THE INIMITABLE GOBIND SINGH – A SHORT STORY

I

Uncle Gobind Singh was perhaps the oldest friend of my father known to us. That is if we keep aside Uncle Harish. Uncle Harish and my father grew up together. He was hardly an outsider. He was family.

Not Uncle Gobind. He entered our lives much later.

My father, a professional army officer, had a nomadic life, so typical of a man in uniform. As his family, my mother, sister, and I trudged along. There was no complaint. It was normal.

 As a child, one also did not realise the efforts it took to be constantly on the move. For my mother, packing and unpacking every few years was as normal as the daily sunrise. It must have been tough for her, though.

 Moving also meant new schools and hunting for new friends. To say that it was something I looked forward to would be being dishonest to oneself. However, it was the only life I had experienced since birth. So I was fine with it.

Being a reserved person meant that it took me longer to open up to new people. I grew up without any strong bonds of friendship. The longest friendships I made were during my college years. They too are lost today. Living without friends is now my second nature. I don’t think much about it.

So my parents’ friends were in many ways my friends too. When I would meet them, I would indulge with them in conversations. They probably endured me out of familial affection, rather than actually wanting to talk to me. My childish and immature approach to things and situations was quietly tolerated.

One such friend was Uncle Gobind.

                                                                            II

My father first met Uncle Gobind when he was positioned in New Delhi. It was a very important position. There was a big staff working under him. Two personnel worked very closely with him. And over time, a bond beyond the professional began to develop. One of them was Uncle Gobind.

A quiet, Sikh gentleman, he and my father made a good team. My father, a workaholic, has always been a straightforward person, calling a spade, a spade. Asking difficult questions and taking up near-impossible tasks is part of his nature. Such people do not agree well with all. However, with the gentle Sikh, things fell quickly in place.

Uncle Gobind would ask my father after us and once in a while send us some sweets. We began addressing him as Uncle even before we met him.

                                                                                    III

On one Deepawali day, the doorbell rang. It was Uncle Gobind. My father was astounded, to say the least. He had not expected the guest. Uncle Gobind resided in the western part of the city. We lived in central Delhi. He had come, travelling in a public bus, just to wish us for the festival.

That was our introduction to Uncle Gobind.

He handed over a box of sweets to my mother. He had brought the delectable Karachi Halwa. Two introductions on the same day! I had not tasted this old Delhi specialty sweet. It was wonderful and exciting. Sweets, and that also an exotic one, was very welcome indeed.

 My sister and I were initially shy and did not sit too long with him. Tea and savouries were served. My mother asked after his family. It comprised of his wife, two sons, and two daughters. The elder children were in college studying a varied range of subjects, the younger ones still at school. My father, not sure of how much time to spend with an office junior, decided that giving his scooter a good Deepawali wash was more important.

At one point, conversations on both sides dried up. It was a bit of an awkward situation. Taking the hint, Uncle Gobind got up and took leave.

It must have been his desire to spend time with his children at a festival. And yet, he had come such a long way. As I recollect those days, this realisation dawns on me. 

No sooner did Uncle Gobind leave, my sister and I attacked the sweet box, much to the chagrin of my mother. “Anyone would think you are being starved here”, she chided us. We smiled gleefully and continued eating. It was Deepawali after all. The family tradition of no studies for the day, and eat what you like was taken full advantage of.

                                                                                  IV

Thus entered Uncle Gobind in our lives. Once in a while, he would drop in, bring some sweets as usual and we would all have a nice time. He opened up about his family. He would apprise us about the latest of his children’s achievements. He was a proud father.

Aunty Gobind never came to our home. Perhaps, professional protocol did not encourage him to bring her along. In the stint of two years that my father was in Delhi, we met Uncle Gobind Singh’s family only once. At my father’s farewell lunch at his home. It was a long scooter ride for us to reach west Delhi. My sister and I were dressed in our best. A twin pair of checkered pants and striped shirts. We must have added to the amusement of the Singh family.

                                                                              V

Soon, we were moving to Dharamshala, in Himachal Pradesh. Dharamshala was a sleepy hill town dominated by army units and Tibetans, the older generations of whom had come to India with the Dalai Lama. Dharamshala was and still is home to the Tibetan spiritual head and the Tibetan government-in-exile.

Dharamshala had yet to gain popularity as the tourist town that it has become today. Though, backpackers and trekkers could be seen. While returning from school in the army truck turned children’s bus, we could see many of them walking around. The Western tourists had discovered the town and its beauty long before we Indians did.

Our home was in the vicinity of Tibetan family residences. My mother became good friends with a Tibetan doctor and she would invite us once in a while for a treat of thukpa and butter tea. My mother and the doctor retained their contacts long after we left Dharamshala. They exchanged letters until she and her son shifted to Belgium.

One afternoon, on returning from school, my mother announced that Uncle Gobind was coming for a brief visit. His letter had arrived the same morning. We were very excited and happy. And we waited anxiously for the day to arrive. I do not remember whether he looked younger, older, thinner, or fatter than before. I only remember seeing his smiling face as he got down from the taxi and the happiness his visit brought to all of us. Uncle Gobind had become an extended part of the family.

My father, an avid trekker, organized a hike up a mountain while Uncle Gobind was with us. I remember it all as if it was yesterday. He joined sportingly, probably a debut mountain hike for him. We crossed cedar trees along the way with rough grass below our feet, inadvertently tramping the tiny  flowers as we walked along.

Despite wise advise, I came along in high-heeled boots. Needless to say, not only was I limping by the time we reached the top, I had to walk down barefoot. The back of my feet and soles were in a terrible state. It was an ordeal, to say the least. A simple lesson learned the hard way. One does not wear high-heeled boots while climbing mountains.

Years flew by. We grew up and went through the varied experiences of our teenage years. Our wonderful Sikh friend would drop in for brief visits from time to time. On each occasion, we got to hear all the happenings in the Singh family.

                                                                         VI

In the early 1990s, my father returned to Delhi. We were allotted rooms in the Naval Officers Mess until proper accommodation was provided. The inimitable Uncle Gobind was at the railway station to receive us. This time, his sons accompanied him. “Welcome Sir, welcome”, said he with hands folded in a Namaste. My father and he shook hands, and then the general bonhomie of greetings followed. . It was a very touching moment for my father. He had not anticipated a welcome committee.

 As we made our way out of the railway station, I noticed Uncle clutching a big cloth bag. Perhaps many packets of sweets, my greedy mind said. Once we reached the allotted residence, the mystery unraveled. It was home-cooked lunch, a la’ Punjabi style. There were rotis, vegetables and chickpea, curd, and salad. And yes, the famous Karachi Halwa sweet pack. It was a homecoming of sorts.

My father was now deputed in another department, but the two caught up with each other once in a while. Their offices were in the same building, the South Block in New Delhi. Uncle Gobind was now an officer. His diligence and unflagging spirit had helped him achieve the pinnacle of his career.

He was a proud parent too. Both his sons were now employed in national banks and his elder daughter was married to a good man. We had attended all weddings in the Gurudwara.

When it was time for the youngest girl to be married, Uncle asked my parents over to meet the groom and his family. By now we were proud owners of a red Maruti car. The scooter had been gifted to an acquaintance.

After the guests had left, the Singh family discussed with my father the issue of the tenant.

                                                                                VII

To add to the income of the family, Uncle Gobind had rented two rooms to an old mate of his. And now the mate had turned into a foe. He was refusing to vacate. Out of desperation, the Singh family wanted my father to speak to the tenant.

Of course, the man did not budge. My father’s talk on the ethics of a good tenant went unheeded.

“Then Sir, I think the court is the only way”, contemplated Uncle ruefully.

 My father accompanied Uncle Gobind to the court and helped arrange a lawyer.

Meanwhile, my father left the service and soon after travelled to England. He had been invited by the British Army to deliver a series of lectures. He was there for over a month. He had called us from London before beginning his return journey and categorically told us not to come to the airport. Taking a taxi home would be less complicated and economical.

The day of my father’s arrival came. We were waiting excitedly for the taxi to arrive on our doorstep. When it did, my father alighted wearing a garland around his neck. He was smiling from cheek to cheek. Almost simultaneously, the other passenger door opened, and out emerged Uncle Gobind. He had gone to the airport to welcome my father back. “London se aa rahein, hain Sir”. “You are returning from London”, he had explained to my astonished father “how could I not come over.” As I reminiscence those days, this was perhaps the pinnacle of their friendship.

VIII

Years went by and the case dragged on. Uncle Gobind retired. He would come once in a while to us travelling in public buses. Whenever he came, he would spend the night at our place and leave the next morning after breakfast. I would drive him to the nearest bus stand. And though, he would repeatedly tell me to get going, I would stay put until his bus arrived.

Sometimes, he would forget to tell his family that he was spending the night at our place. Frantic calls to and fro would calm the situation. My sister and I took it on ourselves to ensure that the family was informed. Sunny, the elder son became our confidante. Those were the pre-mobile days. There was only one landline phone kept at a neutral spot in the dining room. Not to hurt Uncle’s sentiments, we would make the phone call while he rested in the guest room.

                                                                              IX

 The court case was reaching nowhere. An eternal optimist, Uncle Gobind was increasingly getting frustrated. He had sold the family land in Punjab to fund the case. Aunty was no more and Uncle Gobind was getting lonelier. Meanwhile, my sister and I got married and moved out to new homes.

One afternoon, my mother called. “Uncle Gobind is very unwell”, she said, her voice faltering a little. I didn’t need to ask more. The tone of her voice said it all. The rest of the day went in unsaid grief. A part of my old life was ebbing away. I did not want him to go. He was part of my happier and carefree days.

The next morning, I drove my parents to Uncle Gobind’s home. He had just returned from an emergency stint at the hospital. He looked weak and frail. But the gentle smile was there as always.

“We did it, Sir”, he said with difficulty. Every word was a struggle. I could not understand. Later as we sat in the living room, Sunny explained. “We won the case. My father’s struggle has triumphed.”

The two disputed rooms were Uncle Gobind’s again.

I looked across the room to the bed where he rested. This victory was a legacy to his children and grandchildren. This win had come just in the nick of time. Uncle Gobind was unwell, but much at peace. My eyes welled. Here was a man so special to me.

A long time ago I had read somewhere, and it came back to me now.

‘If you are in someone’s heart, you are out of the ordinary.’