Lt Col AK Ahlawat

The grey Sunbeam car entered the military hospital at Wellington and was being driven by a renowned personality. Field Marshal SHFJ Manekshaw, Military Cross, the victor of Bangladesh, was seen helping out a young woman from the car with the aid of his Gorkha batman, Sule Bahadur.

The Captain was ready with a wheelchair and an orderly. The Field Marshal had telephoned him from Stavka, his house near Conoor town, that his daughter was rather unwell and he would be getting her to the hospital. Stavka was around 8 km away. The Captain was the duty medical officer that day. He trotted off to the officers’ family ward to see that a good room was readied. The Field Marshal had also insisted that he should not inform his Commanding Officer. Sam was against making any fuss and disliked preferential treatment. He was called Sam by everybody.

Sam had two daughters. The Captain had never seen them, nor Mrs Manekshaw. He wondered which one was this.

A rational apprehension of consequences made it plain that he must give a good account of himself as a doctor. He got no time to inform his superiors. The grey Sunbeam Rapier was already here.

The famous car had been bought by Sam in UK when he had gone for a training course at the Imperial Defence College in 1958. It cost him Rs15,000 and even after 24 years of journeys all over India, it still looked new.

Around the time of Partition, Sam had purchased a James motorcycle from a departing British officer for Rs1,600. Yahya Khan was Sam’s friend and after seeing the beautiful James motorcycle, he said, “Sir, can you please give me your motorcycle? You will get everything in India but I won’t find anything in Pakistan.” Sam was large-hearted by nature and relented. Yahya Khan had no money to pay Sam. He said he would send the money to him once he reached Pakistan. He took the motorcycle but its payment never came. Yahya Khan went on to become Pakistan’s President and dictator from March 1969 to December 1971. After the Bangladesh liberation war was won, Sam used to joke, “Look at Yahya Khan, he had to forfeit half his country as my motorcycle’s payment.” He had such a refreshing sense of humour.

The young lady was brought to the MI room. She was rather unwell. The Captain looked up at the fair-complexioned and long-nosed Parsi Field Marshal and then looked at the daughter. He fumbled with the stethoscope in his ears and again peered at Sam’s luminous countenance. “Is she too bad, Captain?” he asked.

“No sir, she will be alright,” the Captain hurried forth with a reply.

He asked the young lady some general questions in English. She looked back with blank eyes and stammered, “Khui, kooni, hui, hui.”

The doctor suspected damage to her brain and the changed circumstances demanded a more thorough examination. He told the nurse to make her comfortable on the examination bed behind the screen. Sam and his Gorkha batman left the room.

He gave the young lady an injection and was contemplating to call in the full arsenal of specialists. The batman came in and sat on the patient’s bed. He started petting the lady on her head and then even held her hand.

“Hey, what are you doing? Leave her hand. Get away from her, you chap,” the Captain snapped at him. Sule Bahadur looked at him as if deeply hurt and said. “Sahib, am I not allowed to hold my ailing wife’s hand in your MI room?”

The dense fog bank in his mind parted. So, she was the batman’s wife. How callow were his powers of observation. The Field Marshal treated his staff’s families like his own.

The patient thankfully recovered in a matter of days and was discharged.

After the 1971 war, Sam was the most popular figure in India. The government was contemplating to clip the Army’s soaring prestige. The rumour was that the armed forces’ pension would be reduced to 50 per cent from 70 per cent, and that of the Central government services increased to 50 per cent from 30, After some dilly dallying, the government made Sam a Field Marshal in January 1973 without any perks and privileges. His friends and family complained, “They have given him a gilded baton and five stars and nothing else. Not even the use of a staff car.” But he himself never uttered a word against the cold indifference.

Once, at a Nursing Corps Day party, the Captain took the liberty of asking Sam why the government made him a Field Marshal so late, like an after-thought?

Sam’s eyes glittered, as if he was surveying the old pathways of memory: “To keep my mouth shut, old boy.”