A lesson in humility

HE had been my schoolmate. Later, we went on to pursue engineering courses. This made us lose contact. But destiny plays its role in our lives. Embarking on my career, I found myself serving in the same department with my schoolmate, although we were in different wings. He had a strong liking for a career in the Army. His fitness and effervescence were his forte. As expected, he succeeded, became an Army officer and vanished from my canvas of contacts. The sand in the hourglass flowed for about four decades. Post-retirement, I reluctantly moved to a nearby town. My wife and children supported the decision. They valued the easy access to school and college more than the sedentary village life.

Rescheduling my routine in the new setting, I gave priority to regular morning walks and chose a long and lonely track. After some days, I noticed that a lookalike of my schoolmate was walking on the same track. I saw him a number of times in a blue tracksuit, holding the leash of a dog, a golf cap and an Army officer’s baton in hand. I was sure he was none other than my old schoolmate, Chuni Lal.

When our first encounter occurred one morning, I smiled to greet him, but he avoided eye contact. I turned my head only to see him walk with a swagger. I decided to demolish the fort of his hubris in my own style. One morning, I exclaimed: ‘Havildar saheb, kindly hold the leash tightly. Your ferocious dog looks ready to pounce upon me.’ He retorted angrily, ‘I am not a havildar, I am a retired Colonel, do you hear that?’

I pleaded ignorance. ‘Sir, I am a simple civilian, how can I know the difference?’ He walked past me in a huff.

A few days later, we again came face to face. Waving my hands, I shouted, ‘Subedar saheb, please control your dog.’ The Colonel became livid. ‘I am a Co…lo…nel. Mind what you say in future.’

It appeared to me then that the time was ripe for denouement. On our next encounter, I greeted him with a winsome smile: ‘Good morning Major…er, no, Colonel saheb.’

That fort of hubris was no more. ‘If my memory is correct, aren’t you Chuni Lal? Weren’t we schoolmates and later colleagues in PWD?’ I asked.

His countenance lit up. He nodded, unleashed his dog and commanded him to go home. ‘Gaudy is a sensible creature, trained in an Army training centre.’ What a name for a dog, I thought! Then we walked leisurely. He narrated his myriad exploits in the Army in detail and I told mine. ‘But you are very humble, very brief,’ he pointed out.

We gifted each other what we had. He gave me a bagful of disciplined swagger and high morale, and I gave him a pinch of humility.