OLIVE GREEN TROUSERS (With an important update at the end)

OLIVE GREEN TROUSERS

(- just a tale of the times, much like many others could tell.) 

We had Monty to thank for the OG's. Before we were twelve or so, the school games kit did not have any long pants, except whites for four or five ceremonial days a year. He gave us olive green ones - of thick, coarse, cotton, invariably ill-fitting, no-shame pants ideal for the roughest treatment. The OG's could take us anywhere.

And we were happy to be going 'anywhere'.

'WE' meant four of us - 78, 142, 194, 208 - Huppi, Fatty, Atal, Bachhal - FT, AD, LJ, RH (this dawned upon me 45 years after we left school!). School boundaries were made for us - to define where the fun began. Rules were ours to mould and merge into and become invisible to masters on duty. 

We were up on the Cliffs before we were chest-high to the black bears who lived near them. And we used the way up from the Tiffin Top - Land's End path before we knew the one which went up from the khud below the tennis courts (now Lower Baski). There was a grove of pines along the steep slope that went and disappeared over the edge of the cliffs. About four feet ahead of the treeline was a fence of barbed wire. The mist gently blew up the precipice another few feet beyond the fence and kept the lush grass wet and slippery.

We learned a lot from teachers and the schoolboys who had gone before us, and from the tough lives that our parents had led.  We took pride in the hard work and sacrifice of our parents - everyone did - it came with the times; elders' lives were respected rather than judged. A perfect blend of caution, courage, and faith was ingrained by conditions in every human who lived an outdoors life. And the daily life of an average household would be termed 'shockingly outdoors' today.

We slunk past the outcrop of boulders somewhere in which the bears had their home, very quietly. Before that we had been making quite a racket as we climbed the narrow trail through the pines and ringal bamboos - favourite food for the bears - to make sure that any who was nearby would hear human voices from afar and saunter away from the trail. We got to the edge of the trees. And we had the good sense to hold on to the tree trunks and NOT try to go and touch the barbed wire, not foolishly defy gravity on the slippery and steep slope. We hunkered down in the trees, our mouths agape in awe, fully comprehending that beyond the barbed wire lay certain death! When I came back to the Cliffs after many years, the landscape had changed entirely. The fence and those trees had all gone down over successive years. 

I returned to work in the school thirty years after I had left. Robby and I did every trail again, and more. And now there are parts of the hills of Nainital where she has been but I have not. The Easter Monday picnic was held at Tiffin Top, and we were pained to learn that a large portion of the high schoolers had never been up to Dorothy's Seat! Over-protection; elders fearful of shouldering the 'blame' IF something happened. This was the new order of the world.  'Something', in the case of walking up to Dorothy's Seat meant a bruised shin if one slipped on a path where saree-clad tourists walked every day. No one talked of a responsibility to see the boys and girls grow into consummate young people with confidence on their physical and mental capabilities, to let them learn to live and rejoice in the wondrous sights and sounds that nature had to offer them.

For nine years, we took it upon ourselves to take the whole passing out class twelve to the Cliffs in the last day or two of their time in school. We would first head to Dorothy's Seat while dawn was just breaking, wait excitedly as the sky lit up, stare open-mouthed at the huge red ball of fire that took its own sweet time in peeping up from the horizon and then seemed to hurry upwards in a rush to start its work for the day.  Then we would snake our way through the Python Valley, which was freezing in early December and the frost crunched under our feet. There they would lift logs and study animal tracks and balance along fallen trees and listen to my cock and bull tales and make up stories of their own that they would some day pass on to their children.

Then we would walk the ringal forest trail up to the Cliffs. And every year for nine years, thirty-odd young people would fall absolutely silent when they skirted the top and looked down at the awesome vista that lay ahead of them in whichever direction they looked. 

And I, I would thank my god for the millionth time, for Huppi, who was always our brave, dashing and imaginative leader; for Fatty, who was was the most intelligent and the most nervous one and who consequently made every plan better and surer; for Atal, ever reliable, strong as they come, compassionate as anyone could be, knowledgeable to an unbelievable degree, full of stories of faraway lands and adventures, an unfathomed reservoir of wit and humour all the ten years we spent together. And, of course, there was me - very easy to get along with; physically always the weakest one in the group, yet not shunned even once. I cannot say more about myself; but many a time they would carry my rucksack when I was 'konked out' or pull me up a drainpipe to the dormitory window that I did not have the strength to climb up when we returned after midnight from a film show in town. We were glued together, that way, not once did anyone give up on any one.

I think we were already upto our tricks before we were big enough to go from Horsman Wing to Dixon Wing. We had shoe boxes with stag beetles in our lockers, with holes to let in fresh air, caught mostly from the beautifully bloom-covered hillside below the Infirmary. We had a cave and a chimney to hide in in the khud below the Horsi Field (now Upper Baski) towards All Saints'. (Much later, maybe forty years, a couple of boys decided to miss 'my' swimming finals and used the time to go down to town and get some whiskey. They hid this in the area below the Lower Tennis Court (now basketball). It took me less than twenty minutes to find their cache. Much later in life, we understand that the elders have done before us what we try our hand at now. Also, the elders take time to understand that the youngsters have a right to as much 'mischief' as they went through in 'their days'. Love you, Arjun and friends!)

We would have just entered teenage when we ventured to go through the tunnel below the Big Field. There was a drainage tunnel going down from behind the cricket screen at the north end of the games field and opening into the khudside near the Upper Tennis Court. Having grown up on a staple fare of World War 2 pictures like The Great Escape and course books like The Wooden Horse, the tunnel just had to be negotiated. We were small enough to fit into the very narrow space - sneaking into it surreptitiously on a Sunday morning. Huppi, as always, would lead, Fatty and I would be somewhere in the middle, and Atal would be the one at the rear, strong enough to egg us on, in case we needed egging. On times like this, there were always some others too; Gulli would have been part of almost every escapade and excursion. Chou, a few times, maybe. Others who happened to be along. Anyway, we made it through all thirty to forty metres of a tunnel that would have made any escaping POW proud. And we evaded capture by the enemy forces roaming all over the campus.

The outings grew as we grew. Soon we were climbing and jumping out of badaam trees while out on marathon practice evenings. The legendary Teelu (Jasbir Singh Dhillon) had used his mountaineering skills and gone rappelling down the face of the waterfall below the Golf Links. There was no way we could acquire those skills, but the never-seen pool at the lower end of the waterfall beckoned. Every time we went down the steep hill beyond the fence at the edge of the Lower Golfies, we reached the top of the waterfall and returned exhilarated but unaccomplished. So an alternate route down had to be found. One Sunday, we ventured out onto the narrow ridge at the top of the Echo Hill and climbed down its south face! After a slow descent of more than an hour, the last twenty metres were mostly an uncontrolled slithering fall with shale and stones raining on our heads. We don't know how we lived through that one! The waterfall was as promised. And the way back was a hungry jungle trek through the forest towards Khurpatal and sneaking back into school, feeding on wild 'Chinese apples'. (Almost 40 years later Tiffy, Robby and I rediscovered that waterfall and walked up to where the pool was, from the new motor road called Russi Bypass. The water had changed its course a bit and was no longer falling down from heaven and spraying anyone who cared to be sprayed.)

Huppi brought in angling gear, and we stood on boulders in the stream at Khairna and learned how to catch fish. Then we would jump into the pool below and swim to our hearts' content. Somewhere along, we had picked up that we must know what lay downstream before we entered flowing water. It was a measure of precaution that stood me in good stead in all my later years.

We rode our first motorcycle at Bhuru's farm. We rushed down to Ramgarh to raid apples and  returned with 'bhuttaas'. Pindari Glacier was our first long trek, I think.

We walked through the Corbett National Pork from sunset to one o'clock at night, before the times when it was flooded with thousands of tourists and hordes of vehicles, and when the tigers were still tolerant enough not to make a meal of young people singing at the tops of their scared voices in the pitch dark traversing thirty one kilometres from Dhangari Gate till Dhikala. They were blessed days without telephones, and we were let in at the Dhangari Gate just a few minutes before the curfew time of sunset because we had told rehearsed lies that we were going only two kolometres to the nearest Forest Rest House at Mohan or Ghairal, I forget which.

We walked up from Manali to Rohtang Pass on a high altitude trail to the solitary tea hut where now there are hundreds of houses in the village just short of the Pass. We made it just as it got dark with help of a local person who had come along when we were enjoying ourselves at a wayside stream many hours downslope. He had known that we would be in what trouble if we did not reach our destination before night fell, and he relentlessly drove us on without uttering more than a few words. The family at the tea shop gave us a meal and their two cots to sleep in; I think there were five of us, and an icy draft blew snow all night into our faces through chinks in the tin and mud walls. Our guide had another forty kilometres to walk into the Spiti Valley carrying a goatskin sack heavy with flour.

We lit cooking fires beside streams, walked up and down a hundred heavenly glades of pine and oak, swam down the irrigation canal at Chorgalia, slept on a pavement at Siliguri, swam in the Dal Lake. I mention these because everywhere we learned. How did we know before we entered the water in the Dal Lake that we must stay still and very gently slip our legs out of the weeds below if they caught us, or they could entangle us and never let go? That panic kills. The outdoor life taught many such lessons, and they were just passed around as a matter of course. Nature was a good teacher, it gave life to one's instincts, and there were many lessons that were learned by just being there.

We ran behind a train on the tracks on our way to Kashmir till the Guard himself pulled us up into his little coach at the back (This time it was Tola, Atal and I.) On our long journey back from Srinagar, Atal and I dozed fitfully sitting in the open doorway of an express train simply because it was the only place we could find to sit in. A burly Sardarji pushed us to one side roughly and sat down beside us. Then he stretched a muscular arm and grabbed the steel bar across the doorway. Soon Atal and I were sleeping unconscious with our heads resting on his arm. We slept a straight four hours, and he did not once move. When we woke up, he just got up and went away. Atal mentioned it before I did when we finally got in touch after a gap of more than forty years.

Then, one day, school was over, and we went our separate ways.

About twenty five years after school, maybe more, Huppi came to me at Nawab Nagar. It was a beautiful autumn day, and we took a bunch of children out to the 'wilderness' around a seasonal water drainage channel, the 'Nadi', to look for shells, fish and colourful birds. My son, maybe six or seven asked, 'Papa, can I go into the water?' I said something like, 'No son, you'll wet your clothes and it's very cold.'

Huppi gave me a look that told me his thoughts before he spoke aloud, "Surdy, what's wrong with you?"

I do not know how many sages see the world as clearly at the moment of their enlightenment as I saw it then! In went the children, pants and all; and up the haystacks and trees, and anything else that came to their minds! Never again in all the years have I said, 'no!'

And that, has been God's biggest gift to my family. Young people who dare to live! And oldies who haven't done too badly, either!

And I am fulfilled.

Thank you, Awesome Foursome, my soulmates out in the world! Thank you, kind God! It has been an incredible trip, and there is still more to come.

Thanks, olive green trousers that went everywhere we went.

.................................................

And we?

'50' brought his doting family up to school one day when I was working there. We went all around the campus, old friends full of laughter. And he proudly showed his two boys many hidden nooks and crannies where he would smoke cigarettes, sometimes laden with ganja shared by campus workers. A year or two after they visited, his lungs cashed in.... That day in school I understood why the four were never five even though he was with us almost everywhere.

The rest of us are around at sixty two or sixty three. 

Atal has carried his dream self wherever work took him, mostly in the U.S. of A. He is a rightful hero to his family and friends. He has held many people's hands when they were lost and alone. And he smokes too much, way too much. And from all of us I say, "C'mon buddy, kick the habit. Please, just let it go."

Fatty has led life as expected of his genius. Very early on, he sailed through an entrance exam that only very few people even of his capability crack. He entered the behemoth of the great Indian Railways, and never looked back till he had not pushed right to the top. He brought Shubra and their boys to Nawab Nagar once maybe twenty years ago, and my heart swelled to see him as he was. Now he's retired and I am sure he has much to look back upon with warmth and pride. And forward, too.

Huppi lived it as he was destined to. Many exciting years in tea gardens in Assam, many more in various parts of Africa. I don't know if I ever told you, he was the one who introduced us to Wilbur Smith, and we would all resonate with his tales out of Africa if ever he were to tell them to us. His farm and mine are twenty insurmountable kilometres apart, and we are so secure in being close that we have not met more than once in ten years. And yet, he has always been an inspiration pointing unseen towards the great outdoors.

Me? I'm okay.

It's been a great journey. Fantastic, actually! 

We pass on the best gleanings from our legacies to whomever we can. And very soon we will find a way to get in touch again and look back and bask in the glow... maybe light a few more fires...

(Atal has already started the ball rolling, calling up at regular intervals and pumping up the old hormones!)

(You three fellas, please write down what you want to, and I will edit this post to include anything you write.)

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 I picked up a German word 'liebchen' from somewhere long ago, and I called my little girl Lichibin. Today is your birthday, and I gift you a story straight from my heart. Happy birthday, Justoo meri jaan!

    ----- x ----- x ----- x -----

10 October 2025

My post ended there, and I shared the story on my Facebook... And Emmanuel Theophilus wrote on it in the 'comments'. Emmanuel was in the batch of 1975, four years my senior in school. Later on, he is one who has lived the life; I wish he would write about it somewhere, because I am not even going to make an attempt at trying to explain myself. I have copied and pasted some of what he wrote to me...

"Rajwant Singh Bachhal you were right about Teeloo Jasbir. There were actually three of us on that trip down the series of waterfalls down the cliffs towards the plains. Jasbir, me and Sahgal. We had just done a rock climbing course at Barapathar with NTMC and since we made good friends with the instructors, they lent us rope, pitons and carabiners. We snuck off to the Golfie and down the cliffs towards the waterfalls, on a ‘weekend trek’ with rucksacks and sleeping bags from the outward bound, and packed food (aaloo, puri and hundred grams of butter each). We had said that we were going to Khurpatal. It was august so the monsoon was not over. After rapping off the first waterfall, we made the most stupid mistake of pulling off the rope from the anchor, without a reccee of what lay below. So the die was cast. If we couldn’t make it down past all the waterfalls, we’d have no way of getting back up. You will remember that the cliffs were all loose shale, so now way climbing up. Night fell and we followed the stream down till we reached the abyss of a giant waterfall. We could hear the water thunder far below through the whipping wind. We slept right there in the open. It rained at night and the stream almost covered the bank we were sleeping on. Next morning we peered over the edge and found that there was no way our double rope would reach the bottom. We were stuck. We had told no one at Sherwood where we had gone, so no chance of rescue. Then Jasbir did something extraordinary. Ten meters below us was a short tree off the cliff. He rapped down to it, and found our rope barely reaching the bottom. He then prusikked back up and set the rappel from that stunted tree! That was the only way we managed to get down alive. There was another waterfall below that, but only about 30 meters high. So he was the hero of the day for sure. It was a bit of a saga getting back up to Khurpatal and school by the same night through densely misted pine forests where we got lost, but that is a longer story. Like you guys got to know, somehow Johnny got to know too. Just before he left school for England, he called Jasbir and me. He said we were crazy to do what we did, and that many years ago he had to rescue some Sherwoodians who had tried to do the same, but got stuck. Perhaps the same waterfall? And speaking about ‘wearing boots’, Johnny then pulled out his old fabulous leather climbing/hunting boots and said whichever of the two of us they would fit, could have them. They fit me. In size. Jasbir had a bigger heart."

Thanks, Theo!

KEEP IT LIGHT

 Keep it light

Good times come and go.

So do bad ones. 

Good health comes and goes.

So does bad health.

Pockets full come and go.

So do pockets empty. 

Employment comes and goes.

So does unemployment.

Good thoughts come and go.

So do bad ones.

Friends and enemies.

Victories and defeats.

Moods.

Fortunes.

Battles.

And so it is with all things, and all beings.

And in its simplicity, the coming and going is a thing of beauty, of wonder, even of delight!

At the end of the school marathon, one day, Monty said, "Magnanimity in victory, resilience in defeat!"

Memory or the internet can tell me who originated the sentence, but to me, Monty said it.

"Agar halka mehsoos ho, to karo!", said Mr Pande many years later, "agar bhaari-pan lage, to na karo."

(If you feel a lightness, then do it; if it seems to weigh you down, don't do it.)

ਕਬੀਰ ਬੇੜਾ ਜਰਜਰਾ ਫੂਟੇ ਛੇਂਕ ਹਜਾਰ ll ਹਰੂਏ ਹਰੂਏ ਤਿਰਿ ਗਏ ਡੂਬੇ ਜਿਨ ਸਿਰ ਭਾਰ ll 

(Kabeer beda jarjaraa phoote chhenk hajaar ll Harue harue tiri gaye doobe jin sir bhaar ll)

"Kabeer the ferry was dilapidated, it sprung a thousand holes. The lighter ones swam across, the ones with laden heads drowned."

(-Guru Granth Sahib)

Sail easy.

(Happy birthday, Tiffy! Way to go, son!)

NOTHING TO LOSE

Happy birthday, dear Jashan; the rejoicing continues…

Nothing To Lose

The passage of time, or the illusion of such a passage, makes us afraid of losing things that we have, or we probably don't have anyway.

It also makes us yearn for things that we had, or we probably never had anyway.

…honour, respect, strength, influence, health, love, heaven, power, life, fun, children, parents, family, friends, skills, wealth, possessions... ... wisdom… …

When we were not busy going through the play and confusion and bruises and scratches and victories and fears of being children, we were dreaming of being like our adult or teenage heroes.

Now we've been there; some younger ones have dreamt of being like us; and we're still dreaming of something more just a little bit short of the other end of rainbow. Or we're dwelling on what we think we were, or could have been.

Circumstances change. We change. A new day lights up every morning, or a new morning lights up every day. 

There's no going back to where we came from. But we have been there. And for having been there, we have had innumerable sightings of heaven. Hell too, maybe; but where would heaven be if there were no hell?

If we start wondering at the places and times when heaven has surprised us, it may dawn upon us that there is so much of it! More and more, and more than we can ever hope for, in more ways than we can ever imagine. All around us, popping up unbidden and unexpected from any-just-where.

Old casts keep breaking, old forms keep changing. Friends, events, people, pets, keep coming and passing on. Sometimes, we yearn for more; and often we throw up our hands and say that we have had enough.

At some places on the journey, we have lain in the deep shade of an afternoon tree that cooled us more from within than it did from without, or sat on a sandy beach watching the endless waves that always flowed towards us, or turned to face a chill mountain breeze that brought sparkling tears to dance in our eyes; and we have reflected upon some of the oh-so-many blessings we have had - unknowing, unasked and unexpected - and we have nodded our heads a little in acknowledgement, and grunted in gratitude.

It's been an incredible journey, and it will continue to be till we get where we are going.

THEY CARRY US ALONG

Happy birthday, dear son; one of the most gentle and strong forces I have encountered.

They Carry Us Along

It was one of those man-made canals that carry water for irrigation from high up in the mountains of the north to the farthest reaches of the vast plains that would otherwise be parched for many months a year. The bed and inner banks  were lined with brick and concrete when it was constructed.  The water flowed fast and silent, cold and clear.

The commanding officer had ordered the soldiers who could swim to be ready to cross over to the other side and return, as part of a routine infantry training exercise. It was taken for granted as a matter of course that the young company commander would be the first to take the plunge.

How broad was the canal? I don’t really remember; 40 metres, maybe 50, or 60?*

My swimming skills were never something to write home about; let me say that I could stay afloat if my life depended upon it. But from somewhere I had learnt that if I let the flow of the water carry me while I steered along with a gentle force in the direction of the other bank, the current would carry me on its vast shoulders and deliver me safely on the opposite side, albeit a few hundred metres downstream. If, however, I tried to head straight across the river, the tremendous force would tire me out in a minute and throw me around like a piece of driftwood.

The trick was, not to panic.

I did it. There were surprises along the way; the immense power was intimidating, the thought of what could happen was frightening, the expanse of water seen from its surface level seemed vast, the realization that I was in it and I was not in control was exhilarating! It happened exactly the way it was meant to, and the current was my biggest ally. I went across, landed far downstream on the opposite  side, walked far enough upstream on the bank and crossed back to land almost exactly where the rest of my party waited.

Fighting against the flow, I would probably not have survived to tell a tale; but working my direction with the strength of the current to help me along, I scored a lifetime achievement.

Birds do that to journey thousands of miles across the skies; fish swim the oceans in a similar manner; a boxer's arm is an extension of the roll of his body; satellite launchers play along with the pull of gravity to keep their objects in perfect orbit; sergeants shout commands from the core of their guts rather than from the throat; wrestlers use their opponents’ momentum to throw them sailing through the air; sailors fill the sails of their vessels best if they steer slightly athwart the wind rather than have it directly behind or before them; trekkers can tackle formidable slopes by slanting upwards from side to side; skiers can ease downwards in the same way where they would otherwise hurtle down out of control.

And so it is with so many seemingly insurmountable forces that become our friends and lend to us freely from their vast strength if we are discerning enough not to stand in their path to try to stop them or to try and bend them to our will, but to acknowledge their strength and be grateful for their magnanimity. The energy of the sun. The moon and the tides. Gravity and buoyancy. Wind. Fire. Love. The passage of time.

When I was out of the pull of the current, a few metres away from the bank, I felt a rush of fatigue. I called to my soldier friends to come and get me. I felt good in letting them know that it is acceptable to ask for help; I felt good in letting them know that they could step forward and lend a hand; I felt good in letting them know that I was vulnerable; I felt good sharing my victory with them. They, too, were part of the currents that carried me along the path of life.

The trick is not to panic; to let the forces be our friends; to understand that the circumstances given to us are friends who will carry us on their shoulders towards objectives we are meant to reach. Patience.

There is so much to admire, so much to wonder at, so much to experience, so much to be grateful for.

*(It was the Anupgarh Branch of the Indira Gandhi Canal somewhere near Suratgarh and Bikaner in Rajasthan, if any reader ever happens to go that way.) 

LITTLE BIG HORSE

 Little Big Horse 

I looked him in the eye to size him up. He rolled his eye and showed me the white. I cocked an eyebrow at him, least realising then that it was his way of shaking hands with me before the bell rang for the bout to begin!

The pony master had led two of them up and asked us if we knew how to ride. The major had shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something incoherent, and I said, "A bit."

So he gave to me the pony better suited to riding alone while he led the major's animal himself. I caught the reins in my left hand, anchored it with a firm grip at the base of a tuft of mane, put my other hand on the saddle, and sprang up landing neatly astride and quite pleased with myself.

The little mountain horse was much shorter than the handsome horses we rode sometimes in Nainital or the rougher versions at our farm. My feet hung low in the long stirrups and would have brushed the tops of the bushes if we were to go through them.

We were to ride down an enchanting trail sloping gently through a valley of lush green forest nestled in majestic mountains. A clear blue sky cradled a bright morning sun, birds sang in the trees, bees worked busily, flies buzzed with lazy drones and butterflies painted moving streaks of colour on the already mesmerising canvas. God was in his heaven, and all was well with the world, and I would not have been surprised if I had broken out in song!**

The young pony stepped out smartly on hooves softly thudding where the ground was soft and brightly clattering  against stones. In a few minutes, our companions were left behind out of sight behind some little bump or bend in the path. Feeling nicely in tune with my little friend, I touched a gentle heel  near the base of his ribs...

He shot forward as if from the barrel of a gun! My body was jolted backward and on reflex I wrapped my legs around his belly, surprised that he was so small that my feet almost touched around his girth and I got a good grip with my legs. 

In a fraction of a moment I felt a rush of exhilaration replacing my sudden panic and frantic pulling of the reins. I stopped yanking and gave a little bit of slack. The bullet seemed to have struck something solid; the young horse suddenly stiffened all four legs in an absolute freeze!

Had I not been still recovering from the previous jolt, I might have gone sailing in the air over his head and landed on the ground in a heap. But with my legs still hysterically gripped around his belly, the reins flew out of my hands and I doubled over and my torso flattened out on his neck! 

Pure instinct made me throw my arms around his neck and hang on for dear life! A lot happened in every fraction of a moment as I fought to stay in the saddle. My right hand grabbed a handful of hair from the mane near his head, while my left slid down to try and reach the reins dangling from the bit in his mouth.

My fingers had just caught the reins when the horse came alive as if with an electric shock and darted off again in a mad sprint. I hung on to his neck with both arms and an awareness only of a need to stay on his back. After about a hundred metres, he stiffened and froze abruptly in his tracks again to try and dislodge me from the saddle, This time I managed to get a grip on the reins and sit upright. When, after a moment, he shot forward again, I was prepared and well ensconced in the saddle. When he braked for the third time, the forward jolt would have been enough to break my teeth on the steering wheel had I been in a car, but I was not in a car; I was astride a smart little horse whom I had, out of pure luck, got the better of! Or so I thought.

I laughed out aloud and jeered at him to try harder!

He seemed to think about it, lifted his head, and shot forward again as if from a cannon! He went like a streak of lightning across an open patch of ground and rushed headlong as the trail entered the dark shade of a dense grove of trees. I felt a surge of relief at the change of scene and the soothingly cool dark shade; and my eyes adjusted just in the nick of time as a thick, low, moss-covered branch loomed across the path hardly two feet above the galloping horse!

The little devil! I was riding a demon! He knew what he was doing, and he would see me dead! It was all I could do to bend over backward till my head hit his rump and the log passed by, inches from my nose!

I snapped upright on the racing phantom in order to be ready for the next challenge. When the next branch came, I ducked forward very low and clung to the side of his neck, much like they did in the old western movies as they fired their pistols or threw burning torches without providing a target to the adversary.

Again a feeling came that I had survived this round, and as we sped through an outcrop of rocks, I waited for his next trick.

It wasn't long in coming. The trail ran along a ditch on the left side and a wall of solid rock on the right. There was room enough for two horses to cross. My spirited little fighter came up with an ingenious idea, running barely an inch away from the wall on the right! Had I not by now known his mettle, had I been in lesser awe of his fighting spirit, had I credited him with any lesser intelligence, I would surely have lost a knee and some sundry bones that beautiful morning.

But God was in his heaven, and things in the world were happening just as they were supposed to. This time, I had seen it coming; I dare say that the idea had struck us both at the same time; and I rode across two such knee-scraping attempts with my right leg stretched over the saddle and along the length of the devil's back, while I rested my weight on the left stirrup, praying that the straps would not break, and hung on for dear life; my face downwards, my arms around the horse's neck and the seat of my pants waving in the air!

The imbalance of my weight in the saddle slowed him down. He walked forward staidly for some time, and I relaxed enough to gather my wits, straighten my form, run a wondering hand over the turban still on my head. As we stepped over a patch of green grass with the morning dew still shimmering in the sun, I felt an overwhelming surge of respect for my brave-hearted pony. I was suddenly getting an entirely fresh view of the clear sky, the trees and rocks and air and all of Creation. I leaned forward and patted his neck. I thanked him with soft endearments. I had a lump in my throat the size of a football as I told him that he had won; that he had had me leaning on the ropes in every round of the match.

We rounded a corner and came upon an expanse of meadow with tents pitched on the near side. We rode up to them as kindred spirits, a young man and a young horse, both a bit stronger for having tested our strength, both exhilarated at the experience, both eager to step out and take on life. I did not tell my soldiers or his keeper a word about what had transpired, and he kept quiet about it, too.

(**These words are not my own. They were written by P. G. Wodehouse. But they have lived and danced in soul for more than 40 years, and I just had to use them! Please take it as my humble tribute to the master of keeping hearts light.)

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Happy birthday, my lovely Jashan, may your horses challenge you well, and may you ride them strong!