Straight from the horse’s mouth

AS a Lieutenant fresh out of training, I joined an Animal Transport Company in Darjeeling as a veterinary officer (VO). One fine day, I was enjoying Kurseong tea — a favoured drink of the British royalty — with my Company Commander, a Major, in his office. The tea estate manager, a schoolmate of this officer, used to send complimentary packets for him.

Suddenly, the phone on his desk rang, shattering the calm. The Major heard the caller for a few seconds. His nostrils flared before he exploded: “So what? The mules are as much fauji as you and I and they have an equal claim on this cantonment! You think they are Pakistanis? I will be damned if I stop them. You can tell your CO (Commanding Officer) that I don’t give two hoots about what he thinks!” Then he slammed the phone down.

“It’s the adjutant of the neighbouring battalion, complaining again about our mules invading their playgrounds. Did you let them loose again?” he asked. I replied in the affirmative. “You have to think of some solution. The CO is getting on my nerves.”

It was I who had dug my heels in to let the mules forage daily on the lush-green grass. Unfortunately, unlike soldiers, mules had no respect for man-made boundaries. While grazing calmly, one of them would suddenly halt, prick up its ears and then run as if it had seen a ghost. All hell would break loose as dozens of mules would start chasing it, raising a tornado of dust. Once the stampede started, even a hundred sentries were unable to stop it. The escapee herd used to storm the premises of the neighbouring Mechanised Transport battalion, ruining its gardens, lawns and whatever happened to come their way.

I don’t know what neurons of my brain were tickled by the tea, for I suggested, “Sir, we are one of the oldest horsed units of the mighty Indian Army. We can do an Ashvamedha Yagya to solve this problem once and for all.”

“What on earth is that?” he wondered.

I explained, “Sir, when Lord Rama returned to Ayodhya, he wanted the whole Bharatvarsh to enjoy prosperity and justice. So he embarked on this yagya. You take a gorgeous white stallion, adorn it with precious jewels, do puja and then let it loose beyond your territory. If any king stops the horse, he invites war. Otherwise, he has to pay a tribute.” My words left the Major in deep thought.

Next day, when I entered his office, I found the unit’s punditji squirming in his shoes in front of him. He was pale and sweating heavily. “Kya problem hai? Aap jaante nahin Ashvamedha yagya ki kaarvai?” the Major asked. The priest, who looked like a sacrificial goat, managed to utter with folded hands: “Sahab, chhota moonh badi baat. VO saab ne jo bataya woh riti Treta Yuga mein theek thi. Iss Kalyug mein hamari samajh se ye vaidh nahin hogi, ye hamari vinnati hai.” I felt like I had a hoof in my mouth. The Major took a sip of the royal brew and said after an eternity, “Chalo theek hai. Hum kuchh aur upaye sochenge.”

I heaved a sigh of relief as I narrowly escaped getting embroiled in a battle royale!