Fate’s Sweet Rigmarole

 It was a remote part of the world, smaller than the small, and still smaller. Geographical distance lost its meaning, as in this small world, yards stretched to meters and meters to kilometres. A dilution of specifics—a smallness. Alongside, the big got sucked into smallness as well; kilometres coagulated into little points of human destiny. The vision in crow-flight spanned one hundred kilometres from the nearest influential big city, dusty zigzagging tracks made it two hundred kilometres, and the distance acquired almost unfathomable proportions in the mind.

The smallest store, in the rudimentary form of the shops of today, was twenty kilometres away, at a bigger village, the lazily bustling Bhiwani of today. In hundred years, this small hamlet itself would become bigger than the district headquarters of those days. Well, that’s change. Small worlds become bigger ones over a period of time.  

The wedding party had travelled for a day and half, starting yesterday morning and reaching here in the afternoon, pulled by carts on dusty, rutted paths, skirting the semi-arid sandy loams, acacia trees and tufts of dry bunchgrass. At night the jackals howled and the spotted owlets hooted and ominously shrieked. The groom’s marriage party had stopped in the wee hours to give rest and fodder to the oxen. They started again, taking creaking slow steps to culminate a little girl’s childhood journey, the childhood that suddenly meets womanhood.

The twentieth century was just a decade old, so was Nannu, fondly called so because she was brought up at her nanaji’s place. That’s how people got their names during those days. As the cartloads of peasants, clad in cotton homespuns, dhoti, kurta and headgears, moved towards the ceremony that would make her Nannu Devi, with her childhood suddenly gone, they were more interested in country-made liqueur, laddoos, jalebis, puris, saag and lots of wedding fun. To these country-folks, to whom even plain sugar was a rare delicacy, these items defined what the brief glimpses of heaven can mean.

So Nannu became Nannu Devi and would continue to grow. The woman in her will continue to grow when her marriage would be consummated three years later, when she would become the mother of a girl child an year later, when she would become a widow at 15, would be remarried to her husband’s elder brother, would give birth to three more daughters before hitting the jackpot, a boy, and thus meeting the fulfilment of her purpose on earth, at the age of 23. A lifetime of experience, while all this time she was merely changing from a child to girl and then a young woman.

Her husband had a big acreage in his share, coming to roughly 200 acres of almost semi-arid land, most of it full of thorny thickets and bunchgrass. Agriculture was defined by the weather elements. There were no irrigation channels, and with just two bulls how much of land you will manage to till. So in effect it was just a dozen acres of arable land, on which the joint family, their total acreage going to 600 acres, toiled to get survival crumbs for them and their cattle.

During those days, simple diarrhoea was worse than cancer of today. Her husband passed away, his mortality claimed by the common disease of present times. The titular head of the land, in patriarchy, if she happened to be a widow with a daughter, was as good as non-existing. The younger brother-in-law was a land hawk. He wanted to add more and more land to his share just like he was eager to have more children.

He started bullying her into marriage and that too with the condition that his sons from the other wife will have equal portion from the chunk of land from her share as well apart from their already existing share. During those days, a widow was usually married to her husband’s younger brother even if he was married, a sort of convenient polygamy. But a tall and gaunt Nannu Devi, who was just Nannu till five years back, had grown in guts beyond his guesswork.

‘I have to retain all of my land for my own son that I will surely bear one day,’ was all Nannu Devi could think of. At that young age she needed a dream, a goal. She decided to go for it. Here daughters were excluded from the bargain, as neither law nor convention left them with any option in that regard. The success and meaning of her life was just about having a male heir one day and hand over all the land to him.

During those days murders for land were commoner than marriages. Her younger brother-in-law tried his best set of intimidatory tactics. As she was busy in her fields, and uneasy desultoriness sighed over many miles around, he beat her mercilessly. She fought back, gave him a bloodied tooth at the cost of bruises on her entire body. He tried to scare her by putting the deadly spikes of the hayrack on her throat. She but spat on his face, thundering that she would get married to a bhangi, the so called utmost disgrace in her community, rather than be his wife.

Her diseased husband’s elder brother was a better human being and could feel the fire in her to stick to her land. He had his own brood of sons. ‘I will allow your sons to have possession of all of your land,’ he promised. Holding onto her dreams to see her own would-be sons tilling all the land she had inherited, Nannu Devi became the second wife of her elder brother-in-law.

Almost 200 acres of land and no male heir! That was the most tragic thing to imagine as per the social norms of those days in the peasant society. It just didn’t make any sense during those days. Her eldest born from her first marriage was as good as not there in the first place because it was a girl. The mission now was to have a son. That would complete the journey of her life. Nothing will make it a successful life till then.

One after the other she gave birth to three daughters, making it four from both marriages. But all this was meaningless. The land waited for the male heir. A house was almost without light in the absence of a son. It was all darkness. The daughters, though they worked to the capacity of their little bones, were just there as an appendage to be cast off very soon. The casting off time was just a decade during those times.

And finally her miles-long prayers and efforts bore fruit and a boy was born. Not that it was smooth with the villain uncle all through these years. She had learnt how to defend herself. She wielded a well-oiled stick with more ferocity than any man around. The iron prongs of her hay-mover were sharp enough to deter any adventure on her rival’s part. So more than anything else that stalled her murder by her younger brother-in-law, it was the plain fear of getting himself murdered by her.

She could always smell that smouldering fire of hunger for land coming from her newborn son’s younger uncle. Jorawar Singh’s life was at risk, every day, every night. As she worked in her fields, the son tied to her back, her lethal hay-fork always lying at a hand’s distance, she had four eyes dedicated to the task of scanning all the sixteen directions.    

A child needs space as it grows up. Agile as a willow switch and outgoing like a free cloud, Nannu Devi soon realised he was no longer the little child she could tie at her back and continue working. Tiny Jorawar Singh, named after an adjective something to do with valour and bravery, was trying to claim his territory to wallow in childhood revelry. Little did he realise that his life was always at risk. He carried the ownership of a big chunk of land, which, even though was nothing more than a vast stretch of fallow land, was a literal crown of gold in the countryside where people hadn’t anything but the bare minimum. The land, after all, held the possibilities for the future. The poor people either live in the past or the future. The land means future.

His eldest real sister, Falguni Devi was married at the age of twelve. So to keep him away from the vultures eying his land, six-year-old Jorawar Singh was sent to the village of his sister’s in-laws, a place near Delhi, where the modern day Palam airport stands. During those days it was a forest, interspersed with the outcrops of the ridge, the tail end of the relict Aravalis.

His sister, though just six or seven year elder to him was almost a mother to her little brother. In addition, she was a wife as well. Like the brides of those days she too would continue to grow, carrying multiple responsibilities on her frail shoulders, as she changed to a woman from a girl, became a real biological mother on the way, apart from being a mother figure to her younger brother.

Even at such a long distance from his native village, they just couldn’t let him out freely like other children because there had been scary incidents like some stranger staring at the boy, or the sight of some unknown figure, or some unfamiliar face seen in the neighbourhood. So even here he was kept under the strictest guard. He was a little prince and he had a tiny kingdom to inherit. His life was precious to the women around him.

There at his native hamlet, Nannu Devi’s defiance and gutsy march continued. She came to earn a reputation where even the basest males would think twice before taking a panga with her. She knew that the uncultivated fallow land means ownership in letter and name only. She wanted it in spirit. Day in and day out she worked in the semi-arid lifeless soil, trying to put the vestiges of agriculture, even if for one season, some sign that the land had been ploughed, to show to the world that there are owners and they are ready to tame the wild land. It was a sort of message boldly declaring: ‘Private property, stay away!’

Quite surprisingly, even as a tiny child, Jorawar Sing retained the purity of his mature, big name. His name was never twisted to some affable, convenient, mollycoddling pet name. Though very big and serious for the name of a small child, it remained so. But the boy did full justice to his name, grew strong, reddish and square shouldered. As an adolescent he appeared to do full justice to the mighty name he carried.

His sister, with whom he stayed, very soon forgot when she was a child herself. Within a decade and half even the mother in her started to grow old. During those days, girls stared getting old the moment they stopped to grow. She had four children. Her husband, a mighty, majestic, reddish, fine-featured giant standing couple of inches above six feet, having a bright future serving as Naib Tehsildar, suddenly collapsed like a mighty fort caving in suddenly. Even here there were eyes trying to grab the land of the young widow with four children. So again Nannu Devi arrived at the scene with her well-oiled stick and sharp hay-fork, working with her daughter, stamping their ownership like a lion marks its territory with its urine in the woods. Even at a distance of two hundred kilometres, stretched over dusty rutted cart-tracks, she worked as an effective deterrent.

In any case, the daughter-mother widowed duo held their ramparts. They just stayed there and hid their sons more preciously than the gold in their possession. The land had meaning as long as there was a son. Without a son the land became meaningless. Also the life of a woman was meaningless without a son. A woman could survive without her husband, but life without a son was impossible, the brutal most punishment. 

Jorawar Singh grew lanky and strong. Broad-shouldered, he had keen starry eyes which appeared to look beyond the evident meaning on the surface. His eyebrows were bushy and his lips were finely cut. The upper lip reservedly shut over the lower one. His squarish jaw evinced his masculinity to a decent degree. On top of that he stood well over six feet.             

Not so much for the safety of British India, as for his own protection from his hawkish uncle, Nannu Devi was relieved to a huge degree when the long-limbed lad joined army. Now he became a part of mighty sarkar. He will be having his own weapon. All this vouchsafed his safety. Jorawar Singh stood out as a dashing recruit.

No sooner he completed his training than he was married. Nannu Devi had diligently secured the legacy for one generation. Now it was her duty to prepare the bed for the next generation. Even if a woman lived for thousand years, during those days, the dream of seeing one more son in the next generation would still continue.

A family that hadn’t a son almost ceased to exist. Daughters existed in proxy as somebody’s wife from the day of their birth.

As Nannu Devi blearily peered into the son-full of a future, a culmination of her life-long struggle to get a foothold in the chronically patriarchal society, the Second World War was sucking people’s lives into its muddy, bloody deluge. The star of her eyes had hardly any time to sow the seeds of Nannu Devi’s dream. He was sent to the eastern front where war intrigues were opening up in South East Asia between belligerent, resurgent Japanese and recalcitrant allied forces.

News travelled very slowly during those days. As Jorawar Singh’s fate was lost in the gloomy, smoked South East Asia, Nannu Devi, oblivious to the risks to her son’s life, not knowing to what extent the wars put up threats to millions, her definition of danger being limited to life threat to her son from his land-hungry uncle, put her ears to the womb of her daughter-in-law, a mere girl of fourteen, to get some hope, to get some initial hints of germination.

As the war sucked her son into its bloody guts, she lay sulking that the first and the only cohabitation of the young couple had been fruitless. She wasn’t bothered about larger issues any more. To beat her disappointment, she worked more tirelessly in the fields to bring more and more chunks of lands under cultivation from the vast tracts of the semi-arid barren land of which her soldier son was the titular head, thus adding to the land under their real possession.

She never lost hope about his return to sire many sons who in turn will have their sons to rule over the land they would inherit some day in future.    

It was the balmy air of winters in South East Asia, but it couldn’t have been worse for those who happened to be a part of the war. The 19-year-old Jorawar Singh was stuck up as part of the struggling British Army in Burma. The British forces were already weak after the Battle of Bilin River. Theirs was the 17th Division, a new formation yet to taste the real blood. Well, it tasted a lot between 14 to 18 February, 1942. Two days of jungle combat at close quarters had left many dead, still more injured and the rest in still more dead-cast and broken spirits. The Japanese soldiers were crazy in their excitement for the war. The Indian soldiers fighting for their British rulers could never make out how can someone fight so crazily and willingly to die. The Japanese soldiers owed their souls to the King. The Indian soldiers owed just their professional duty to the Britishers in lieu of the salaries they received. Well, it doesn’t mean the latter didn’t give their best in the battles. They did, but it still fell short of the crazy zeal to die for the Emperor of the land of the rising sun.    

Deep into the grey of his old decades, Jorawar Singh would always remember the Battle of Sittang Bridge (February 19-23, 1942) as vividly as one remembers just a day old happenings. They were pounded really hard. The Japanese pushed for a decisive victory. The British Indian Army (BIA) suffered heavy losses.

Brigadier JG Smyth commanded the BIA at Sittang. The few hundred yards long Sittang iron railway bridge was near south Burma’s coastline. The 17th Indian Infantry Division was in disarray and retreat. On the night of 19 February, they disengaged and retreated under the cover of night to fall back to Sittang bank about 50 kilometres westwards. The Japanese regiment advanced to cut the retreat off and outflank them. On 21 February, Japanese aircrafts bombed the retreating units. The British Indian soldiers were forced to abandon their vehicles and equipment.

Jorawar Singh, bearing many scars and bruises of war, along with many injured soldiers escaped into Bogyagi Rubber Estate. Their ammunition was spent. The rifles were no more than sticks to fight with. And it was not a war of sticks anymore.

Meanwhile, a dispirited detachment from disarrayed units fought to secure the bridge. A major part of the BIA Division was cut off to the east and still in retreat. There were Japanese paratroop landings but a unit of Gurkhas bravely combated to secure the bridge-ends so that the remaining BIA division could cross the river.

Jungle fighting at close quarters ensued throughout the day. The BIA still held the bridge till the evening of 22 February. But as darkness progressed the futility of defending the bridge loomed large. More than half of the British Division was still stranded on the eastern side. But the bridge had to be destroyed to stall the Japanese march to Rangoon. The setting sun saw an explosion as Smyth’s sappers blew the bridge.

The Japanese would have easily wiped out those stranded on the eastern side, but they were more interested in taking Rangoon. So they stopped short of mopping out the 17th Division. The Japanese disengaged to cross the river at some point further north.

The survivors of the 17th Division crawled out of the forest intending to swim to safety and slip away to the north on the opposite bank. Only a handful of their rifles, Bren guns, Tommy guns, anti-aircraft Lewis guns and FWW vintage 18-pounders remained in their possession. Their uniforms and boots were torn and so were the sagging spirits.

The river was in spate and appeared beyond the energy left in the defeated soldiers. But even a river in spate is relatively calmer in the early morning around four or so. There is peace and harmony at that time when the day is conceived in a marvellous equanimity of elements in nature. Somehow Jorawar Singh knew this fact. He suggested this to his fellow soldiers. They had a bunch of papers to salvage to the other end. Being relatively gutsy and in better health, the onus fell on Jorawar Singh.

The enterprising soldier got an earthen pitcher, put the important papers in it, secured the opening with a canvas piece, tied the pitcher to his chest and jumped into the river at a time when he supposed it to be relatively calmer. Using the buoyancy of the pitcher he swam to reach the opposite bank. Putting the papers in safety, he made a few rounds both ways, still keeping the pitcher tied to his chest, and drew a double rope line across the river to enable the rest of his colleagues to cross over.     

From there they crawled forward to merge with the BIA units to the north. Somehow the 17th Division with its paltry remnants was replenished and they continued in skirmishes till July 1944 when they were taken out of the frontline before the Battle of Imphal.

Jorawar Singh was away from home for almost three years, any news about him as hazy as you see the faintest vestiges of horizon on a burning hot day. Thinking him to be dead but assuring each other of his being alive through solacing words, the womenfolk would now and then, when the pain inside burst the dam, would start with sighing whimpers before letting loose a full-scaled spell of howls, making it virtually a mourning for the missing soldier. But then they would realise it, would wipe away Nannu Devi’s tears, put up smiles through their wet eyes to assure her that her son will definitely return.

Destiny sometimes plays a too dramatic a cameo. It was one such spell of howls, the womenfolk totally surrendered to the agony of losing a young son of the clan, who left without leaving behind a male heir, thus rendering the existence of land and women all meaningless, that a battle-broken, haggard Jorawar Sing materialised at his native village. The mourners could hardly believe. More than anything they tried their best to hide their embarrassment.  

But the war for Jorawar Singh was far from over. Nannu Devi had to have her grandson. At any cost. ‘These goddamned angrezs go to hell!’ she declared.

During those days, the best chance for a soldier to become a father was during once-in-a-year vacations, when he returned home, when his half-widow became a full bride. Each had to give their best to be a father and a mother.

As India burst out in joy over independence, Nannu Devi was sulking. Her soldier son’s annual homecomings hadn’t availed any fruit. She even prayed for a girl to set the ball rolling at least. To make it worse, he found himself posted in the volatile parts of Kashmir as the Pakistanis attacked in 1948. ‘As if they can never fight a war without my son!’ Nannu Devi muttered angrily.

That year his annual leave was cancelled. Being robbed of another season of a child’s prospects, Nannu Devi cursed the new masters in India. ‘With the angrezs gone, now they will fight all the time!’ she just felt flabbergasted. In desperation both the mother and the daughter-in-law worked tirelessly in the fields. They put more and more of their fallow land under cultivation. Not that they could maintain a big acreage under regular cultivation. They had hardly any means for that. But as long as you sow some furrows in the fallow patch, even four or five years after the last cultivation you had this satisfaction that the land was once tilled and will be done in future as well.

Nannu Devi was so happy that the fifties chugged ahead without any war and her son could come annually to get a son. And regularly he came, once a year, for a vacation of around two months, to try his luck across two or three cycles of procreation. He but went luckless.

During those days, childless first wives happily gave consent to their husband’s remarriage, accepting their status as that of a first wife, a kind of titular head, and pampering the second wife, keeping her happy so that the new wife won’t throw her out after bearing children. So in the warless decade, Jorawar Singh was happily remarried and straightway started his innings as a father. Even a girl child was welcomed because she carried the prospects of a son down the line. 

Some soldiers are lucky as well as unlucky to be there in multiple wars. Subedar Jorawar Singh, father of a girl, and another child growing in his wife’s womb, was there in the western sector along Aksai Chin during the war of 1962 with China. It was a humiliating defeat. It highlighted the lack of political foresight apart from the shortcomings of military leaders. Carrying a splinter injury in his leg, he was taken as a prisoner of war by the Chinese. Missing for many months he limped home at a sultry dusk. Couple of days after his arrival, his second daughter was born. Nannu Devi didn’t mind it this time. At least her son had returned from the war. And there was another time.

It won’t be before 1967, with a third girl child on the way, and the war with Pakistan coming in 1965, where Jorawar Singh as the lucky soldier again went and survived with his luck, that fifty years of Nannu Devi’s struggle bore a fruit finally.

A son was born. All the cruelties of life were forgotten and forgiven. Nannu Devi could hardly believe that she could be so lucky. Now she could send her son to wars with less fear. The light had been transferred. The land had its master. To rub red chilli down the old arse of her foe, she made grand celebrations.

As they said during those days, ‘One son is like the sole eye of a one-eyed man. It gone, the light goes out.’

So when Captain Jorawar Singh missed his annual leave due to the war of 1971 in Bangladesh, another baby was growing up in his wife’s womb. As the war thundered in the east, Nannu Devi prayed with the fervid power of her soul for another grandson. ‘After this I will never ever ask you for anything more in life,’ she promised to God.

Disapprovingly it will be a girl.

And there at a railway check-post, Jorawar Singh would get sentimental as a trainload of war prisoners halted at the check-post under his command. The Pakistani war prisoners were being hauled inland to be kept in detention, before being set free within two years as per the terms of Shimla Agreement.

Jorawar Singh entered the crammed, stinking compartment. The Pakistani soldiers gave wounded looks, barely able to hide the rage born of defeat and surrender. Like helpless, injured little animals they looked straight in the eye. But there in the corner there was a handsome figure, the majestic trappings of his high-rank uniform dusted and dishevelled. He was sitting resignedly with his head turned sideways. It struck Jorawar Singh that he was avoiding his look.

The Indian Captain reached the Pakistani officer. He was a Brigadier he could make out from his epaulettes. The war prisoner turned his head. Their eyes met. And the bloody history and separation of three decades melted. Brigadier Khan had fought with Jorawar Sing as a sepoy of the British Indian Army in Burma. They had fought as Indians. After the partition he had gone to Pakistan to rise high in the ranks as a soldier. Now the differences critically mattered. Both recognised each other immediately. There are certain personalities that somehow stand out and can be spotted even across decades. Both of them were like that.

Forgetting the war between India and Pakistan, and animosity between a Hindu and a Muslim, the Indian Captain asked what he could do for him. The Pakistani officer, both of them sharing traces of moisture in their cold, battle-hardened eyes, mumbled with a smile, ‘You are doing your duty. I don’t require any special facility. Just allow me to stay with my soldiers.’ Jorawar Singh nodded, stopped himself from saluting, waved his hand at the enemy official before jumping out of the compartment.

Later, Nannu Devi died not so happily over missing a second grandson. The land was too big for just one son, she calculated.        

After retirement, Captain Sahab shifted to Bhiwani, the district centre, which was struggling to beat the bucolic bearings of a big village to have some urban swag.    

Nothing is a bigger teacher in life than the battle between life and death, when you hold your life in your fist, out of which the sand-grains slip out. The soldiers, who have seen death from the closest quarters, either go impassive, a sort of weird ennui, later in life, or become so calculating as to take each step, every breath with so much caution like it’s a matter of utmost urgency to ward off grave risks all along.

Captain Jorawar Singh, lucky to see the normal light of a familiar sun, after spending decades in the army, lucky to have escaped by the blessing hand of providence, and unlucky to be a soldier during the most turbulent phase in the Indian military history, took slow, measured steps for the life beyond the barracks. But it was very difficult to shake off the shackles of war from the after-war life. It was always war in some form or the other, soft war though, fought across numerous fronts in mundane life. It was about winning over tiny obstacles with calm, composed deliberation. Of course the people whose skins got bruised because of his extra caution would take harmless revenge by calling him a ‘miser’.

With no fault of his, he had become extra cautious on account of his realisation that the things which come naturally to us carry mammoth value on a different plane.

Emerging from the turbulent dust of military days, wearing the boots of domestic life, he maintained the tempo, countering each step with measured calm, making every movement with perfect discipline.

Counting his pennies, and bringing more and more of the fallow land under cultivation, he appeared an old titular head busy in kingdom making. Based at the quaint town of Bhiwani, he pushed his daughters and the son towards the best manageable education in the circumstances.

The girls, as was the custom, were married early, but not before they had enrolled for graduation courses.

Some stories simply straighten out of confusion like a jumbled mass of rope, losing the tangled knots, leaving the rope unspooling with effortless ease.

All his daughters would go into happy domestic life, three of them in fact married to military officers, of whom two would retire as colonels and one still higher as a brigadier.

The older he became, the tighter he held the reins of the cart of his affairs, bearing the practicalities of carrying domestic load with silvery, age-old charisma. The progress was measureable through the increasing acreage of the cultivable land from the fallow land he inherited.

Dozens of acres of his land was acquired by the government to develop a thermal power plant at his native village. Though heartbroken over the fact, like a typical Haryanvi landowner who esteems landholding dearer than life, he invested the compensation money in purchasing plots of land in the neighbouring villages.

‘Land’s money must be invested in land only. Otherwise it’s as good as total waste,’ was his principle.

His son Suresh was selected as a commissioned officer in the army. They but decided to keep him away from the risks carried by a military life.

Taking one fistful at a time, using the each and every hour of the peaceful post-retirement time, Jorawar Sing built up a little fortune. It was completely unwise to leave it unattended by the heir apparent. We have our little kingdoms, more in mind than actually in the real world around, to hand over to the next generation. Further, he had given more than their share for the cause of Mother India. He must have calculated his contribution to be enough for the next two generations.

The old soldier managed to pull his life’s cart well into his nineties, till the age of 93 to be precise. His first wife completed her journey a few years back. She lived a life of dignity and respect because the second wife treated her like her elder sister. The second wife, considerably younger to him, is in her seventies now.

It’s the happiest of a family. Touch wood. Happy to the extent that the moment you inhale the air in the unpretentiously elegant house imbued in its quaint majesty, you feel it in your heart. They are natural in their inclination to share their happiness with others. The inherent grace in the old family matriarch goes polishing with age. Smile comes most naturally to her. It’s her trademark expression.

Apart from the rent from the agricultural land, Suresh operates a petrol pump. He has spread his wings to fly in the bonhomie of peaceful times and stability. He travels with as much enthusiasm as he earns money. With his group of happy, well-off friends he sets off for forays into the Himalayas in their SUVs. Of late he surrendered to the Scandinavian charm, which surpassed the Canadian adventure when he went backpacking across the vast country with his wife. There are many other mileposts in his footloose journey driven by independent winds. Of course culturally he liked Rome the best. His eyes stare at the ceiling as he recalls the Vatican, the Coliseum and the paintings.

He stays in the same house his father bought four decades back. At the age of 50 he is as happy as it is possible to hold by his portly but agile physique. A nice flow of money has seen some regal alterations to the traditionally built simple house. It carries a touch of the aura of heritage hotels where the artistic streak gets pleasantly dissolved among the modern conveniences. A world in which past is safely cradled in the present.

Jorawar Singh’s big framed portrait in military decorations looks with probing, disciplining eyes from the living room’s walls. Well, he deserves to keep a watch.

Suresh’s son and daughter have studied at Lawrence School, Sanawar, the famous institution where royalty was groomed for the governing responsibilities.

The well-groomed and polished mannered daughter, carrying all the possible etiquettes with a natural ease, is presently pursuing English honours at Miranda House in Delhi.

The son, tall and hefty for a 15-year-old, gives you the attention and care like he has known you since birth.

Suresh talks to his mother like a child with lots of sweet-toothed exclamations.

Well, let every story be a happy story!