The son of a gun

Col IPS Kohli

This happened when the erstwhile Maharajas’ privy purses, privileges, egocentricities and titles were still intact. A seven-year-old brat threw a stone and shattered the windscreen of a limousine of a Maharani’s motorcade.  The police escort accompanying ‘Her Highness’ picked up ‘Dennis the Menace’ and deposited him with the nearby ‘thana’. His father was called and given a stern talking to by the 'thanedaar' on good parenting and to be liberal with the use of a rod. 

Today he is amiable. Credit goes to his father who was merciless when he kicked his butt. Just three months separate us cousins. Many a time he was the foolhardy front and hence bore the brunt for the devious mischief engineered by me. The stone he threw at the Maharani's car was on my instigation. For a good 8 to 10 years thereafter his parents exorcised him of  evil spirits they thought had taken control over their son.

We were commissioned in the Army together. As course mates in the same branch of the Army with similar sounding names, the comedy of errors continued with bouquets coming my way while he was rewarded with brickbats often meant for me. Reputation matters.

Post retirement, our lives changed. I settled down to lead a sedate retired life busy settling children.

He, a ‘grass widower’ with a big inheritance, chose to live life as a 'gentleman at large'.  Foot loose and fancy free, he believes in the maxim 'live today like there is no tomorrow'. For friends he can rustle up delectable kebabs and biryani washed down by the choicest ‘single malts’.  His is an open house where the fire never stops burning and a cellar from where no son of a gun ever walked back on a steady pair of legs. 

In an age and time when people at large are self-centred, this person is ever ready to walk the extra mile to help a person in need. This template is now passe.

 The devil and the saint can co-exist (didn’t we?). He is known for his peccadilloes and many a dalliance. A few pegs down, he comes into his own as a natural MC (em cee). Microphone in hand, he can regale an audience with his inimitable humour.

Once late in the night, ‘sozzled,’ he called to say he had lost his way somewhere between Chandigarh and Mohali. He got entangled in the maze of roads around Burail jail. He wasn't sure whether he was coming from Mohali and going to Chandigarh or, coming from Chandigarh and going to Mohali. For a change he had not driven straight into the warm embrace of a ‘naka’ lying in wait. It wasn’t the first time this happened. I was reminded of Munni Begum’s ghazal: Afsos apne ghar ka pata hum se kho gaya … Ab sochna yeh hai ke kidhar jaana chahiye … Nadaan jawaani ka zamana guzar gaya … Ab aa gaya bhudapa sudhar jaana chhahiye.