Passing The Lawn Test

Passing The Lawn Test

I watched helplessly as our irreverent Boxer, Bruno, having deposited a free gift on my carefully tended lawn, proceeded to dig it up in a shower of grass and clods of earth. Having completed his ablutions and ignoring my threats, he sauntered off, leaving me to clean up and repair the damage. As I went about the task it took me back fifty years to Deephu in Nagaland, where I was posted when I acquired my better half.

The fifties were a great period to be the nubile daughter of a senior officer and my new bride, living in Srinagar at that time, enjoyed every minute of the devoted attention lavished by an army of attendants, in awe of her father. It didn’t matter that the new husband was a junior officer way down the pecking order, who didn’t have a fraction of Daddy’s resources. A husband was expected to provide the same lifestyle that the young lady had grown up with. He was also expected to know her requirements in advance. What kind of an officer was he, if he didn’t?

It didn’t help that I was posted in Nagaland at that time. Dimapur then was far more remote than can be imagined today, fifty years later. My living quarters consisted of a modest bamboo cottage constructed by the deft hands and raw native intellect of my Gurkha jawans, but with the complete absence of modern amenities. There was neither running water nor electricity. Water for drinking, bathing, cooking and everything else was fetched every morning from a nearby mountain stream by the unit tanker and deposited in a forty gallon drum placed prominently near the entrance. I had of course, sung ample praises of our would be nest before we arrived there as a couple.

As the reality of the transition from Srinagar to Deephu began to sink in, a few days later the new memsa’ab demanded, “Where’s the lawn?”. It didn’t concern her that the ground in front of the cottage was hard as rock or that there was a shortage of water. After all, there was a beautiful lawn with flowers in front of Daddy’s home in Srinagar.

I put the query to my trusty minder, Ganga Bahadur, “Memsa’ab lai lawn chahicha (Memsa’ab wants a lawn)”. Ganga was the salt of the earth, a typical Gurkha completely devoted, but with a more than a little fondness for the local brew. Having been injured in a Naga ambush few years earlier, he found the regular unit duties difficult and was content to look after my few needs. “Hujoor, ma garchu”, he declared with the conviction of a man being assigned an important tactical task. To assist him, I assigned another man, younger by a few years, but with a tongue – twister of a name that I simplified to Younger Bahadur, which later evolved into Younga, rhyming with Ganga.

An area for the green patch was duly staked out and Ganga and Younga were despatched to look for suitable grass that could be planted there. However two days of search proved fruitless. Since I could discern the stirrings of discontent in the high command at this apparent inactivity, I rapidly pointed the two volunteer horticulturists in the direction of the forest to find suitable wild grass. This time they returned beaming like a couple of school kids.

Our elation was however short-lived as despite the best attempts at coaxing the grass by sharing our precious water, it refused to grow. The memsa’ab meanwhile observed the proceedings with a mixture of amusement and disdain. Faced with the prospect of the memsa’ab’s displeasure, Ganga and Younga worked their grey cells overtime, an activity they had a distinct aversion to. Finally Younga declared that he knew what the problem was. “We need to dig deeper holes” he analysed, so that the roots could get nourishment. The duo promptly set about digging deeper holes with energy, interspersed with profound discussions on life’s problems. Another bundle of grass from the forest was fetched and planted with all the confidence of one who knew he had licked the problem. For good measure the grass was planted in a criss-cross pattern known to encourage a thick growth. But the grass in the true tradition of the Nagas refused to give in so easily and elation soon turned to disappointment.

To keep up the morale of the troops, I stepped in. That’s what officers are for anyway. I advised them to get tufts of grass from the forest along with clumps of mud. “This will work sa’ab” they declared with the unshakeable faith of a Gurkha in his khukri. A few days of digging later, the tufts of grass were planted close to each other and carefully watered by two now determined Gurkhas. An auspicious time was chosen and the home commander, who was by now visibly restless, was invited to inspect the patch of green. “Not bad”, she declared, while three soldiers grinned at each other, with one already seeing visions of his evening tipple. “Now can we stretch a net across, so that we can have a game of badminton in the evenings?” the memsa’ab continued without a hint of hesitation. This was small stuff after the effort put in and was promptly executed.

When I got home the next day, tea was laid out on the lawn, a cake had been baked, the best embroidered tea-cosy and table cloth was on display, racquets were arranged and the stage set for our first badminton game. Memsa’ab was ready in her outfit, a la Madhubala style. Two minutes into the game disaster struck. A gap between the tufts of grass caught her foot and nearly twisted it bringing her down Madhubala and all. Flinging the racquet down, the newly planted lawn was declared an accident waiting to happen. Ganga and Younga the two seasoned soldiers, who saw their boss getting it, decided to make discretion the better part of valour and beat a tactical retreat into the forest.

The efficiency of the infantry, the honor of the battalion and the credibility of its adjutant, were now seriously in danger and additional help was summoned. Minor matters like counter-insurgency patrols were set aside for the time being, in order to focus on the more important matter of a lawn. A truce of sorts was arranged with the local Nagas, who clucked sympathetically at our dilemma. They too applied their vast intelligence of plants. Slowly a foolproof plan emerged.

The lawn was quickly dug up to remove the top layer and a mixture of cow dung, mud and grass was spread evenly over the rectangle. Watering was done almost with religious fervor. Finally, the first shoots of grass appeared and were welcomed as tenderly as new born babies. Slowly the grass began to spread and resemble a decent lawn. Once again with trepidation we invited the Memsa’ab to view our efforts. Three pairs of eyes watched her every expression. “Much better, very nice in fact” was her response as she gingerly walked over the lawn testing it for unlikely traps. Seemingly satisfied, as she walked back to the house as she called over her shoulder, “But there’s no hedge. We can’t have a lawn without a hedge, can we?”.