In the Field Marshal's company
Field Marshal Sam Hormusji Framji Jamshedji Manekshaw would have turned 108 on April 3. A national hero after the epochal victory in 1971, even today his charisma cuts across all segments of military and civil society. In military circles, he remains a lodestar to all. His professionalism, conviction and moral courage are always quoted in all forums. Indeed, he was second to none.
Much before I had the honour of interacting with him in person, I had browsed several books about him, focusing on his stellar leadership qualities. However, it was only in 2002, while I was posted as Staff Officer to the Commandant, Defence Services Staff College, Wellington, that I was privileged to meet him in Coonoor, where he had settled down. On many an occasion, I had the opportunity to accompany the Commandant to the Field Marshal’s residence during the courtesy visits.
The Field Marshal’s sprawling house was perched atop a hill near Coonoor, close to the Staff College. He had appropriately named it Stavka, Russian for high command of the armed forces. During one such visit, the Field Marshal advised me in private: “Son, you should always speak your mind to your seniors and never ever try to please them by telling what they like to hear.” I took it as my Bible and stuck to it during all my command and staff appointments.
He had a hard exterior but his heart always used to beat for the soldiers’ welfare. During that tenure, my wife, Nidhi, taught in Army Public School, Wellington, and was the class teacher of sixth standard. During one of the Parent-Teacher Meetings, a sturdy Gurkha, Naik Thapa, requested permission to take his daughter’s report card home after having closely scrutinised it. He added, “Hamare Sahabji ne mangaya hai. Woh meri bachhi ka report card dekhna chahate hain. Unki tabiyat theek nahin hai, nahin to woh khud aana chahate the (Sahab wants to see my daughter’s report card. He is not well, otherwise he wanted to come himself).”
My wife asked as to who his Sahab was, and was surprised to know that it was none else than the Field Marshal himself. She walked up to the principal to seek permission to send the report card home. After a few days of the PTM, my wife was on her weekly visit to the famous Staff College bakery to buy goodies, and in walked the Field Marshal, flamboyant and amenable as ever, with a swagger that belied his age (84 at the time). He was ramrod-straight, sported an elegant moustache and wore a double-breasted blazer. He wished my wife, “Good morning, sweetheart”, and introduced himself.
Nidhi displayed quick presence of mind. She mentioned about the Field Marshal’s buddy, Naik Thapa, and his daughter. On this, he rattled out all her strengths and weaknesses in the recently concluded class tests. Nidhi was dumbstruck with the profound knowledge he had about the girl’s school performance.
The Field Marshal also had a great sense of humour. Once, he was visiting a military station where the local club was being renovated and was requested to give some financial help. He magnanimously approved a hefty amount from the Chief’s welfare fund. He remarked to the station commander, “You see, the problem with me is that I can never say no. Sometimes I thank God for making me a man and not a woman, otherwise I would have always been pregnant.”
He was perhaps the only person who addressed Indira Gandhi as ‘Prime Minister’ instead of ‘Madam’. Some bureaucrats were shocked and complained to the Cabinet Secretary. When the Cabinet Secretary mentioned this in Sam’s presence at a meeting, he replied, “I hope you know that the term ‘Madam’ is reserved for certain ladies who are in charge of houses of ill-fame.” India owes him a lot.
