Brar Square: Tribute to a soldier

I didn't quite know him; it is not unusual in traditional Indian families. The father maintains a healthy distance from his children, ostensibly in the interest of family discipline. The children too put on a demure appearance in his presence. But the mother knows it all and mostly plays along. I remember well that

the day he was born in Hyderabad I was out on an official tour a short distance away. On my return, I found a note from my office on the table congratulating me on the birth of a son.

I came to know him better as the calls and messages started pouring in. His persona started unfolding, layer by layer, beginning with the number of wreathes that got laid on his body during the funeral at the Brar Square, in Delhi Cantonment. Within a short period of a few hours, mostly without any formal notice, his friends from school and National Defence Academy had arrived in good numbers and lined up to pay their tribute to him. Each petal of the flowers offered in condolence had its own story to tell. He was bestowed great dignity in death.

He was sociable. Every person who called or sent a message had something to say about her or his association with him, even if for a short period. I didn't know that so many people knew him; loved, respected and cared for him. He was religiously in touch with all his friends and had made several groups with them on the social media. I was surprised that so many of my colleagues over the years, some of whom I had lost touch, would recall several episodes of his association with them, including memories about his childhood. So many of them came forward with offers of help.

"He was like a big brother to us", said some of his school friends. "Warm, shy, smile on his face, helpful and considerate", "jovial, full of life", "amazingly free-spirited soul", were some of the compliments paid to him. He was full of zest, fun loving, vivacious and concerned about the welfare of others.

Polite, courteous and confident, he could charm anyone in the course of a conversation. He carried himself well and made a great impression when he joined the private sector after his career in the army. He was intelligent and exceptionally knowledgeable about his domain.

He was generous to a fault. His mother recalled that one day in his school, where she was a teacher, there was a problem with the bus service. She gave him money so that he could leave early. When she reached home, she found that he had trudged it back. When asked why, he said that he had seen a very poor and emaciated person who was not begging and had given him the money he had got from her for the bus fare.

He took keen interest in numismatics, philately and nature. Apart from plants, he had a veritable menagerie in his house, comprising a Labrador, a few rabbits, a squirrel (which played truant occasionally), a tortoise, a turtle and a couple of aquaria. It all began very early, while in school, when we discovered that he was hiding a snake in his cupboard.

My son died six days short of his fiftieth birthday, to celebrate which all of us were secretly making our plans. Earlier that day, on a call from his mother, he ended the conversation with the words: "Amma I love you, I love you both". It was said very sweetly and in a tone which attempted to convey something more than the words employed. It carried a hint of foreboding, in hindsight. But it all happened within a few minutes, a few hours later. What thoughts and images might have raced through his mind's eye in those moments?

There is a vacuum and an enhanced sense of insecurity, but we have been delivered of the fear of death. Those whom the gods love…die.

(The author is former Secretary-General, Rajya Sabha)