Annadata Sukhi Bhava: Sardars of generosity

Recollections of memorable feasts offered by unknown Sikhs and farmers, from an immemorial past

The recurring images of our stoic farmers, who are protesting on the outskirts of Delhi, and the stout Sikhs sharing their steaming hot langar food with the hungry cops on duty, is a heartwarming sight. It brought back a flood of lingering memories from my immemorial past, of two occasions out of many, when I was treated to an unexpected hearty meal. An abiding generosity of spirit, an endearing, embracing hospitality that distinguishes the jovial Sikhs, in particular, and the farming community, in general, are in stark contrast to city folks who often shrink from opening their arms and are discommoded when guests, especially our country cousins, drop in unannounced.

Let me recount two stirring stories that capture the foregoing.

In 1972, I was posted at an observation post at Cho La, a rocky promontory at 15,000 feet above sea level, facing the Chinese outposts on the Tibetan borders, snow bound most of the year. During my tenure, I was deputed to a large contingent of 48 soldiers for a Long-Range Patrol lasting 28 days. The high-altitude mission crossing 21,000 feet was to survey the infiltration routes of the Chinese from Tibetan passes and suggest remedial action. We had to be fully self-contained for the reconnaissance for eight days at a stretch and replenish ourselves at chosen border posts along the route.

After 12 days, on our return trek, it started to rain heavily. As we descended along a stream, it began to swell swiftly, fed by countless rivulets, and soon was in spate. The small bridge where we were to cross as per our map had got washed away. It was nearing dusk and we had to quickly find a safe place to camp overnight. We were drenched to our bones. Fortunately, we had a courageous and very experienced infantry officer who took charge and led us. After an hour of slow trek through slippery slopes, he sighted a meadow under an inch of water where we decided to rest for the night. We took out our dwindling crumbs and ate what we could, and huddling together in full gear in our boots, we lay ourselves down. We were so exhausted that we slept soundly even as the rains beat down on us.

Next morning, the downpour continued. We started on hungry stomachs alongside the flooded stream, believing it would lead us to some settlement. We had to hack our way through the undergrowth with machetes on many stretches. The path was arduous with steep gorges, and as we trekked down the rocky riverbanks, there was no let-up in the rains. At one point, as we slowly trudged along the river, there was a sudden explosive sound. We were caught unawares as rocks rumbled down. Luckily, only two soldiers were injured. We marched on and took shelter before sundown. The rains lashed at us.

The third day, we started early. The rains were petering out. With no radio communication, no maps, and no idea where we were, we banded together and trundled down. Around 11 in the morning, the rains abated. And suddenly, as we walked down the hills, the clouds lifted, and below us the verdant valley revealed herself, bathed in effulgent sunlight. And we detected a swirl of smoke deep below in the valley. Life, fire, warmth! Oh, we let out a collective scream of joy.

We hurried down the mountains and as we neared the camp around noon, a burly, jolly Sardar with a few men tagging behind him greeted us as we approached him. On introducing ourselves, he told us he was from the IB and headed that outpost. We told him we had not eaten for two days. We were soaked to our soul and had tired limbs. He organised hot water for us to bathe and ordered food to be cooked.

The Sikh officer toasted us to Hercules rum, regaled us with bawdy stories, and served us hot dal, chawal, roti and chicken curry. It was an unforgettable feast, fit for a king.

Many years later, after retirement from the Army, when I became a farmer, one evening I was travelling on my Enfield motorcycle with my wife and three-year-old daughter, from Hassan town to my farm, a distance of 50 kilometres. Suddenly, I had a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere. It was 12 noon, and I realised we were some 10 km from the nearest town to get the tyre fixed. Then, I saw a lone farmer in a field tucked in a mango orchard. Noticing that I was in distress, he walked toward me. On seeing I had my wife and kid and observing the flat tyre, without a moment of hesitation, he put us at ease with his disarming smile and led us to his house and introduced us to his wife. He then gave me his tractor and a farm hand to ferry the bike to the town for repair and assured me that my wife and kid could relax in the meantime. I returned by 2 pm, ravenously hungry. I profusely thanked him and wished to take leave. He said it was lunch time and he would not let us leave without sharing the meal with his family. It was such a delicious ploughman’s repast that it surpassed any banquet for the potentates.

When you are lost and famished and you’re invited by a generous and genial Sardar to break bread over wine, or by a farmer to join in the family lunch, a humble meal offered by an affable host has no equal.

And now, when I see the earthy farmers sitting in protest on the borders of Delhi, forsaken and forlorn, those denizens of our rural heartland who tirelessly till and toil on their lands to feed us all year, my heart aches and goes out in prayer for them, for an early resolution. The government must show magnanimity and prudence and climb down from the pedestal to break the deadlock and enable them to return with dignity, to their home and hearth and their lands, to keep us well provided.
Annadata Sukhi Bhava.

Are we not bound and beholden to keep those who feed us happy?

(The writer is a soldier, farmer and entrepreneur)