The Last Post

6th July, 2020

Hi Dad,

When I look back all these twenty eight odd years, some memories never seem to fade. You walking me to the bus stop that was far away from our house and then reading the newspaper as we waited for the school bus to arrive. As I grew up, I was embarrassed that you would still not give up this routine but always loved to see you outside the school gate when the last period got over and we would be rushing to get a seat in the bus. You would always buy me an orange ice stick and I would proudly lick it, showing off to the other boys. Then those dreaded parent teacher meetings where you quietly listened to almost all the teachers telling how bad my marks were and how much I needed to work hard to ensure promotion to the next class. Despite all these taunts and complaints, you never raised your hand at me. My repeatedly bad scores  would have made any other mortal give up on me, but you had an undying faith that one day I will prove the world wrong and make you feel proud. Was it your blind love for me that drove you to have such baseless faith or was it something you saw that others missed? How much trouble I would give you when ,after a long hard day at work, you returned home and I would ask for a new notebook or a geometry box that I had lost in school. You would immediately go to the shop and buy a new one for me without ever complaining.

You knew many a thing but overlooked them. You knew I was flicking coins from your pocket, you knew I would often fib about my illness just to skip going to school, you knew I would forge your signature on the school diary pages….I could go on Dad. How much I would trouble you over buying the bicycle or the football shoes….spoilt so many of your Saturdays. You wanted me to take up science but I knew I would never be able to get past those subjects. My class teacher called me a donkey for having given strange options of subjects for senior secondary- first being your wish of doing pure science which had PCBM and second was humanities which I wanted. There was no way the school was going to make a fool of itself by even thinking that in some distant day this idiot would turn into a doctor and so I ended up doing history and civics. Then you wanted to see me clear the civil services and made me join the Rau’s Classes but I had made up my mind and finally ended up joining the armed forces, much against your wishes. Yet you never ever said anything harsh to me. You would often tell Ma and other relatives, “ One day my son will make me proud”.

Dearest Ma,

You often complained that I write the inland letters to both of you but, on the cover, address it to Dad and not to you.  So today I have addressed this letter to both of you.

The food in the mess is good but no one can even come close to your mughlai paranthas, meat palak, fish curry and the yummy mishti you would make. My school friends would finish off the tiffin much before the intervals, on most days, and let me eat their sandwiches. On my birthdays god knows from where you would find time to cook so many things for my friends who were invited including the cake initially done over a kadhai with sand and later in the round oven. The trend continued even when I grew up and my friends would come in large number to our house for Bijoya, after the immersion of Ma Durga. You always loved to go to Pujas and get together in the neighbourhood and you never liked to miss marriages of friends and family. I remember how all your life you would get the things from the CSD canteen at cheaper prices for us and bottles of XXX rum for others.

I often wondered where you found so much strength to do so much work. Almost all your working life, we never had any servants and Baba would hardly do anything other than make the early morning tea while you would do all the cleaning, cooking, washing, get us ready for school with breakfast, tiffin and even keep food in the fridge for the afternoons when we returned home. And after a hard day’s work you would get back to the same back breaking routine. Now, let me tell you a secret Ma. I never felt any pain when you would slap me, something you did often, for doing the wrong things. The reason is that your palm was soft and fluffy and the slaps lacked any sting even though you were putting force behind them. Yes, the one time you used the belt that hurt. But I deserved it for Baba was too soft on me and I always needed your scolding and beating to instill some fear in me. Don’t worry Ma, what I am today, is because of all the beating and eating and love that you showered on me. Never forget to have your medicines and insulin shots for you are the person who keeps our house in order and together.

My Loving Chikki,

I was there with Baba when you were born and always found you a cute little baby. Ma told me that I have even washed your nappies in Delhi’s winter in cold water. Every night I would kiss you on your chubby cheeks and then go to my side of the bed to sleep. Whenever I went out for my school trips, I made sure I saved a little money and bought you a small gift. On one such occasion, I got you a beautiful bead necklace and you took it in your little hands and pulled the sting so hard that it broke and beads were seen flying all over the room. Ma had to collect all of them and she put them together again. I have seen your wooden box that you keep secretly behind your clothes shelf. The beads are still there and so are the small sequined purse and a picture of us together riding a pony at Manali with you in front and me sitting behind, holding you tight, lest my little sister fell down and hurt herself.

I often wonder how, as children of the same parents and having being brought up in almost similar environment, we were so different from each other. I was the playful kind while you were the studious type and our report cards were so different. I was loud, outspoken and had an army of friends while you were the quiet type and a lonely bird. You loved chocolates and cakes while I loved the Indian sweets more, you preferred continental food when we went out while I stuck to my desi variety. I think you never had any boyfriends because most of the boys would be mortally afraid of me and knew what would be their fate when I would come to know about them….you must be cursing me all your life for this my Chikki Chukki. Maybe, because of my over protectiveness you never thought it important to tie a Rakhi on my wrist knowing fully well that I would anyway do it so why the public display of affection. Do you know that I would buy the Rakhi every year myself and Ma would tie it for me? You always brought joy to the house from the time you opened your eyes. Your presence itself had a positive and calming effect on all and then your exam results were such a big thing. Ma had to always ask me to bring a basket of sweets even before you came home with your report card knowing fully well that you would have scored well and the mithai had to be distributed to all neighbours and friends as an annual ritual. Now that  you are a doctor, I know your patients will be in best of hands and shall bless you My Little Sis.

Dear Ma, Baba, Chikki.

I know you must be wondering what this letter is all about. Last night, our battalion got the orders to move to the forward post at Siachen where the situation looks grim. While the spirit is high and the there is great enthusiasm among the soldiers, there is an undercurrent of strange silence and unease. So some of us decided to pen a last letter for our loved ones and keep it in the pockets of our uniform as we face the enemy of the nation. If we survive, the letter will stay with us unread. If otherwise, the letter will reach the recipients along with our uniforms and remains wrapped in the flag we would have gone down proudly fighting for. Only one will reach- the letter or us.

The other day, one of my school mates, with whom I used to exchange stamps, shared one of a war memorials of World War 1, which I am sending along with this letter to add to my stamp collection. It seems strange and coincidental that he would send this at this hour. Maybe, next when you visit any of these sites, you will etch my name there forever. If not then I shall be up there as a cloud watching you all…sometimes white and bright, and at times, dark and gloomy, but I will always be there.

It is easy for me to say don’t cry, but I know it will happen. All I can say is that some of us have to face the bullets to make sure others in the country stay safe, sleep well and keep the flag flying high. Lately, I have been humming a song written by Manoj Muntashir which befits us soldiers in uniform…

Aye meri zameen mehboob meri
Meri nass nass mein tera ishq bahe
Pheeka na pade kabhi rang tera
Jismon se nikalke khoon kahe
Teri mitti mein mill jawaan
Gul banke mein khill jawaan
Itni si hai dil ki aarzoo

And finally, Dad, the day to make you proud of your son is here, so straighten your shoulders and put your chin up.

Will miss you all, as always. Love you all.

Sanjib

Captain Sanjib Chaudhury
32nd Battalion
56 APO

SS

 

The Savoy Bar

City of Joy

George Eggleston had just returned from Mumbai where he was working in an MNC. It was his dying father, Robert, who in his last wish asked his son to take charge of his bar at Park Street in Kolkata. Despite George’s resistance, the father said, “Son, this bar was given to me by my father and before that it was his father who started it during the colonial period. This is where the burrasaabs would come in the evening for their drinks, play bridge and listen to live music. We have seen the highs and lows of Calcutta….times when everything was good and money flowed. Now, things have gone bad but I can tell you, the joy of running this place, meeting people who love fun and feel the sweetness of home, is something no money can buy. You can also make more money than the so called bitcoins on days when wealthy old patrons come here. You give it an honest try for six months and if you feel cheated by your old man, sell it and go where your work and heart takes you.” Tonight would be George’s first night at Savoy Bar, established 1911, the year the Imperial capital shifted to Delhi.

People started coming in around 7pm and some of them spoke to George about his father, how they loved him and that they would miss him. The band had also assembled and they still seemed to wear the old tight fitting white jackets and bow as they started playing old songs….Come September lifted the spirits of the people in the room and some of the oldies took to the floor impromptu to do a gig and twist. As the merriment continued and spirit flowed, George noticed, at a table near him, three strange looking men….one a pure gorasaab and attired perfectly with a hat, the second looked an Englishman but wore traditional Indian clothes befitting a Bhadralok and the third seemed a mix between a gora and a desi. George got closer and tried listening to the men seated.

“Young man, get us the finest and rarest Scotch whiskey you have”…one of them shouted.

“I do have the whiskey but will cost a lot. You think you can afford it?”

The three men started laughing aloud. “Son, don’t worry about money. We shall fill up your coffers with gold mohurs. Just serve us and make us happy.”

George obeyed and poured them the finest whiskey in the bar and stretched his ears to listen.

“Stuart, you stop wearing these funny clothes. Wherever we go, people are watching you and mocking you.”

“Why should I change? These are clothes best suited for the Indian climate. I have written many articles on why even English women should start wearing sarees as against the western dresses.  There is no attire as beautiful as the saree draped well.”

“Why don’t you have your bath in the house where all amenities are there from shower to the bath tub. But you prefer bathing in the Ganges every morning. It is so unhygienic and does no good to your position.”

“Taking a bath in the holy Ganga cleanses your body and soul every day. And for those who say the water is dirty, it has been scientifically proven that holy the Ganges has special properties that kill all impurities and the water turns clean on its own. After my bath each day, I go to the temple on the ghats and chant mantras that I have learnt during my stay in India. Jay Sittaraamjee!”

George was amazed at Stuart….what a man! A foreigner and yet he is more Indian than most. No wonder Dad spoke highly of the people who visited Savoy.

It was now Stuart’s turn to question his friends.

“So tell me Henry, what are you up to nowadays. Surely teaching cannot be the only thing you do?”

“You are right Stuart. I am saddened at the state of Bengal and wish to do something. I am talking to my students to create a Young Bengal Movement. I have great hope on the youth of this state. They are well read and have fire in their belly. If their passion is directed in the right manner and for the right cause, change will happen.”

“You are just a teacher and should not get into the politics of this state. The way you are talking seems you are preparing the young students of yours for a revolution.”

George just could not hold himself back and went to the table occupied by the troika and raised his finger and spoke up in clear and stern voice…. “Gentlemen, this is a place where we want our patrons to come and enjoy. Talking of change, planning revolutions is not what this place is meant to be. You know how sensitive the establishment is to any talk of opposition and upheaval? They will not only put you behind the bars but they will also take me away for being an accomplice and arranging for the meeting place. Today is my first day at the bar and I just cannot allow this here.”

Henry looked up to see the angry expression on George’s face and gently smiled and spoke softly…. “Don’t worry George. No one will ever be able to put me behind bars and I shall make sure no evil ever falls on you. This is India and I care for the country and its people. This is India, my native land.”

George did not argue any further and moved away after pleading once more and showing his clasped hands, as if praying to the men to maintain order.

Henry changed the subject immediately and asked his third colleague….”William, why did you change your name to Yunus Uksfardi?”

“Ha …ha…I too, like you both, love this country and its wonderful languages. I have learnt to speak and write in Persian, Hindi, Sanskrit, Bengali apart from Hebrew, Latin, Greek and Arabic…..so I changed my name as they would pronounce in Persian…Yunus Uksfardi is nothing but saying Jones from Oxford.”

“That is really smart of you, William.”

“I am working on translating old texts of various religions. This land is so rich in culture, history and spirituality that I will never ever think of going back to England. I will create a repository of translated books so that future generations are proud of their country and do not blindly look towards the West for knowledge and material gains.”

George was quite impressed with the three gentlemen who kept drinking the finest whiskey he had to offer. They finished off two bottles in a couple of hours as they kept talking about India. How surprising that we Indians often look down upon our own country and here are three Europeans who love everything about this country. These old men show the true spirit of nationalism and patriotism which the youth in the country today lacks.

The three gentlemen now took out something from their respective pouches and placed a metal under their empty glasses as they walked out of the bar swiftly before George could react with Stuart shouting Jay Sittaramjee. George ran after the men but when he reached outside the door of the bar, the three gentlemen were not to be seen. Vanished!

“Oh no…I have been completely fooled by these crooks. Each of those bottles cost over twenty five grand. Instead of making money on my first day, I have been duped by three crooks for over fifty thousand rupees on a single night. Is this what Pappa had in mind when he wanted me to be here for six months? I will be gone in six days and surely with empty coffers should men like these come more often.”

He walked back to the table and saw the metal pieces glowing under the whiskey glasses…. “I have not tasted one drop of liquor and yet I seem to be imagining things”….he lifted one of the glasses and held the round metal piece close to his eyes…. “Is this a gold mohur….cheats…fooling me. Do I look like an idiot that they give me three pieces of fool’s gold and finish off two of the best and the most expensive whiskey bottles? I am ruined. Pa, sorry”…..George had tears in his eyes.

After wrapping up the evening, George counted the cash. It was over thirty thousand and three golden worthless metal pieces. He put all the money and coins in a box, locked it up before going home for what remained of the night.

Next morning, George went out of the house early as he had not been able to sleep even for a moment as he kept remembering the three crooks of Bengal, their looks, their conversation and their unquenching thirst for whiskey. Across his home was a place where his Great Great Great Grandfather had been put to rest…Captain Charles Eggleston. He wanted to see his tombstone for his father told him often about their lineage and their being of true Anglo-Saxon blood.  He carried with him a bunch of flowers that he kept on the base of the tombstone. He was definitely feeling better and proud now. He decided to take a walk around the cemetery to see who else in his family were laid to rest and to catch up with a bit of history.

George found huge tombstones, some kept well with the names legible, others were in bad state without any trace of who lay there. He was amazed to find some nicely crafted epitaphs….more in the like of poetry which showed the love the family and friends had for the departed ones. As he walked along the huge cemetery, George’s eyes fell upon a strange looking grave which looked more in the shape of a temple. He went closer and saw the inscription….it was Major General Charles Stuart (Known as Hindoo Stuart) 1758- 1828.

George walked further and his year fell on te only grave where a marble figure of the person whose grave was there and he saw the name….Henry Louis Vivian Derozio, teacher, poet and patriot, Mentor of Young Bengal and Friend of the People….Born 18^th April 1809, Died 20^th December 1831.

Things were now becoming clearer to George. Now he had to find William, the third of the night crooks. Having failed to trace his grave, he spoke to the cemetery keeper about the graves of famous people there. The man rattled off many names and he spoke of one William Jones and George asked him to stop. Who was William Jones and where is his grave? The man opened up a book before him to the page containing a picture of an Englishman on the right side and a big commentary written on the left….Sir William Jones FRS FRAS FRSE (1746-1794) a philologist, scholar of ancient India, found co-relation between European and Indo-Aryan languages which he called Indo-European and founder of the Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1784.

George went to the biggest and the best kept grave and admired the man buried therein. Surely a tall man by all counts and fully deserving of the biggest grave. Now the things had become clear to George and he started running out of the cemetery and he reached home and opened the box containing last night’s collection. He quickly pulled out the three coins and saw them against the sunlight….his eyes shown bright as he tried reading the impression on the coins written in Persian….he waited for the neighbourhood jewelry shop to open. He went there and showed one of the coins to the owner there. The jeweler looked in all amazement…. “Where did you get this? This is a gold coin issued by Siraj-ud-daullah, the king of Bengal in the eighteenth century.”

George quickly said that it belonged to his ancestor Captain Charles Eggleston. The jeweler knew Robert well and about his family who had been living in India for over two hundred and fifty years now.… “Keep it safely but if you ever need money and you bring one of these to me, I may just have to sell all the pieces of jewelry in my shop in exchange for it. But I will still do it for this one piece.”

George remembered his father’s last words… “You can make more money than the so called bitcoins.”

SS 

Love in Times of War

They are coming. I can hear the sound of the guns not far from here.

I am coming, dear. I am on my way. Don’t you worry.

Will you make it before they arrive?

Yes. I am speeding down in my Hummer and should reach you before dawn.

Do you have the papers? I am worried, for tomorrow at noon the last flight departs.

I have all clearances and papers with me. The ambassador has said he will wait till I arrive with you before flying out. Why do you worry so much?

You know what they will do to those who worked with the Americans. They call us traitors and for women they will show no mercy. In fact, they will be even more vindictive. 

Don’t worry so much. I will whisk you away before their dirty shadows fall on you.

Shahbaaz called today. He said he is coming with the Talibs.

Who is Shahbaaz?

He is the younger brother of my late husband, Masood. When Masood became bedridden, after stepping on a landmine, Shahbaaz used to help me a lot. He took good care of my son, Roshan. Soon I realized that Shabaaz was getting too close to me. One day he proposed to marry me but I refused. He was upset and angry with me. Then, one evening, finding no one at home, he pinned me down but fortunately my father-in-law returned home early and saw what Shahbaaz was up to. He broke open the door and thrashed his son and asked him the leave the house the very same day. Shahbaaz left but he would often make threatening calls to me. My father-in-law was a good man and he let me go to the nursing school and continue to work in the government hospital where I met you. Now, with Masood and his father no more around, Roshan and I are alone at home. Yesterday Shahbaaz said that, now, I have no one to protect and he will humiliate me in public and then give me away as a slave to the others. Jake, I am shivering. If he reaches before you, I will be gone for good and Roshan will be orphaned.

Rubina, my love, I am coming as fast as I can. I have loved you since the day I first met you lying in the hospital bed with a bullet in my neck. How you nursed me and saved me from death! Next when Shahbaaz calls, tell him Sarge Jake will protect Roshan and me and he will kick your ass so hard that you will fly away from Kandahar to Kabul and then over the mountains into the valley from where you will crawl on your limbs for the rest of your life asking for mercy from your Allah.

Jake, the gun shots are now very close.

I am also round the corner. Have you packed your bags?

Yes, I have packed a few essentials into one small bag and Roshan says he will only carry his football. He plays the ball well and wants to become a professional player in America. You remember the Afghan football player who fell off the aircraft trying to escape by holding on to the wing, Roshan was a big fan of his.

Ha ha…I like the kid as much as I love his mother. 

Jake, someone is knocking on the door. They are here. Shahbaaz is calling me continuously. I am sure he is leading the hordes to our home. This is where our story ends.

Rubina, just take Roshan with you from the back door and you will find my vehicle there. There is no time to waste….run, Rubina , run!

Rubina threw the mobile down, caught Roshan by the arm and started dragging him towards the back door just as the front door was blown away in the gun fire from the ravaging intruders. The boy, in the madness, did not forget to hold the football tight close to his body. He had won the ball as a prize for being the top scorer in his inter-school championships.

It was still dark but Rubina saw the Hummer with the lights on. She rushed towards it as Jake kept his gun aimed at anyone who tried harming his love and her kid. No sooner had Rubina and Roshan jumped into the back seat than a hundred Talibs emerged and surrounded the car in a semi-circle.

Jake fired his automatic gun…ratta tatta taaat…. But the firing from the other side was like a a hundred guns booming together. 

Jake knew there was no escape now….they were too many. His best bet lay in driving the bullet proof Hummer fast. Just as he was about to press the ignition key, the side door opened and a gun trotting Afghan sat down beside him.

Rubina shieked…Shahbaaz…have mercy on us. Let us go.

Shahbaaz looked at Rubina…pointed his gun at Jake and spoke in his native language….give me  your helmet and your gun and take my turban and gun. Just walk out of the car on the left side. My bike is parked behind that trees. There is enough fuel to take you till Kabul Airport. 

Jake asked….what about you?

I always wanted to dress up like the American soldiers with their smart helmets and guns. Today, I will become GI Joe. You take care of Rubina and Roshan. I loved her but I know she loves you more. Hope, after today, my Abbajaan and Allah will show mercy to me.

Go..go…go now!

Jake started the bike with Rubina behind and Roshan in between and roared away. Rubina turned her head to see the Hummer blow up in smoke as the missile landed on it. The victors fired their guns in the air to celebrate their victory of eliminating an American soldier and a fallen Afghan woman. 

In sometime, the bike reached the airport tarmac. The ambassador stepped out of his car and showed the trio the stairway to climb up before walking into the aircraft himself. As the plane took off, Roshan found the empty air force plane a good playground to knock the ball around. Rubina looked out of the window, her eyes moistened with the thought of leaving her country and people for ever and said a silent prayer for Shahbaaz…. May he find jannat.

SS