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Prologue
(Ask any soldier as to what is the most precious thing on his person he would protect at any cost and he in all likelihood would reply, ‘I C [Identity Card]’ However weird it may sound the loss of an I C under any circumstance entails a COI [Court of Inquiry], followed by a ‘severe reprimand’ and an indelible ‘Red ink’ entry in one’s document for being careless and not having taken enough precautions to safeguard this valuable piece of paper. This is ingrained in us from the cadet days. Call it what you may, an obsession perhaps; we soldiers cling on to this I C like our dear lives. Strange? Skewed priorities? Well… What can I say? Each of us has his/her own priority and for us soldiers I C remains close to our hearts literally in a specially stitched pouch under our breast pocket)
When my Captain (Dr.) daughter comes home on a vacation, the neighbourhood comes to know of it first, then her mother and lastly me. All sorts of people known and unknown walk in and out at all odd times with their children on tow even if it is for free consultation with the ‘Fuji Dr. Bitiya’. Our ‘Family fighting room’ (you may call it TV Room in your house?) gets converted to a makeshift consulting room and there is never a dull moment as long as she stays with us.
‘Daayakkattam and Pallaankuzhi the two games my mother introduced to her grand daughter bores me to tears, but my daughter loves it. Usually family life is too hectic to play but not this week; it’s just the three of us at home, me, my wife and daughter with our son off on a trip. For many dads, (myself included) a week with a daughter can be ennobling though girls can be such enigmas to their mothers. For one I prefer to have my meals when my daughter is around and just when my wife is away for her ‘Naaraayaneeyam’ classes. Then I get a generous helping of fried pappadams, pickles, thair mulakaais and the sweet even as my daughter fights to shove away all these taboo items away from my reach!
“Appa, when the cat is away the mouse starts playing eh?” chides my daughter.
“Son seems familiar, in good ways and bad, as if he is younger version of you. But not the daughter”, complains my wife. “Why, for example, is she sometimes so dismissive when I say something to her? It is hard to know where I stand with her!” bemoans my wife. But they are thick as thieves- mother and daughter I mean.
“Do you think boys are easier to raise and less perplexing? No way!” I rub it in.
So one day we had just set out to play, ‘Scrabble’, my favourite game when my daughter suddenly took me unawares with this poser, “Appa, if today a thief were to confront you what would you do?” I atonce knew that a trap has been laid by this duo-mother-daughter combo. Or else why this question?
“Why, why, why, what do you mean?” was my response.
“I’ll tell you what he would do. Now that your father is out of his uniform, he would take out a sheaf of papers full of mathematical formulae and dare the thief to solve the differential equations or what ever”, said my wife.
“And that thief will have nothing of it and run away you mean? Oh Amma you are so mean”, said my daughter. They burst into laughter. I look askance wondering where I faulted. May be they are having a dig at my free Maths tuitions?
But then thereby hangs a tale too.
Cut to 1974
After a short course at USA, my wife and I were returning via the then Bombay back to Tezpur Air force station. At Mumbai, as luck would have it we could attend the Shashtiabdhapoorthi of my F-in-L. Our fancy ‘Samsonite’ suitcases (two of them) were busting at its seams stuffed with costly clothes, pattu sarees and Veshties, some jewelry and other goodies and gifts. In short “it had contained all good things we had accumulated for the past five years’, as my wife would say later.
We arrived at Kolkata and stayed with my cousin (lets call him Swamy) at Raashbihari Avenue. Swamy was to drop us very early in the morning (3 AM or so) the next day at Dum Dum from where we were to catch the only flight to Tezpur. All fights to Tezpur ex- Kokata invariably took off very early even before sunrise because of the inclement weather that would follow thereafter in the Eastern regions.
‘Man proposes; God disposes’ is a much clichéd understatement. That night Swamy got a call from his office (M& P) saying he should proceed forthwith to Jamshedpur on a very important assignment.
“Never mind. No sweat. I have a regular trusted cabbie (a Bong) who would take care of your ‘drop’ to Air Port” assured Swamy and left for Jamshedpur. We barely grabbed a few winks of sleep that night thanks to the babe in arm deciding to fall sick.
Sure enough at 3 AM the cabbie arrived. Rang the bell. Just that it was not the usual Bong Biswas, but a burly tough looking old Sardar.
“Kee holo? Biswas Kothai?” queried Mrs Swamy (what happened? Where is Biswas?)
“Kicchhu Jaani naa madam. Aami aacchhen ki..” replied the Sardar (Nothing I know, madam. I am coming…no ??..) and heaved the 2 suit cases into the dikki of his jalopy an old Ambassador Taxi.
“Why don’t you lock the dikki properly?” called out my wife to the Sardar driver.
“ Koi nahin madam, sab theek hai. The dikki lock is not working.” replied Sardar.
“ So? At least tie that up with a rope or something” insisted my wife.
Sardar of course had no inclination to do anything more than banging the door shut. So we all got in and sat at the rear seats. The car coughed and sputtered and started moving towards Dum Dum. Sardar decided to take a few shortcuts. In the process the car had to pass through some desolate area full of potholes making navigation impossible. At times the cab had to even stop and start. That is when two clever thieves seemed to have appeared from nowhere, yanked open the dikki door, grabbed the 2 suitcases and ran. As the car jerked to move again I heard a loud ‘thud’ of the dikki door closing on its own. When I swirled back and peeped through the rear I saw them running with our boxes. I requested Sardar to halt the taxi, got out and chased them shouting “chor, chor”.
It was 3 AM. There were many Bihari Rickshaw pullers. But none came to my rescue. The thieves in motion were handicapped due to the heavy boxes and I was catching up pretty fast. So the nearest fellow, feeling helpless dropped one box and disappeared into darkness. I let it be and without picking up continued chasing the next one until I caught up with him too. After a scuffle and tackle he too gave up. I retrieved one suit case, picked up the other en-route and hurriedly walked back to the taxi a couple of 100 yards away. The Sardar who watched all these proceedings was shocked out of his wits and said, “Saaheb. Let’s move. This area is dangerous.” He hauled the suit cases onto the front seat and started the car. He never took his foot away from the accelerator till we reached Dum Dum.
I took out some money and was about to settle the taxi fare when the driver said,
“Saab rehne deejiye. Kaaphi taqliph hui aapko.” And after apologizing profusely took leave of us without taking the fare!!.
Back in the IAC flight my wife said, “Whew… this is one visit I would like to forget in a hurry”, as she fastened her seat belt inside the then (year1974) I A C... Fokker Friendship flight from Calcutta (now Kolkata) to Tezpur. My son a babe in arm was cozy under my care while the hyper active four year old daughter plonked herself into an empty seat next to the window.
“You bet. …. All is well that ends well…” I conceded.
“True. But it could have been dangerous”, said my wife
“What?” I said
“Chasing those thieves!” said my wife.
“But there was no alternative”, I said.
“But then anything could have happened. That was a great risk you undertook Quite foolish too. What does it matter even if we would have lost some sarees or even jewelry?” she asked
“ Nothing. But I had to do it. You see my I Card was in that blue suit case. I could not have lost it, you know? And face an enquiry later!”
My wife became speechless as if struck by the air pockets we were entering. She went red and said, “I thought as much. I was wondering why you sprinted that way. Now I know. So it wasn’t my valuables. It was your I Card! # % * @” she burst out.
“All right it was also for our valuables. Ok?” I calmed her down.
And that is when my wife as usual had the last laugh. She opened her purse and said, “Here take a look, your IC was safe here. You left it on the dining table at Swamy’s and I picked it up and put it in my purse”
“O My God! You mean I needn’t have sprinted at all. The whole effort was a waste?” I shouted.
My daughter must have heard this story for the nth time last week. But each time she would react as if it were the first time for her and hence her question on theives.
Epilogue
Her vacation is over. My daughter is off to her place of posting. It is time for the train to depart. I wish my daughter well. My wife gives her a hug. It is the turn of my fauji bitiya to feel for her breast pocket now and ensure that her I C is in place and safe. The train chugs away as we climb the ever bridge and walk towards the parking lot.
“May be it’s my imagination. But as I hugged Lathika this time, she seemed to squeeze a bit harder than usual”, says my wife with tears in her eyes.
“Is it?” was all I could manage wiping my own tears.
After all I can’t let my wife carry all the weight of figuring out this enigma wrapped in a mystery called our fauji bitiya Capt. (Dr.) Lathika.
And so the life goes on with each of us having our own value systems even under our own roof.
V V R
15th Jul 06
From www.rediff.com
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