Camaraderie of long ago

Lt Gen Raj Kadyan (retd)

I can reasonably postulate that a diplomat speaks a lot but says little, while a soldier, accustomed to cryptic orders, talks little while conveying plenty. But with adding years, I feel less confident about the latter part.

Army peers of my vintage are hovering around 80. In most cases, our hearing is indifferent, if that is not an understatement. We have created a WhatsApp group. I anchor the exchange of greetings. If someone had told me that the coronavirus can be transmitted electronically, I would scoff at it. But ever since I was hospitalised for Covid, my phone calendar has been making boo-boos. To reconfirm correctness, I invariably call the celebrant the preceding evening, under the pretext of ‘wishing in advance’. I did so the other day.

After a long wait, which the recipient required to wear his aural gadget, he asked: ‘Hello, who is calling?’ I announced my name. ‘Kalyan? You live in Maharashtra?’ ‘No, not Kalyan — not L for lousy; but D for dirty.’

His voice brightened up. ‘Oh, Kadyan? I have your number saved.’ There was another hold when he went specs-searching to read my name on the gizmo. After some cuss words, he located the vision enhancer. ‘Godfrey, I have called up to wish Ruth a happy birthday tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Ah yes, it is the birthday of a very dear friend of ours. You might remember him from NDA. Short and stocky, Jaichandran! I think he was a batch junior to us. He once went on a visit to Delhi and never came back.’ Then, realising the implicit faux pas, ‘Do you live in Delhi?’ he asked.

‘In Gurgaon, I actually called...’

‘Yes, I know Gurgaon,’ he said, ‘had passed through it once in the 1970s while driving to Jaipur. Do you still have lots of cows squatting on the road?’

‘Perhaps even more,’ I said. ‘Look, I want to wish Ruth a happy birthday.’ He laughed, ‘Actually, her birthday was today. She has already cut the cake.’ Considering that I have gone awry in many cases, this appeared an innocent error.

For the second call of the evening, the recipient’s acoustic faculty was luckily better. ‘Hello Raj,’ he said, ‘nice hearing from you.’ ‘Hello Randhir, I am calling to wish you both a happy wedding anniversary,’ I said, praying I won’t be wrong-footed again and added, ‘I hope you have adjusted the freezer settings suitably so that the champagne cork hits the ceiling.’

‘Oh yes. Come and join us in Chandigarh... but being a teetotaller, you are useless company.’

‘How many years of married life,’ I asked, ignoring his chide. ‘Fifty-five.’

‘So, you got married in 1967?’ ‘No, 1968.’ I could overhear his murmured calculations. ‘Actually, it is 54.’

‘I hope Dolly is not overhearing.’ ‘Luckily, she is in the other room. And you jolly well are not going to tell her.’

His admonition instantly revived memories of the camaraderie we enjoyed as fellow Zojilians in the IMA six decades ago. If physicality permitted, we could rejoin the academy!

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