Windbags, anonymous

Amazingly, not knowing the least thing about military or strategic matters never seems to faze this lot. They may be completely wrong, wildly off the mark, yet they never ever seem to suffer from the faintest trace of self-doubt.

I realised how bad the situation was when I went to buytwo kilos of atta the other day from the local provision store. Gopichandji was at the counter, listening to the eight o’clock news bulletin. Short of donning battle fatigues, he seemed ready for armed combat in every sense of the term.Before I could even fit a “namaskar” in edgeways, he was launching his own air strikes from across his glass-topped counter. “Namaskar ji,” he murmured, distracted. “The thing is, we have to make our air strikes more effective. Now, mind it, the use of air power in such counter surface operations is not easy, but it is essential….”

He would have gone on, had I not summoned the services of his assistant to procure my atta and vamoosed with hurried goodbyes, before old Gopichandji brought in the heavy artillery.

Mrs Mehta down the road wasn’t much better. A mild-mannered septuagenarian, she normally finds time to inquire about the family’s health and well-being when she comes out at 6 pm, for her evening constitutional. On such occasions, you could touch her for ahousehold hint or a recipe and the lady would always graciously oblige.

“Hello, Mrs Mehta,” I greeted her when she appeared outside my door the other day, “so how is the jam-making going? Did you put the fruit in first, or the sugar?”

“First send in the troops, then send in the diplomats,” said Mrs Mehta firmly, with a steely glint in her eye. “The decision not to escalate the war may be a political one, but this country cannot afford to close its eye to military realities,” she continued, waving an admonishing finger before my eyes.

“Quite,” I said, weakly. But Mrs Mehta didn’t really need a response to encourage her. “The G-8 and US statements are good, and appropriate, but this country cannot be taken for granted. We must tell the world where it gets off…” she continued, warming nicely to the topic. I would have been transfixed like a butterfly in amber if I hadn’t providentially been rescued by a telephone call at this juncture.

After that encounter with Mrs Mehta, I decided that Iwould, as a general policy, discourage lengthy exchanges on Kargil by looking at people’s feet instead of their faces while transacting social business with them at least until peace reigns once again on the borders. But even that didn’t work.

Take the encounter I had with the petrol pump attendant. “Twenty litres,” I said, driving up to him. I got out, handed over the keys, all the while staring resolutely at his feet. He adjusted the fuel gauge and asked me to check the reading.

As I lifted my eyes to the gauge, he struck, “I am no expert, madam, but I believe the operation at Kargil must go on until every intruder is driven out. And it is my considered opinion that after this the Srinagar-Leh highway and the LoC must be monitored by MIG-21s flying overhead at half hour intervals.”

I nodded, still looking at his feet, but now that he was in full flow there was just no stopping him. “That is our line of honour, madam, make no mistake about it. We must cross it, if we have to. It’s a matter ofnational pride,” he ended, jangling his cash bag for greater effect.

I nodded weakly, paid him his dues, and was about to reverse my car to make a safe exit, when he shouted after me, “And yes, no safe exists for the intruders. That would go against all principles of natural justice. We will not allow it at any cost.”

By now I was convinced that everyone I knew or stumbled across is either the chief of army or a career diplomat or a fellow at the Institute of Defence Studies and Analyses or, at the very least, a defence editor of a newspaper or magazine.