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One kitten is as good as another

My family joined me during the summer vacation while I was commanding a regiment in Ladakh. One day, my adjutant brought a shiny black newborn kitten from an outpost he had visited. My nine-year-old daughter adopted this cute little living...
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My family joined me during the summer vacation while I was commanding a regiment in Ladakh. One day, my adjutant brought a shiny black newborn kitten from an outpost he had visited. My nine-year-old daughter adopted this cute little living toy, naming it Miffy. It became the centre of everybody’s attraction. After my wife and kids left, Miffy became my good companion in the humdrum routine in that cold desert. My kids would enquire about it daily on the phone and I would regale them by giving an account of its activities.

Then, tragedy struck. My teary-eyed ‘buddy’ informed me that Miffy had been killed by stray dogs. A wave of anger surged inside me as he was responsible for the kitten’s wellbeing. I lambasted the poor man, making him feel even more guilty. I shared the sad news with my wife, instructing her not to tell the children. But we had little choice — they were coming back during the Diwali break a week later.

When a commanding officer gets upset, tremors are felt in the paltan. “I don’t care what you do, I want the kitten back,” I roared. There was no way I could see tears in my daughter’s eyes. My Subedar Major, older than me by a few years, was a mature and sensible man. I would often seek his advice during any crisis. “Sahib, I have already tasked all our posts to look out for a similar kitten, give me some time,” he said. His words were reassuring.

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For the next few days, the telephone exchange room seemed like an operational headquarters, providing hourly updates on ‘Mission Miffy’. During the daily ‘All ok report’, the Subedar Major would apprise me of the progress along with professional matters of the regiment. By the weekend, almost a dozen ‘similar-looking’ felines had been identified, domesticated and their photos compared with that of Miffy. I took an incisive look at them; none was black.

Willy-nilly, I selected the one that was closest in resemblance — it was dark grey. It doesn’t matter whether a cat is black or grey as long as it makes my kids smile, I thought. I received my family at the airfield with trepidation. My wife was informed about the plan; she was certain that it would fail.

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There was bewilderment in my daughter’s eyes on seeing the kitten; my son was mercifully too young to comprehend. “You know it rarely rains here in Ladakh. When it does, this is what happens,” I muttered before I could be asked the obvious question. “Miffy was drenched in rain and has turned grey,” I added, watching their reactions from the corner of the eye. They appeared convinced and I heaved a sigh of relief; my wife tried hard to conceal a smile.

A couple of months ago, my daughter received her bar licence and became an advocate. “Papa, you should be put on trial for telling such a big lie so candidly,” she complained smilingly when reminded of the incident. Her juvenile innocence, unfortunately, is now long gone.

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