Lt Gen Raj Kadyan retd
The Tribune, Jan 23, 2026 IST
WHENEVER I visit my ancestral village in Haryana, I walk through the gali that I took on my way to school. Most houses lining it were made with mud bricks. They were given an annual protective coating (leepna) of a mix of dung and husk. In our big village, there were only a handful of pucca havelis, including ours. Constructed in 1932, it was made with small bricks and lime mortar; in those times, cement was scarcely available. Nearly a century old, the haveli still stands strong. Not occupied, it is a haven for bats. In the dark staircase, they flutter around menacingly.
Nearby was a mud house. Its wall served as a makeshift sports arena. A jooti was hung from a nail near the drip edge (munder). Boys would come running, and deadpointing with momentum, climb the wall to bring it down with a kick. The only kit needed was worn-out footwear — a fine example of atmanirbharta. Today, a cement wall stands there, covered with political graffiti and sundry grawlix.
A family owned two houses across the street. These were connected through a bridge. This dobaari was a famous landmark, and men used the shade for playing choupad on hot summer afternoons. The farmland, lacking canal irrigation, was too dry for growing a summer crop.
One day, walking under the dobaari and distracted by the choupad, I stepped on a sleeping dog. He caught me just below the knee. Nearly eight decades later, I still carry the canine marks. More than the bite, I remember the pain when my mother put red chilli powder on the wound. With the nearest dispensary being five kos away on a dirt track, this was a common treatment for dog bites.
An open space adjacent to the village was used for popular wrestling bouts on Holi. When a wrestler circled the arena with the tail of his langot hanging loose, it signified a challenge. Someone from among the spectators would come forward and shake hands with him. The bout was thus arranged.
As they grappled, there was loud cheering from their supporters. There were no prescribed rules; one only had to pin the opponent down flat on his back. The spectators would pay money to the winner, a kind of crowdfunding. The name of anyone who paid five rupees or more was announced with a drumbeat. Today, that open space (gorwa) is all built up.
Fast-forward to 2012, Gurgaon. My granddaughters used to visit us from Mumbai, I would take them to the nearby market, where they were thrilled to see stray cows. I carried the younger one on my arm while the elder walked along holding my finger. One day, with the child blocking my view, I tripped over a broken portion of the road. Instinctively, I took the fall on my wrist; the child remained unharmed. Whenever I pass by that spot, the incident comes alive — the road there is still broken.