties-nineties segment, and the Express flaunts my 8216;Vandals of Babarpur8217; story. Archaeologists, historians and heritage walkers would know that Babarpur is a region located between Delhi8217;s India Gate and Nizamuddin. At present, two hundred of its acres are occupied by the Delhi Golf Club, and my story talks about how the club has ended up vandalising what is actually a heritage site.

Thank you, Express, for being there.