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Quote by Donavan Nelson Butler, Master Sergeant US Army

“Leading your Soldiers with the safety on as a condition of your own personal complacency is no different than running into battle with your firearm on safe yelling BANG BANG BANG!!! An Army leaders unlimited source of ammo are the Army Values and the Warrior Ethos.”

Quote by Donavan Nelson Butler, Master Sergeant US Army

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Donavan Nelson Butler, Master Sergeant US Army

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“Army Brat: an acronym for Born, raised and transferred. Brats, irreverent, sometimes more reckless than courageous and unabashedly basking in the reflected glory and adoration our fathers deservedly received. But mostly we were gypsies--agile quick-witted and tough bunch of youngsters growing up in a world that barricaded the rest of the universe out and kept us cocooned within ours. The brats moved every two years across the country, from one cantonment to another, inadvertently learning to adapt and engage faster than their 'civilian' counterparts changed their iphones. Resilience was a byproduct of this lifestyle. Our wings were our roots. And those wings had brought my father to Tawang, a sensitive military base near out border with China.”

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“Anyway, the MI-17 made for one hell of a ride. It was a monstrous chopper, more like an armoured tank in the sky. Th e insides had a few metal seats on either side. First-come-fi rst-served, you sat wherever you found space. The mothers took the seats and the brats sat on the cold metal floor, among camouflage-green nets, wooden boxes and miscellaneous military cargo. As the chopper rose, I peered at my father waving from the small helipad made by plateauing a mountain top with the Army’s engineering expertise. Some moments stay with you forever. Th is particular one has stood the test of time. As we fl ew off to the safest military base, I stuck my nose against the tiny window and kept waving back till my father became an olive-hued speck on the concrete helipad.”

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“The other gem was Tawang’s gift to us: A tiny purebred Apso, whom we called Mickey. A beautiful ball of white fur, a hopping rabbit, with heart-melting puppy eyes hidden behind shaggy Apso hair, perfect in all ways, well almost. Except Mickey farted. Farts so potent and loud, it was hard to believe a pintsized dog was capable of generating such toxic fumes. Strangely, he saved his best ones for the weekly ladies’ get-together at home. ‘Your dog is dangerous,’ one of the ladies said laughingly to my mother. ‘This fellow will break wind and run off and we’ll be left wondering which one of us did it.’ The modus operandi was simple. He would come hopping into the living room for tasty treats and while the ladies were fawning over him, Mickey broke wind. There was a hushed silence as the fumes spread quickly, and the ladies silently wondered which one of them was the uncouth culprit. It took them a few visits to figure this out, by which time Mickey the Fartonator had been confined to the veranda. My poor mother was always at the receiving end courtesy our dogs and, well, me!”

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“Bhalu looked like an unkempt, wild version of the most majestic dog I had ever laid eyes on – her name was Grace. My Grace. A German shepherd, a monster puppy who grew up to be a lady. Forever remembered fondly (by me) for taking regular puppy-sized dumps in Neha’s slippers and shoes, for being the reason Neha and I would have to figure innovative ways to save ourselves and run for cover if she were in the vicinity, for chewing up our toes like her life depended on it, for shredding curtains, socks, shoes and anything she could get a hold of with rare delight, for a bark so fierce yet feminine that people feared pressing the bell at our gates.”

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“As we continued walking, the pebbles by the bank made a pleasant crunching sound under our feet. Their edges were polished to perfection by the continual friction of the water – revealing their innermost colours like polished diamonds. A particular stone caught my attention. It was shining among a sea of smooth grey ones. Picking it up, I gaped at it. This one was grey in colour like all the others except it had bands of iridescent blue running across its width. The bands were the same magnifi cent hue of blue as the skies above. Did it break and fall from the skies and soak up the grey from its common companions? Was this some kind of fall from grace, because it really didn’t seem to belong where I found it. I smiled at the treasure I had chanced upon and popped it in the bag on my shoulder. This was going back with me. A forever memory of this day.”

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“Neha’s walk across the river felt excruciatingly long. Like a rubber band stretched to its limits. It is peculiar how moments of happiness and euphoria seem to pass over like greased lightning when compared to the ones filled with pain or anxiety. I often ask myself if happiness is genuinely fleeting or if we are hardwired to believe that human beings are born to suffer, and for that very reason tend to sadistically amplify and stretch our anxieties? Could our age old conditioning be in cahoots with Loki? Maybe, maybe not. I am still debating this, internally...”

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“My claim to understanding cricket is that I know what it is like to be bowled by a nine-year-old girl and face the long walk of shame back to the pavilion, past smirking bystanders. I also understand that feeling of guilt after spilling the simplest of dolly catches, attempting to spare my blushes with the most outlandish excuses. I even know what it feels like to collide with my batting partner whilst attempting a run, losing my trousers, dignity and wicket in one very foul swoop.”

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Author:Rob Harris
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