Almost four decades ago, I was selected to join the Army, subject to graduating in engineering. I got the result of my final year examination just three days to the deadline for its submission at the Army Headquarters in New Delhi. With neither courier services nor easy air connectivity available, the only option was to take a train and hand over the document in person.
With reservation unavaliable at short notice, I travelled in general compartments from Mangalore to Madras Central and thence to Delhi. From Madras, I took the Grand Trunk Express, occupying a window seat for the 2,200-km, 40-hour journey. Soon, I made friends with most of my co-passengers. At the slightest opportunity, I would proudly announce that I was an engineering graduate, on my way to join the Army. In fact, even when there was no such opportunity, I created one to tell this to anyone within earshot. That is how the tall, well-built gentleman with a weather-beaten countenance who boarded the train at Nagpur the next afternoon learnt about me.
Generally quiet, he kept to himself. When the train pulled into the Bhopal station and I got down to have a bite, he followed me to the refreshment stall. I politely offered him a samosa. He gladly accepted it and insisted on sharing the bill. I said it was not acceptable, but he was insistent. I told him that it was just a samosa, but he would have none of it.
“Soldier to soldier, let us follow the tradition of going Dutch,” he said.
Though I had a momentary joy of being accepted as a soldier, I was quick to ask, “You are a soldier?” After a long pause during which I could make out that he was undergoing some mixed emotions, he said, “Yes, I was a soldier…” What followed, stunned me, “… in the Pakistan Army.” By this time, we were back on the train.
Humane gestures
Speaking almost in whispers, the man — let us call him Imtiaz — told me that he had been a Havaldar posted in Sylhet during the 1971 India-Pakistan war. He spoke of how they were let down by their leaders. It was an incredible experience for me, to listen to an “enemy” talking in such a composed, matter-of-fact manner. Despite the bitterness of defeat, he had immense praise for the Indian armed forces. “Your Army was a deserving winner. Though we lost the war and surrendered to you, we were accorded the respect that every soldier deserves,” he said and narrated a few instances of the humane gestures of the Indian troops at the prisoner-of-war camp that he was in.
Returning to Pakistan after the war, he left the Army and opened a grocery shop in his village near Multan. In Nagpur, he was visiting his ailing aunt.
Brought up in a civilian environment, on an almost staple diet of “all Pakistanis are wicked”, this had been a sobering experience for me and I was unable to decide what my reactions should be. I was unusually silent during the remaining few hours of the journey.
Next morning, when I woke up with just an hour or so to Delhi, Imtiaz greeted me with a cheerful “Good Morning, janab ”.
When we got down from the train at New Delhi, he shook my hands and conveyed his best wishes to me for a great career as an Army officer. Then, in a dramatic gesture, he put his luggage down, took a few steps back and suddenly clicking his heels, came to attention and offered me a smart salute, “Soldier to soldier, let us continue the tradition of respecting each other.”
My eyes were moist when I instinctively put my luggage down took a few steps forward and hugged him and wished him well.
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