How things …

You must meet Major Singh, for want of a better name. You see, the matter of Minor importance is rather personal to Major Singh. So, on his request, I shall not disclose his real identity to you. I apologize for this irregularity. I request you to overlook this little detail.

You must meet Major Singh. Major Singh has the most fantastic stories about everything under the Sun and he loves to narrate them. Back in the cantonment quarters, he would start his week every Sunday morning in the garden of his lovely house. The community kids would have gathered by sharp nine and Major Singh would tell them stories of far away lands and rainy stormy nights and imaginary warriors and of angels and demons. At four, he would be with the young adults, telling them about love in difficult times and romance across the seas. At night, he would take his family out for dinner. His lovely wife and two kids would listen in rapt attention while Major Singh would describe his forefathers and their conquests and stories from the border. Monday to Saturday he would work hard and wouldn’t have much time to tell stories. He would however, on request, narrate stories from the ’71 war to the younger cadets, many of whom had never been to the border. Major Singh would end his week with a glass of whiskey, neat, with his friends discussing the latest stories from Delhi.

I first met Major Singh on a Sunday morning. Then I graduated to his Sunday afternoon stories. After I joined the military academy, I heard him as a guest lecturer. He had been invited to tell us stories from the ’71 war. That was the last I saw of him, for a long time. By the time I finished my training, he had retired.

Yesterday, I met him again at the Bombay airport. My flight had been considerably delayed due to the monsoon rains and I was stranded. He was traveling with his lovely wife and they were stranded too. I said to him, “Major Singh, I still remember all your stories.” He smiled and thanked me for the compliment. We spoke about my parents. We spoke about the cantonment and the other kids and their parents. We spoke about the Indian armed forces and the new president. We spoke about the Pakistani political situation. After we ran out of things to talk about, I asked him to tell me a story. He smiled. After a brief pause, he said, “Okay. Let’s get some coffee first.”

As we stood by the window, coffee in hand, Major Singh looked out the window and said, “You know son, it feels like the weather god knows my emotions. When I am low it rains. When I am happy, it feels like spring…”

As a little child Major Singh had a lot of toys. He had imaginary friends and he would sit all day and play with them. At the age of 4, his imaginary friends died, or so he told everyone. But his toys were always there. On his office desk, before he retired, he had toy soldiers (with the Indian army uniform) and toy battle tanks (replicas of the Arjun battle tank). In his house, on his dining table, he had Japanese toys with nodding heads. But Major Singh’s favorite toy, since when he was a teenager, was Minor. And he mostly played with Minor himself and wouldn’t let anyone share it. Minor was like his best friend.

When Carishma got to know of Major Singh’s obsession with toys, she was very amused. Carishma was Major Singh’s first love, but not his lovely wife. His lovely wife was a ‘Punjab ki kudi’* named Hasina. (We used to call Hasina ‘Haan** aunty’ because she would add a ‘haan’ after every sentence.) Major Singh first met Carishma in Italy in 1968. It was spring and the Italian weather was perfect for romance. When Major Singh first met Carishma, he was looking around in the markets of Rome toys. Carishma was the daughter of the Indian ambassador to Italy and was also shopping for toys. Two wheat skinned Indians in Rome in 1968 shopping for toys was quite a coincidence. Major Singh and Carishma fell in love instantly. As Major Singh put it, ‘Back in 1968, it didn’t take much to fall in love.’ They met in the evenings regularly and often had dinner together. Every Sunday, as a rule, they would spend with each other.

Major Singh told Carishma stories from his childhood, about his imaginary friends and his toys. He described in great detail on how his imaginary friends died in a road accident. Had Major Singh’s parents managed to get them to the hospital in time, they would have survived. But unfortunately, Major Singh’s father was at work and his mother had a headache. For almost two months after the road accident, Major Singh did not speak to his parents. They had let his friends die. It was only after his parents bribed Major Singh with a lot of toys that he let the matter go. Carishma found Major Singh’s stories very amusing. Sometimes she would laugh so much that her rosy cheeks would hurt. In Carishma’s dreams, Major Singh’s toys would appear and his stories would come alive. Carishma was floored by Major Singh. She thought of him night and day, haan. (The haan was added by Hasina, who had heard the story before and was chipping in.)

Major Singh showed Carishma some of the toys he had in his suitcase. Back in his hotel room, he introduced her to Minor and said (honestly) to her that after he met her, he hardly played with Minor and it must be making Minor quite upset. Carishma looked at Minor, gave it a little hug and remarked that Minor was indeed a good friend to have.

I must add that, back in 1968, Major Singh was not yet a Major. He was young and foolish (in Hasina’s words). He was only 20. Carishma was in her late teens and they were in that age where it is fun to be silly. They both felt like kids around each other and in a world of political uncertainty, they enjoyed each other’s company a lot. And they played with Major Singh’s toys. It may be noted that Major Singh had never let anyone play with Minor earlier. Alas, their romance lasted only a few months.

Major Singh was back in India in July 1968, back just in time to face heavy monsoon rains. Every river in India flooded that season and a lot of people died. Major Singh would look at the skies everyday and think of Carishma and no one else. Separated from his love, he was a very depressed man. He had stopped playing with his toys and Minor was a forgotten friend. That period in history, between 1965 and 1971 was a dark period for Indian history. It was not a time to play with toys. Not if you were employed with the armed forces.

Major Singh, greatly inspired by Sam Bahadur, fought gallantly in the war of 1971. And in 1972, he was again the confident young charming man he used to be earlier. In a stroke of good luck, he met Carishma again, at a dinner hosted in Delhi. It had been a good monsoon and Major Singh, like the weather, was extremely pleasant. Carishma and Major Singh spoke for a long time that night. Carishma gave him a phone number he could call her at. Major Singh called her at night and said he missed her a lot. Carishma echoed his emotions and asked Major Singh about his toys. When Major Singh said that he’d been ignoring his toys, Carishma remarked that now that she was back, it was time to bring them back to life. Carishma added that she had missed Minor. Carishma and Major Singh hit it off again and this time during the wet rains of Delhi. Like little kids, they played in the rain. They ate in roadside shops and slept in secret hideouts in old Delhi. But by the time the rains were over, they had figured that they weren’t meant for each other and mutually agreed to separate. On the lawns of India Gate, Carishma kissed Major Singh goodbye on his lips and Minor on his forehead and said that she will remember that Italian spring and that Delhi monsoon and that Major Singh who loved his toys forever.

Major Singh’s flight was ready to depart. Having heard Major Singh’s stories earlier, I knew that there would be a final punch line. Major Singh didn’t fail to deliver. He looked at me and said, “You must fall in love, for it’s a matter of Minor importance.”

I smiled at him. After they left, I recalled his stories one by one and realized that many of them had a meaning I hadn’t discovered in my younger days. I wondered how Major Singh could tell these stories with a straight innocent face. I wondered if his wife was his accomplice or just innocent. Laughing in my head, I wandered into the toy shop in the Bombay airport, as I waited for my flight.

* Girl from Punjab
** ‘Haan’ is the Hindi word for yes. Its pronounced as ‘hu’, as in hunter, but more nasal, thus making it sound like haan.