Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night…
A dear, retired Cavalry friend of truly generous heart and ‘Blistering Barnacles’ outlook in thet (unvarnished) Punjabi who laughed at himself (I’m re-tyred hence prone to unpredictable bursting sir, he’d chortle), Major Rajbir Brar not just outranked Tintin’s Cap’n Haddock but out-cursed him by leagues; Punjabi being rather more expressive than all other languages. Raji was an enigma; a paradox beyond conventional understanding. Quixotic, prickly, an officer who also spoke the Queen’s English expected from a Sherwodian, he cared deeply yet postured otherwise. Ridden with crippling co-morbidities that lacerated his oft-incised body, Raji disregarded poet Dylan Thomas’ angry, flailing remonstration to his dying father to ‘rage, rage against the dying of the light’. Instead, Raji went gentle into that good night. Traumatised in mind and body he stoically fore-suffered all till the bell tolled for him.
That last dinner, exceptionally gifted foodie Raji had toyed with his Spartan mulligatawny soup with black pepper just so, whispering to Chhotu, his indefatigable, cheerful Nepali handyman that he felt it in his bones—his time was up. Peppy Chotu straightened his Sahib’s swollen feet instead, rubbing them gently. ‘You sleep better when I massage your feet, sir,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I’ll make your favourite muesli; eggs sunny side up with cheddar cheese, a rind of bacon, crisp marmalade toast and black coffee.’ Raji drifted off to sleep, his back turned to the blue night-light, gently murmuring ‘liar’.
Engaged in a daylong TEDx programme far away, I was numbed by Chotu’s telephonic choking: “Sahib nahi rahe… Mujhe bola tha General sahib ko batana. Voh mere sanskar ke liye zuroor aayenge”. (Inform the General about my death. I know he will attend my funeral).
Raji was chronologically sandwiched between two loving sisters married to Cavalry Generals; his late father being a no-nonsense God-fearing Gunner General. My absence from the funeral was accepted with decorum and empathy, with an invitation to attend his bhog; my request for permission to say a farewell requiem to him graciously accepted.
The bhog had been meticulously planned by Raji, from the Gurudwara site hugging the golf course of which he had nostalgic memories, down to the list of attendees, the shabads to be sung by the pathis and the langar menu, its suppliers, down to the last culinary detail. His family had honoured his request because he was loved for his pureness of heart and peccadilloes both.
I spoke about a friend I had known for long years; having served in neighbouring regiments, then the same outfit. I was his senior, and he respected that gap in service and outlook as much as I respected his non-conformist ethic outside parade hours. Post retirement we became closer; meeting rarely but chatting more often about the vicissitudes of life within and outside uniform. Friends remain friends when being judgemental is never the issue; just quiet acceptance. He spoke in colourful Punjabi with my better half; also a Jat Sikhni from his clan. Oh, Raji, our Raji, I spoke for us in grief and admiration for him; an imperfect officer yet a perfect friend for all seasons. He will be missed.
Maj. Gen. Raj Mehta (retd)