Sikkim

5 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Canada, Family, Indian Army, Kerala

Homecoming

Tears and Triumph on Screen

We all love watching surprise homecoming videos on YouTube, especially those featuring American and Canadian soldiers. Our eyes fill with tears as we watch service members being embraced by their loved ones after long deployments. A picture of a father in uniform holding his baby for the very first time – how can you not be emotional? These moments are undeniably powerful, stirring feelings of patriotism and deep respect for those who sacrifice so much.

Yet only those of us who have actually been on the other side of the camera know that while homecomings are fabulous in their own right, they also present unique and often surprising challenges.

Have you ever tried to fathom the stress that soldiers and their families endure – not just during deployment, but during the homecoming itself?

The Decompression Chamber

For me, coming home was like emerging from a deep-sea diver’s decompression chamber. The journey typically began seventy-two hours earlier in a bunker at twelve thousand feet above sea level in Kashmir or Sikkim, ending finally at my family home in Kottayam, a mere ten feet above sea level. The transition was jarring. It took time to accept that I was safely home, surrounded by loved ones, breathing the air of my childhood.

It took even longer to accept the new reality: I was no longer in an intense, life-threatening combat zone, but in the protective nest of my mother’s care. That adjustment brought its own share of stress, anxiety, and fear—for my family members and for me.

The depth of my stress was directly related to the dangers I faced while deployed, the length of time I was away, and was significantly worsened if I had lost any soldiers or if any had been injured—whether by enemy action or the vagaries of extreme weather. There was also the nagging fear of being unaware of changes in family dynamics, neighbourhood developments, shifting relationships with relatives, and even the comings and goings of animals and poultry at home. Nothing was too small to add to the anxiety.

A Mother’s Sigh of Relief

For my mother, my arrival was always a moment of profound relief. She would heave a long sigh, rush to thank God for bringing her son home safely, and then say, “Why did you write that you would be home next week? I always knew you would come earlier.”

Throughout this emotional welcome, our father maintained a stoic silence—until finally breaking it with a simple, “Welcome home.”

The Statue of Homecoming

The statue pictured above commemorates the homecoming of a sailor. It was unveiled on 4 May 2010 in Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, to mark the hundredth anniversary of the founding of the Canadian Navy. The image captures the essence of reunion – the joy, the relief, the unspoken understanding between those who leave and those who wait.

A Lesson Learned Early

My journey of homecomings began when I joined Sainik School, Amaravathi Nagar, in Tamil Nadu. Traveling home on vacation was a day-long ordeal in the 1970s, owing to India’s poor rail and road connectivity. I would write a letter home a fortnight before my planned departure, then travel in a group with friends.

While I was in grade eight, my eldest brother offered me advice that I have followed faithfully ever since. “Never write the correct date of your arrival,” he said. “Always give a date a few days or a week later. Amma gets very stressed thinking about you on the train – whether you might miss a connection, whether you’ll get good food. Spare her that anxiety.”

I followed that advice through decades of military service, right up to my last homecoming from Canada. I never gave the exact date of my arrival. Often, I told no one at all about my travel plans.

The Taxi Ride That Gave Me Away

In 2015, I flew into Kochi Airport and took a taxi home. While still in the taxi, I called my eldest brother.

“How far away are you?” he asked.

“About forty-five minutes,” I replied.

My brother immediately announced to the household, “Reji will be home in forty-five minutes. Get lunch ready for him.”

My mother was utterly surprised and thrilled. “Which Reji?” she exclaimed. “Our Reji? I spoke to him in Canada yesterday. How can he be home in forty-five minutes?”

After lunch, I asked my brother how he had known I had landed in Kochi and was on my way home – before I could even say anything.

“The traffic horns,” he explained. “Blaring, chaotic. I know that in Canada you never hear that sound. So I guessed you were in a taxi, coming home.”

A Nephew’s Realisation

Our nephew serves as a Captain in the Corps of Engineers. After completing a gruelling six-month Young Officers’ Course in Pune, he and his friends vacationed in Goa for a week. Only then did he return home.

He called me shortly after arriving. “Now I realise why you never disclosed your travel plans,” he said. “My mother called constantly, demanding that I come home immediately.”

My eldest brother, now head of the family, offered him the same advice he had given me decades earlier: “Never write the correct date of your arrival. Always give a date a few days or a week later.”

The Unseen Side of Reunion

Homecoming videos capture only the embrace, the tears, the joy. They do not capture the decompression, the anxiety, the careful management of a mother’s worry, or the strategic withholding of arrival dates. They do not show the soldier learning to breathe again at sea level, or the family learning to accommodate a person who has been living in a different world.

Homecomings are wonderful. But they are also complicated. And for those of us who have lived through both sides of the camera, the real story is always richer – and more challenging – than the two-minute clip suggests.

Leave a comment Posted on by Reji Koduvath Canada, Parenting

It’s Natural, Biological and Not the Stork

In the Netherlands, Germany, and parts of Eastern Europe, there is a charming myth: storks nesting on rooftops brings good luck – and the possibility of new birth – to the family living below.

When Marina broke the news of her pregnancy to our five-year-old daughter, Nidhi, she said, “There is a little baby growing in my belly. We will have a baby in March.“

Nidhi’s inquisitive mind immediately fired back: “How did the baby get into your belly? And how old is the baby now?“

“God placed the baby in my belly,” Marina replied. “It is three months old.”

Nidhi thought for a moment and said, “I didn’t see God in our home. But Dad came home four months ago from his military posting in Sikkim. Whatever it is, I want a sister – not a brother. Boys are bullies.“

How to Break the News of a Sibling’s Arrival

Young children are not equipped to process complex information about conception and childbirth. When breaking the news, keep it straightforward and simple. Be ready to answer questions – but do not pre-empt the child with long explanations. If they are not asking, it is not yet on their mind. Wait for their cues. If they ask for more detail, you can expand.

A good approach is to frame it as a story: Mom and Dad make a baby, the baby grows inside Mom’s womb, and after about nine months, the baby is ready to be born. Ask gentle probing questions to gauge your child’s understanding. This will help you choose the right words.

You can begin with the idea of seeds and growth – like a fruit growing from a seed – and explain how the baby develops, moves, feeds, and sleeps. If your child is school going, ask them what they already know and follow their lead. Always use accurate anatomical language – like womb or uterus instead of belly.

The Importance of Using Accurate Anatomical Terms

Most of us grew up with euphemisms for private parts – tuckus, tush, peepee, peekki, and so on. Parents often use these for propriety or to avoid embarrassment. But imagine a child screaming in a busy shopping mall, “My penis hurts!” or “My vagina is itching!” It is not an embarrassment; it becomes one only if we treat it as such.

In Canada, children are taught proper anatomical terms – penis, testicles, vagina, vulva—in Grade 1 as part of the sexual health education curriculum. By using alternative names, we do our children a disservice. This education must begin at home, so children are not surprised at school. Studies have shown that children who easily grasp these terms are those whose parents use the correct language at home.

Using proper terminology helps children develop a healthy, positive body image, rather than feeling that their genitals are shameful or bad. It also encourages them to understand their bodies better and ask questions about sexual development. It enhances body awareness, self-esteem, and confidence.

Children who are comfortable talking about their bodies are more likely to disclose if something worrisome or uncomfortable happens to them. They can confidently tell doctors about itching or pain in private areas. They can also inform their parents if someone touches them inappropriately.

Child-sex predators are less likely to target confident, informed children who clearly talk openly with their parents and are aware that inappropriate touching must be stopped and reported immediately.

A study found that even when pre-schoolers learn the proper names for their body parts at school, only those with parents who reinforced those terms at home truly internalised them. So, do not leave this important task to teachers alone. You can begin using proper terminology when changing diapers, bathing your child, or whenever the subject naturally arises.

Sex Education Starts at Home

Sex education must begin at home and be age appropriate. You can seek assistance from your paediatrician if needed. Many of us are uncomfortable using anatomically correct terminology—so practice before you talk to your children. If they sense your discomfort, the lesson will not land. Every question about their body should be answered as accurately, honestly, and age-appropriately as possible. Never make it a big deal.

For me, my first sex education teacher was my Amma.

Recommended Books

To help you navigate these beautiful but often surprising conversations, here are two highly recommended, well-illustrated guides:

  • Amazing You! An Explanation of Birth and Babies by Dr. Gail Saltz: Perfect for younger children, using warm imagery and correct terms.
  • It’s Not the Stork! by Robie H. Harris: A fantastic, trusted book that answers basic biology questions honestly and age-appropriately.

These are two well illustrated books I recommend for parents and grandparents.  The books will help you answer young children’s delightful, thoughtful, and often non-stop questions about their own bodies and about how girls’ and boys’ bodies are the same and are different questions that are seemingly simple, but often not easy to answer. 

9 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Indian Army

Legendary Lungi

For me, undoubtedly most comfortable evening home wear has always been the down to earth ‘Lungi’.  It is extremely comfortable and is an all season wear.  It is unisex – wearable by both men and women.  It is easy to wear without any hassles of zips, buttons or laces.  One got to  just tie at the waist.  Tying a Lungi at the waist is surely not any rocket science, but to ensure that it remains there is surely an art by itself.  Lungi provides free movement for the lower limbs and also air circulation, especially ideal for the hot and humid climate of Kerala.

A Lungi is a cotton sheet about 2 meter in length and over a meter in breadth and is characterised  by its plain, checkered, floral or window-curtain patterns.  By design, one-size-fits-all, both males and females and surely does not have any caste, creed or religion.  The only variation is that Muslims of Kerala wear it right to left, whereas others wear it left to right.  It is very difficult for a normal eye to make out this subtle difference.  Lungi is worn in India, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Nepal, Cambodia, Ethiopia, Myanmar and Thailand. ‘Mundu’ is its white cousin and is worn mostly outdoors in Kerala- to church, family functions and even to office.

While serving in the Indian Army, I wore a Lungi to bed, even in remote border posts – at altitudes above 10,000 feet when the mercury dipped to nearly 30 degrees below the freezing mark.  I wore it while serving in the North in Kashmir, in the West in the deserts of Rajasthan and in the humid jungles of Eastern India. It had no combat or camouflaged design or pattern as it was not an Army ‘issue’ item and did not figure in the ‘Dress Regulations for the Army.’

Once on my trip home on vacation from Sikkim, I called on Colonel Baby Mathew who was commanding an Artillery Regiment located near the airport from where I was to board the flight home.  On reaching the main gate of his regiment, the sentry on guard saluted me smartly and said, “Our CO (Commanding Officer) is waiting at his residence for your arrival” and he then gave directions to the driver about the route.  On entering Colonel Mathew’s residence, I heard his voice saying, “Head straight to my bedroom.”  There was Colonel Mathew, sitting on his bed, adorned in his favourite Lungi.  He ordered me to change into my Lungi and join him for a hot lunch of Kappa (Kasava or Tapioca) and fish curry – a Kerala Christian favourite.  While partaking the meal, Colonel Mathew said “I have placed my residence out of bounds for all ranks for the next 24 hours” – meaning no one to come near his house until I was there.  Obviously, the Commanding Officer did not want his command to see him and his friend in their Lungi.

In June 2002, I took over command of our Regiment in its operational location on the India-Pakistan border in Rajasthan.  The Regiment was mobilised from its peace location in Devlali (Maharashtra, near Mumbai) on that year’s New Year Eve.  The entire Indian Army had moved into their operational locations after the attack on the Indian Parliament building by terrorists believed to have come in from Pakistan.  The Indian Railways ensured that our Regiment, like all the other units of the Indian Army, were transported to their operational locations at super-high priority in two days.  The Military Special trains moved at speeds greater than that of many express trains and were accorded the highest priority.

The move back to Devlali from Rajasthan was the opposite.  An Army which did not even fire a single bullet, an army which did not fight a war surely  had no priorities in anyone’s mind.  The Military Special trains stopped at every possible station, even to give way to the freight trains.  Now we were the lowest priority in the eyes of the Indian Railways.  The onward move executed in less than two days now was sure to take a week.

On the day of our train’s move from Jodhpur (Rajasthan,) the soldiers loaded all the vehicles and equipment on the train.  After accomplishing the task, the Subedar Major (Master Warrant Officer) Thangaswamy had a rollcall to ensure everyone was present and also to brief the soldiers about the return journey.  As I looked out of my railway coach’s window, I saw the entire regiment standing.  I had a brain wave – Why carry all the soldiers on the train?  About a hundred of them is all what I require, mainly to ensure the security and safety of the train and the equipment.  Why not the rest of the soldiers be sent on leave as many had not met their families for a prolonged time due to the operational commitments?  Also, less of a trouble for the chefs to cook meals on a running train and less of administrative issues.

I stepped out of my coach wearing my Lungi and ordered Subedar Major Thangaswamy to only keep about a hundred soldiers and disperse the rest on leave for a week to rejoin at Devlali.  Everyone’s face suddenly brightened up but with that I was christened ‘Lungi CO.’

After moving to Canada, on a warm and sunny summer morning, I was watering the garden wearing my all time favourite Lungi.  There appeared our neighbour, Mr Win of Chinese descent and on seeing me wearing a colourful and comfortable costume enquired “Reji, what skirt are you wearing- looks really colourful.  Sometimes it is a full-skirt, sometimes half-skirt and sometimes mini-skirt.” –That was it! I discarded my favourite Lungi forever.

17 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Indian Army

Soldiers’ Gods

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There are many soldier Gods in different border areas where the Indian Army operates. Most of the shrines dedicated to these Gods are situated in inhospitable terrain and mostly placed out of bounds to the civilians. There are no hymns or keertans sang on behalf of these Gods, they do not have ashrams, they do not ride in luxurious sedans, they do not hug devotees, they do not run charitable institutions, and they do not give darshans, and so on. They are soldiers who sacrificed their lives in service of their motherland and now regarded as patron saints guarding the areas where they achieved Martyrdom.


On my first assignment to the Kashmir Valley as a young Captain in 1987, my belief in  God Almighty was rekindled mainly because of the inhospitable terrain, sub-zero temperatures, heavy snow-falls, avalanches, thin air with deficiency of Oxygen, high-altitudes above 10,000 feet, and the drive through the mountain roads where one could slip off the road, down the gorges, and no trace would be left of the vehicle or the passengers.


I was attached to a Punjab Battalion as Artillery Observer. The Battalion had soldiers mainly from Punjab, Himachal and Jammu, consisting of Hindus and Sikhs. As per the norms of the Army, the battalion had a Mandir with a Hindu Pundit and a Gurudwara with a Sikh Granthi. On Sundays or on important religious days we attended both Mandir Parade and Gurudwara Parade. These being Parades, it was mandatory for all officers and soldiers to attend.

On the way to the battalion headquarters, there was a Muslim Peer Baba and every man, irrespective of their rank or position, used to stop and pay their respects to the Peer Baba before proceeding to the battalion. The belief among the soldiers, passed down over many decades of army deployment was that the Peer Baba took care of the soldiers and in case anyone failed to stop and pay respect, he will meet with some tragedy. Being a Christian by birth, I said the Lord’s prayer in the mornings and evenings, a ritual embedded in me by our father.


This was the place I understood the meaning of secularism and realised that all Gods were the same. I was never sure as to who saw me through my first Kashmir tenure, the Gods in the Temple, the Gurudwara, Peer Baba or Jesus. During my later years of field service in Sikkim and in Siachen Glacier, I came across two Soldier Gods.

OP Baba, Siachen Glacier, c/o 56 APO
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Siachen Glacier, a disputed territory between India and Pakistan, highest battlefield of the world, is well known for its inhospitable and treacherous terrain, freezing cold at minus 40 degrees Celsius, crevasses and avalanches and lastly enemy action. Statistics reveal that more lives have been lost to the weather than to the enemy action since 1984, when Indian Army first occupied Siachen glacier. Hypoxia, High Altitude Pulmonary Edema (‘high-altitude sickness’ or HAPE), bone-chilling winds, sun burns, chill blains, frost bites, the thin air and sub-zero temperatures inducing acute depression, are  some of the weather factors affecting our soldiers. Most of the soldiers serving in such areas become very religious and the trust in their Gods really multiplies.

There are many a myths and legends about the Siachen Glacier like any other battlefields.  Legend has it that OP (Om Prakash) Baba, deeply revered by troops posted in these glacial heights, was an army soldier who fought valiantly to preserve Indian frontiers from Pakistani intruders in most adverse situations. Belief in the Soldier Saint is so strong that a formal report is given to OP Baba before induction of a soldier party on the glacier and after successful accomplishment of any mission. Any officer moving into the area reports his arrival to the Baba by visiting the shrine and paying his respects.


Faith in the legend of OP Baba is so strong that all troops give up consumption of alcohol and tobacco during their stay on the glacier as the Baba is believed to have been a strict disciplinarian and expects the same from fellow soldiers who come here to guard the frontier. Every battalion or company before taking position begins with a prayer at Baba’s shrine. The company commander gives a detailed briefing to Baba before tying a brass bell in the complex, taking a vow to keep away from cigarettes and intoxicants and fight the enemy till the last breath. Soldiers keep this promise till the last day of their tenure in the glacier and is strongly believed that any deviation is met with instant punishment from the legend himself.

It is believed that a night before any imminent danger, Baba comes in the dreams of soldiers and warns them of such eventuality. Baba has always been with the soldiers and protects every soldier and warns them of any impending danger in the Glacier.

Baba Harbhajan Singh, Sikkim, c/o 99 APO

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Baba Harbhajan Singh has defeated death. Believe it or not but it is true, one of its kind of story in the world- a man from an Indian Army in  Nathula border in Sikkim, is still doing his duty even after his death some three decades ago. 60km from Gangtok towards the Nathula Pass lies the valley of Kupup.  Here is the shrine of Baba Harbhajan popularly known as Baba Mandir. Baba Harbhajan has been guarding the international boundary of the two Asian giants, China and India over the last three decades. But believe me he does it alone. The Baba warns about the dangerous activities on the border through the dreams of fellow soldiers. Legend has it that even the Chinese soldiers confirm sighting a man riding a horse all alone, patrolling the border.

Born in Brondal village of Kapurthala, Punjab, Harbhajan Singh joined the 23rd Punjab Battalion on February 1966 as a Sepoy. On October 4, 1968 Sepoy Harbhajan Singh was escorting a mule caravan from his battalion headquarters and he fell into a fast flowing stream and was drowned. Search for Sepoy Harbhajan was made with no results it was on the fifth day of his missing, his Commanding Officer had a dream of Sepoy Harbhajan Singh informing him of his tragic incident and his personnel weapon being under the heap of snow. Sepoy Harbhajan Singh desired to have a Samadhi (memorial) made after him. The Commanding Officer ignored the dream as an imagination but later when the personnel weapon of Sepoy Harbhajan Singh was found at the spot where he had informed, the Commanding Officer was taken aback and to mark respect and towards his wish a samadhi was constructed there.


Here too, the belief in the soldier saint is so strong that any officer or soldiers moving into the area report their arrival to the Baba by visiting the shrine and paying his respects. On my arrival at Sikkim,  Colonel PK Ramachandran, our Commanding Officer, realising my rational stands on such issues had advised me to visit the Baba Mandir. He said that my visit to the Baba Mandir may mean nothing to me, but will go a long way in upholding the faith of the men under my command. I did as ordered without realising the implications of his words until I read a research paper by a US Army Doctor on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) suffered by operationally deployed US Army troops. I realised that cases of PTSD were the least in the Indian Army despite all the operational commitments and I can attribute it only to the faith in God by our troops and the role played by the myths and legends and patron saints of different areas. This may also be the reason for increased evangelistic activities reported among the US Military personnel deployed in operational zones.

St George and the British Army
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St George is patron of soldiers, cavalry and chivalry and he is the patron saint of England, Georgia, Lithuania, Portugal, Germany and Greece.  He has no biblical significance.  He held the rank of a tribune in the Roman army and was beheaded by Diocletian for protesting against the Emperor’s persecution of Christians. St George was adopted as the patron saint of soldiers after he was said to have appeared to the Crusader army at the Battle of Antioch in 1098.

He is usually represented on horseback in the act of spearing the monster which is vomiting fire.  It is based on a myth that in Sylene, a city of Libya, a lake was infested by a huge dragon, whose poisonous breath would kill anyone.  The citizens could never draw water from the lake and in order to keep the dragon away, every day a virgin was sacrificed to it.  One day the turn came for Sabra, the king’s daughter, to become its victim.  She was tied to the stake, and left to be devoured, when St. George appeared mounted on his charger and is believed to have killed the dragon.  Many similar stories were transmitted to the West by Crusaders who had heard them from Byzantine soldiers.

The banner of St George, the red cross of a martyr on a white background, was adopted for the uniform of English soldiers possibly during the reign of Richard I, and later became the flag of England and the White Ensign of the Royal Navy.

In 1940, when the civilian population of Britain was subjected to mass bombing by the Luftwaffe, King George VI instituted the George Cross for ‘acts of the greatest heroism or of the most conspicuous courage in circumstances of extreme danger’.  The award, which is second only to the Victoria Cross, is usually given to civilians.  The award consists of a silver cross.  On one side of the cross is St George slaying the dragon, with the inscription, ‘For Gallantry’; on the other appear the name of the holder and the date of the award.

After setting foot in India, British Army built its first fort in Madras (now Chennai) in 1644 and christened it Fort St George after their patron saint.

 

 

5 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Family, Indian Army, Kerala

Fire! Fire! Fire!

The Wake-Up Call

“Fire! Fire! Fire!“—our exchange operator screaming at the top of his voice—jolted me from a deep slumber. The regiment was located in the higher reaches of Sikkim. The date was 12 December 1997. The area lay buried under about four feet of frozen solid snow, and the temperature hovered at minus twenty degrees Celsius.

The Evening Before

That evening, I had visited the dentist. A troublesome wisdom tooth had been causing me immense pain. The dentist decided that extraction was the best course of action. He administered local anesthesia on my gums and removed the tooth, advising me to rest for a day or two. I returned to my room, but a splitting headache – likely a reaction to the anesthesia – set in. I decided to sleep it off and hit the bed.

At dusk, our Commanding Officer (CO), Colonel P.K. Ramachandran, wanted to speak with me. He called the Regimental Telephone Exchange to connect the call. The exchange operator tried repeatedly, but I was in too deep a slumber to answer. When he came to my room and saw my condition, he informed the CO. Colonel Ramachandran, a thorough gentleman, instructed the operator to let me sleep and to put the call through the moment I woke up.

The Blaze

At around 9 PM, the exchange operator noticed smoke and flames rising from the building where I was sleeping. He rushed into my room, screaming, and woke me. “Your room is on fire!” he shouted. By then, about five soldiers had also gathered.

I stepped out of the room – now engulfed in flames – wearing only my sandals. Fortunately, my identity card was safe, still tucked in the pocket of my uniform shirt. I had slept off without changing out of my uniform.

The fire had started because the officer in the neighbouring room had forgotten to turn off his kerosene-based room heating system – a bukhari. As I stood outside in the biting cold, I watched the entire building go up in flames. The soldiers, led by the exchange operator, were bravely salvaging whatever they could—my desktop PC, the television, the VCR.

The Harsh Reality

That was when we realised a critical flaw: the regiment’s water tankers were empty. Orders had been to keep them empty to prevent freezing. The solid frozen snow was useless for dousing the fire – it could not be lifted off the ground. An order was immediately passed: from that night onward, all water tankers would be kept three-fourths full to meet such emergencies.

Our CO approached me and asked how I was feeling. I looked at the blazing building and replied, “The only thing I can do is enjoy the warmth the fire is providing on a freezing night.”

The Morning After

Wedding

The next morning, the soldiers scoured through the ashes. Subedar Balakishan emerged from the debris carrying something intact – a photograph that had survived the raging fire. It was our wedding photograph, dated 16 April 1989.

I looked at it and said, “What God has united, no raging fire, storm, or hail can ever separate.”

Our Wedding: An Orthodox Syrian Christian Ceremony

An Orthodox Syrian Christian wedding follows procedures similar to other Orthodox faiths – Greek, Slavic, and Egyptian.

It begins with the Betrothal service, where the priest blesses the rings of the bride and groom and places them on the ring fingers of their right hands. (In the Bible, the right hand indicates good.) The betrothal dramatises the free decision made by the couple and is symbolised by the giving of rings.

The Marriage Ceremony begins immediately thereafter, culminating in the Crowning. The priest places a crown on the groom’s head while reciting the crown blessing three times, followed by the crowning of the bride. Greek and Slavic Orthodox traditions use crowns made of olive leaves; Syrian Orthodox use a gold chain as a symbolic crown. The crowning signifies victory – just as athletes were crowned in ancient times at their triumphs. Here, the bride and groom are crowned for their growth as mature Christians, prepared for the responsibilities of a Christian marriage.

This is followed by petitions and prayers, with special reference to couples from the Old Testament, such as Abraham and Sarah. An epistle of Saint Paul is read, exhorting husband and wife to unconditional love and mutual support. Then an excerpt from the Gospel of Saint John is read, relating to the wedding at Cana, where Christ performed His first miracle and blessed the institution of marriage.

The Distinctive Traditions of Kerala

The differences between other Orthodox faiths and Kerala’s Syrian Orthodox faith begin here.

The groom ties the Minnu around the bride’s neck – the Minnu Kettu (tying of the knot.) This tradition has been adopted from Hindu customs. The Thali used in a Kerala Hindu marriage is shaped like a leaf of the sacred banyan tree. Christians modified it by superimposing a cross on the leaf and called it the Minnu. The Minnu is suspended on seven threads drawn out of the Manthrakodi – a sari presented to the bride by the groom and his family. The seven strands represent the bride, the groom, the couple’s parents, and the Church.

The groom then places the Manthrakodi over the bride’s head. This symbolises the groom’s pledge to protect, care for, and cherish his wife. The Manthrakodi is an adaptation of the earlier Kerala Hindu Nair tradition of Pudavakoda, where handing over clothes to the bride signified entry into a contracted marriage. At this point, the bride’s relative, who has been standing behind her, yields her place to a female member of the groom’s family as a sign that the bride is welcomed into her new home.

The ceremony ends with a benediction and prayer. The priest uses the Bible to uncouple the hands of the bride and groom – signifying that only God can come between them. It is always the priest who presides over the actual marriage ceremony, tying the Minnu. If a bishop is present, he will only bless the Minnu. This tradition may have emerged from the old Travancore Christian Marriage Acts, wherein only the priest held the magisterial power to conduct a marriage.

Epilogue: Agni Pareeksha

Even though our marriage was not conducted in the presence of the Fire God (Agni), our wedding photograph lived through an Agni Pareeksha – a trial by fire. And emerged not just intact, but radiant. What fire could not consume, time will never diminish.

10 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Canada, Indian Army

The Faithful Banian: A Soldier’s Second Skin or a Wife Beater

One day, our teenage son Nikhil walked up to me and asked if he could borrow my wife-beater.

I completely lost my composure. Shocked, I immediately told him that I had never beaten his mother, nor did I ever intend to do so! (I stopped short of admitting that while the idea had sprouted in my mind once or twice during a few heated moments, good sense had always prevailed over impulse).

Seeing my utter predicament, our son burst out laughing and explained the terminology. He just wanted the sleeveless white vest I used to wear back in India. You hardly see anyone wearing them here in Canada—likely due to the colder weather and significantly lower perspiration levels.

He explained that the American TV show COPS had a lot to do with popularising the term. Every time the show featured a man being arrested for domestic violence, he seemed to be wearing that exact style of sleeveless vest.

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As the story goes, the term traces back to 1947 in Detroit, Michigan. A local man named James Hartford Jr was arrested for beating his wife to death. The media aired his mugshot for months—showing him in a sleeveless undershirt—constantly branding him the wife-beater. The name, unfortunately, stuck to the garment.

To me, however, that simple white sleeveless vest—the humble banian—was a marvel of utility. I always admired it for the immense service it rendered. It never cared where it ended up, even after its owner had exploited it to the hilt and thrown it out. In an Indian household, a retired banian achieves a second life, usually reincarnating as a shoe-shining cloth, a mop, or a kitchen duster. After all, why discard such high-quality, pure white cotton?

I never understood why people in hot climates wore more layers than absolutely necessary, but the banian proved its worth by absorbing sweat. Sure, it got wet and felt momentarily uncomfortable, but it acted as an impregnable barrier. It stopped sweat from seeping through to the outer layer of my Olive Green (OG) uniform. Leaving white salt stains on a uniform shirt after the sweat dried was considered highly un-soldierly. Moreover, my skin hated the scratchy texture of the heavy OG fabric; the faithful banian maintained a comfortable buffer between the uniform and my skin.

Some of my army friends preferred banians with sleeves, but I always stuck to the sleeveless version to avoid the dreaded Sunday is longer than Monday syndrome. This happens when the sleeves of your undershirt creep out from underneath the shorter sleeves of your uniform or T-shirt—a terrible look for a soldier.

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My relationship with the garment started early. When I joined Sainik School Amaravathinagar in Tamil Nadu at the tender age of nine, my trunk packed by my parents contained a dozen banians. We had to wear them for morning Physical Training (PT) so the instructors could monitor our physical growth and check for skin infections. This strict PT dress code followed me through the National Defence Academy (NDA) and the Indian Military Academy (IMA). It was only when I was commissioned as an officer that I transitioned to wearing a white T-shirt for PT, while the jawans continued training in their faithful banians. Even so, I loved the feel of the banian clinging to my skin and wore one under my clothes at all times.

When I joined my regiment, my Buddy (helper) was Sepoy Hukum Chand. He served me with the utmost dedication, love, and care. Hukum Chand was my accountant, personal assistant, bodyguard, radio operator, and buddy rolled into one. He managed my entire life: waking me up, preparing my morning tea, keeping my cigarettes stocked, and prepping my uniform, room, wardrobe, and evening attire.

This seamless arrangement lasted for seven years—until the seven-year itch erupted. I got married.

Suddenly, Hukum Chand’s authority over my wardrobe was challenged. One evening, my wife Marina flatly disapproved of the suit Hukum Chand had laid out for a party, noting that it clashed with her saree. A silent battle of wills ensued. My wife won, Hukum Chand lost, and the dynamic of my wardrobe changed forever.

During our bachelordom years, Hukum Chand had closely observed my habit of wearing a banian at all times. Every six months, he purchased a fresh dozen from the regimental canteen. Since he was my accountant, he paid for them using my money, leaving me completely oblivious to the expense.

When I finally asked why on earth we needed new banians every six months, he explained his logic. The brackish water used by the washerman turned the white fabric yellow after repeated washes. Instead of throwing them out, Hukum Chand snipped off the shoulder straps, cut open the torso, and repurpose them into polishing rags.

He used them to shine my leather boots, Sam Browne belt, and brass rank badges. He pointed out that the standard yellow polishing cloth sold at the canteen left lint all over my black boots and OG uniform, requiring double the effort to clean up. A well-washed, soft white banian was superior in every way, and best of all, it didn’t cost a penny extra. He used the thinner, worn-out sections for the leather and the thicker seams for the brass. It was a masterclass in military budgeting: a costly saving!

Years later, after completing various staff postings and long courses, I returned to the regiment in Sikkim as a Battery Commander. This time, Sepoy Sri Chand was assigned as my Buddy, while Hukum Chand had climbed the ranks to become a Havildar.

A few days after my arrival, while I was taking an afternoon siesta in my bunker, I overheard Havildar Hukum Chand marching in. He began fiercely admonishing young Sri Chand for not maintaining the Saheb’s bunker up to standard. Hukum Chand proceeded to lecture him on my exact likes and dislikes—my tea preferences, my food, my clothes, and my cigarettes.

He concluded his lecture with authority: “Saheb likes wearing a banian at all times, even when he is sleeping.”

Glancing down, I realised I was indeed napping in my favorite lungi-banian combination. Hukum Chand added one more detail: “He prefers the thick banians under his uniform and the thin ones under his civil clothes.”

That was news to me. It was a preference I didn’t even know I had! In reality, it was a habit completely engineered by Hukum Chand years prior, ensuring he always had a steady, rotating supply of thick and thin cotton cloths to keep my brass and leather gleaming.

Today, Hukum Chand is a retired Subedar enjoying his well-deserved post-military life, while both of his children work as IT professionals. We recently crossed paths in December 2025 during our regiment’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations, sharing a laugh over old times.

It made me realise that many of our deeply ingrained habits and preferences are not self-developed at all. They are quietly thrust upon us by our environment—and sometimes, by a very clever Buddy.