An Officer And A Gentleman

And so there I was sitting in Delhi's T-3, waiting for the rest of the band to appear. Nari was flying in from Bangalore and Debu and Shobha from Singapore. Me, I am a worried traveller and as I played 2048 – a game where you stack 2s and 4s together till you reach 2048 – I found myself speculating all of the following: am I in the right place to meet them, should I exit the airport and smoke, if I do so can i come back in again, should I stop playing the game since the phone battery was at 20% adn turned into the dreaded red zone. Every now and again some grey cells would shout out, “You are 50 years old! Why the fuck must you be so nervous? Even you can't fuck up meeting people in an airport.” Nonetheless I was relieved when I got a message from Nari saying that he had landed and more so when I saw Shobha and Debu walking towards me. “Bulbull Bagchi,” grinned Debu. I grinned back and said something I suppose. “Where's Nari?” asked Shobha. “Pillar 15, the bastard must be drunk. He was drinking at the Bangalore airport when I last texted him,” I replied. We walked towards pillar 15 and there was Nari, backpack on his shoulder, massive headphones adorning his shiny bald pate, eyes darting around trying to spot us and the nervous standing rocking motion that is so unique to him. I called out to the bastard and the moment he saw us the nervous darting looks gave way to an impish smile.

Debu went looking for a taxi, Shobha was left to watch over the bags as Nari and I slunk away to smoke. 

The trip was on. First stop was Dwarka to Debu's brother in law's house. Having known Debu and Shobha for well over 20 years, I knew that the brother-in-law had been a fighter pilot and had retired a few years back to Delhi. During the taxi ride Shobha decided to set the smoking rules and said, “No smoking in the car both of you and we are not stopping for cigarette breaks.” Nari and I grinned and Nari said, “Yes mother!” 

We rang the doorbell of and a dapper distinctly Bengali looking gentleman opened the door. There was Ujjal-da. To say that he was pleased to see Debu and Shobha would be shortselling the moment. He was delighted – make what you will of the difference between the words – but it's that difference that made me feel, “Ah! This is going to be chill and not one of those politely formal and stiff stayovers.” 

Introductions were made and luggage was put away in the appropriate rooms. Rarely does one see Shobha get bullied so I was delighted to hear Ujjal-da say, “Nothing doing Shobha, you are using this room and that is that!” 'This room' obviously meant Ujjal-da and his wife's bedroom. Most people might see it as a meaningless gesture – I mean it's not like Shobha and Debu were a pair of newlyweds. But try telling that to someone who has served in the forces where small courtesies still matter. 

The liquor was already out – a fine selection of whiskeys and some beer for me. We all relaxed and made ourself comfortable in the living room while Ujjal-da hovered around like a busy bee. One moment he was busy filling our glasses and the next he was off to the kitchen to instruct the cook. In between all his setup work he managed to inform us that the Mrs was in New York, visiting their son and enquire about Tanvi's, Debu and Shobha's daughter, backpacking trip. 

Finally the arrangements were to his satisfaction and he took a seat. Nari and I had been told that he was a staunch patriot and our sneering dispensation towards a muscular India might be at odds with his world-view. Upon hearing this Nari mumbled that then he had better watch his words. Once Debu, Shobha and Ujjal-da were done exchanging notes about the family quite naturally the conversation meandered towards current affairs. By then Ujjal-da's exuberance and warmth and a large snifter of Amrut whiskey had banished Nari's resolution. Sneakily he asked about the planes used in the recent air strike. And before you knew it Ujjal-da was now retired Air Commodore Ujjal Biswas. He explained to Nari the difference between Mig-21 and Mig-29, Jaguars and Mirages. Then he moved on to how exactly the recent strikes had been conducted – where the planes had taken off from, the formations, radar systems and of course Abhinandan. “The boy is a hero! Hats off to him,” said Air Commodore Biswas. He went on to explain the kind of courage it took for an individual to make that kind of decision especially going up against a competent Pakistani airforce. My interest in military matters is rather low and I listened inattentively for the most part. 

Somewhere along the way the officer once again transformed into a gentleman and had us huddling together for a selfie. Said Ujjal-da, “I have to send a picture to the wife.” A sleek phone mount was produced, adjusted carefully and a selfie taken and quickly sent. Soon enough the cook announced she was leaving. Before she reached the door Debu had nudged Shobha and said, “Shobha, Sona is leaving, we won't see her tomorrow.” Now that is quintessential Debu – keeping an eye on the small details in the middle of all the action. And so Shobha went off spoke to Sona and paid her a little bonus for making parathas for us to carry for breakfast. 

Here I must say, that I was not with Shobha and she may have just given Sona a hug or shook her hand. But if I am wrong then don't say, “Look at the bastard attributing all sorts of things randomly.” Instead blame Shobha for breaking years of convention on how this entire exchange should transpire. 

That we were all enjoying ourselves and completely relaxed was evident from the way the conversation could move from family matters, to fighter jets, to taking selfies, discussing Amrut and of course the impending road trip. At some point Ujjal-da went in and returned with an I-pad and began a discussion with Debu on the route. Showing his flyboy's eye for detail he pointed out possible points of confusion as we exited Delhi. He told us about how to get to the saas-bahu temple – the name had Nari's wikipedia antennae up immediately – inside the Gwalior fort, about Orchha and then Khajurao. His energy and enthusiasm was boundless. Nari's theory of mother Shobha was further vindicated when talk veered around to Ujjal-da's son and he said, “Ask Shobha, the boy is closer to her than anyone else in the family.” Shobha delivered one of her two patented responses when one serves up an embarrassing truth about her, “What rubbish!” and then of course she proceeded to correct poor Ujjal-da on which year the son had finished his engineering when he had been in London and so on. 

Dinner was served and so commenced my week of pigging. Over dinner Debu pulled Ujjal-da's leg by telling Nari and me that Ujjal-da had actually given Rs10,000 to the Aam Aadmi Party. Ujjal-da laughed and said that it was unfair to bring up such momentary lapses of reason. I could not help but thinking that it's a pity that Kejriwal mucked it up so bad. In him, many ordinary Indians saw hope of a cleaner, better merit oriented politician only to find that power corrupts everyone. Nari, the ever curious journalist ended up discussing newspapers with Ujjal-da and was intrigued to find that though Ujjal-da supported the Modi government and still preferred to read the Indian Express because Ujjal-da found them to be a more balanced paper. We also discovered the car that we were taking to Bangalore was Ujjal-da's old car, a Honda City automatic, which he had replaced with a newer model of the Honda City automatic. It reminded me of how after much research I had finally ended up replacing my own old City with a new City of the same colour. He expressed a little sadness and confessed that he still loved the old model better but one had to move on. 

Ujjal-da told Nari and me that he would join us for a post-dinner smoke – he rarely smoked. And as we stood outside he told us about why he chose to settle down in Delhi after retirement – familiarity, having spent many years while in the Indian Airforce in Delhi. On how the Mrs is still keen to move to Calcutta – she wants to go back to her roots but he is reluctant – he has no connection with the city. Though one sensed that he was slowly coming around to the idea. He told us of of how he was flying for Jet Airways after retirement but a couple of years back he had a hernia surgery and then was diagnosed with cancer and post surgery complications meant that he could no longer fly. How he could still possibly teach at an aviation school but had now decided that it was time to retire and pursue new hobbies – I think he said he is planing to learn a new language. In the world that I live and the friends that I have, we are always cribbing about lack of money, too much technology, having to lose weight and all kinds of inanities. Here was someone who seemed to be at peace with the cards that life had dished out. As he said, “I should be dead at least twice over,” referring to his fighter pilot days, “I am lucky to be even standing here talking to you guys. Can't complain!”

We chatted some more and retired for the day. But not before Ujja-da asked each of us what beverage we would like in the morning. Nari's Tam Bram roots came tumbling out as he said, “I usually drink filter coffee but any coffee is fine.” Replied the officer, “Yes, filter coffee shall be there.”

The next morning was a flurry of activity as we got ready to head out. Ujjal-da and Debu went down so Debu could take a handover of the car papers and a lowdown about the vehicle and dos and donts. Hugs, handshakes, thank yous and a final cigarette done with we got into the car. Ujjal-da proved he was more tech savvy than us when he asked Debu to enable the location sharing feature on Google Maps so he could track us. 

Now we were all set to commence the 'Wow! What a cool thing to do' road trip. 

I have no clue if Debu, Shobha and Nari feel the same but to me it was five people who made the road trip for we travelled with Ujjal-da – and fuck people who think it's corny sentimentality and a cliched take – in spirit. We spoke about him, learned more about his flying days from Debu, found out that Shobha and Debu were engaged his house in Pune, that his son was also an alumnus of IIMC, sent him two updates a day on our progress. In times to come when the four of us meet and reminisce, I am dead certain that every time we do so, a toast shall be raised for the Officer and the Gentleman.