Phillaur still lives in us

Gurbachan Jagat

IT was late December of 1969 when we got married at Jalandhar, where I was posted as Assistant Superintendent of Police. The Commissioner of Jalandhar division was Kunwar Surinder Singh Bedi, a distinguished officer and a patron of the arts. At the reception, he asked me as to where I was staying and I replied that I was living in a rented accommodation. He kept quiet but the next morning, I was allocated government accommodation in the ‘Baradari’, a beautiful house in a very good area. We moved into it immediately and this became our first home. The officers of those times took special care of the training and welfare of their IAS and IPS probationers. At the same time, they introduced us to the social and cultural aspects of administrative life. Their involvement created an intense sense of fraternity and security. My wife entered into the happy task of setting up a home but this was not for long as I got promoted and posted as Superintendent of Police (outdoor activities) at the Police Training College, Phillaur. This was the first of many in a satisfying and fulfilling career I was lucky to have (though if my late mother-in-law was to be believed, this quick promotion had been predicted by her Bangalore-based astrologer according to whom my wife would prove very lucky for me and my career).

The Police Training College was located in an old fort of Maharaja Ranjit Singh and was a well-built complex with huge grounds. It was well-maintained, mainly due to the large number of trainees, who came from Punjab, Haryana, J&K and even Delhi mainly for promotional courses. The linchpins of this training complex were the smart and dictatorial drill instructors. Everyone paid due deference — it was a separate matter that when hundreds of crows started their raucous crowing in the evening, it was murmured that these were the souls of past drill instructors still yelling away. There was a nice stable with many horses which had been trained to perform a musical ride along with good riders who were outstanding at tent pegging.

The house allocated to us had, in British times, been the Sergeant’s house; now it was divided into two, one section each for us and the Adjutant. It was the summer of 1970 and with no coolers or air-conditioners, we slept outdoors under mosquito nets. The first night out there, we were woken up by a roar in our ears and a thumping in the chest — it was the passing train. Somebody forgot to mention that the house was barely 30 yards from the railway lines. My day was taken care of by the 5 am to 8 pm routine from ‘reveille to retreat’. My boss was a crotchety old man originally from the Navy. As per his instructions, the PT had to jog off at 5 am on my word of command and I was to be at the head of the runners. Whenever he did not hear my word of command, he would question me about it later in the day. In hindsight, the habits of hard physical training and strict discipline were ingrained during this period in both the staff and the trainees. There has been a consistent decline in the emphasis on outdoor activities and the results are there for all to see. Policing is a tough job both physically and mentally and the right attitude has to be imparted at an early stage. The morning PT was followed by parade, breakfast, administrative duties, evening outdoor activities, and a final round with the principal. I was very fond of riding and in addition to riding in the school and on parade, I along with some of the instructors would ride along the river on holidays, venturing out into the countryside. These were lovely moments, the river, the sky, the horses … what more could one want.

However, our harbour of joy, peace and learning was the home of a very distinguished and highly decorated retired Major General and his most gracious wife. Maj Gen Harnarain Singh had been the Military Secretary to the first two Presidents of India and had also been awarded the Padma Bhushan (a rarity in those days). The General was a graduate of Chiefs College (Aitchison College, Lahore), RIMC-Dehradun and Sandhurst. He received his commission in the British Army in 1932 and subsequently served in the North West Frontier Province; during World War II, he saw action in the African campaign as a part of the 5th Indian Division. Eritrea, Ethiopia, El Alamein were places he had fought in…some won, some lost. There was a story of a long desert march to El Alamein after his garrison had been overrun ... perhaps best narrated in his own words.

This sanctuary was fully used by us and most evenings we were there. Uncle was a good raconteur and spun many tales of what happened behind the scenes at Rashtrapati Bhavan. Aunty was well read and continued to be an avid reader. Both were always meticulously dressed and all the guests were expected to be equally so for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We used to have drinks on a lovely terrace and meals downstairs. A warning bell would go off before dinner. This 10-minute warning always led to a last scramble at the bar and auntie and I quietly replenished our drinks (uncle drank sparsely, while Kiran was a teetotaller and would invariably ask us as to what happened between the terrace and the table). From literary discussions to current affairs to recounting of old tales, each evening was treasured. Aunty among other things taught Kiran many a fine skill of home-making; suffice to say that she was one of the most elegant ladies one has met and a complete hostess. She rescued us more than once from embarrassment.

Our first marriage anniversary came around and relatives and friends were demanding a party. As usual, we went to our court of first resort — aunty. I confessed that I could not afford whisky and rum would have to do. Pat came the answer, ‘Not to worry, we would make an excellent rum punch.’ We cut down on the guests and limited it to close family, friends, the principal and a few officers. This witch’s brew kept brewing for three days and finally the day arrived. The punch was put in a ‘karahi’ on burning embers. December 21 was the day, bitterly cold. The punch was sweet and tangy and spread warmth quickly. Glass after glass was downed with everyone treating it as some kind of a soft drink. The results began to show and my wife decided it was time for dinner. In the meantime, the ‘karahi’ was almost empty. Not to worry, proclaimed aunty, asking me to fetch a couple of bottles of rum which she proceeded to empty out in the ‘karahi’, much to my trepidation. However, nary a guest made out the difference, so good was the ‘first punch’! A not-too-friendly guest told the principal that his staff officer was trying to get him drunk. I quietly interjected and said that the Navy never gets drunk. The point was well received and we knocked down another toast to the Navy. After sometime, the Navy had set sail for the harbour. To his credit, he never mentioned a word about the party. The party was over in less than two hours and was by all accounts a success, except for two guests who refused to drink what they called ‘panchu’ and I had to get whisky for them from the market.

Every moment spent in uncle and aunty’s company was a joyous one. They were large-hearted, gracious, with not an iota of pretence. The General taught me the finer nuances of administration, of being strict but not rude, of unwaveringly following the rules and regulations, upholding the law, respecting seniors but not cringing before them. Our relationship continued beyond Phillaur and they always came and stayed with us wherever we were posted at least once a year. Time and old age brought problems in their wake but they never forsook their dignity or their style, and I am sure they have found peace in the happy hunting grounds. The children and grandchildren all bear the stamp of their ancestry and live happy lives. We remember them every day, the lady with her Rawalpindi and Army heritage, the General with his immaculate bearing and principles. I wish and pray there were more such people but to us, they were beacons of light, hope, dignity and principles. Because of them and the fort, Phillaur lives in us forever. To quote Churchill, ‘The old world in its sunset was fair to see.’

— The writer is ex-chairman of UPSC, former Manipur Governor and served as J&K DGP