I Saw Him Again
A sister visits the last regiment her brother served
Lalita had attended only one other raising day before. She’d found little reason to — she was a former soldier’s sister. Her brother had been with the regiment for just under a year, and she hadn’t had the chance to meet any of his colleagues. She didn’t know any of their wives either.
Raising days were usually boisterous affairs, and Lalita found little reason to be boisterous when she visited her brother’s regiment. It had been twenty five years since Shankar died during an operation. It had been his dream to join this regiment. She remembered how joyful he sounded in his letters and phone calls when he heard the regiment had accepted him. Even through the tough probation period, when Shankar was worried he wouldn’t make it, he was so grateful to be alongside soldiers he idolized.
He visited home once during that year, shortly after passing the probation. Her little brother looked different. Suddenly, he wasn’t just a scrawny young officer. He looked muscled, more self-assured, and carried an air of purpose. But mostly, he looked proud. She teared up a little thinking back to how young he’d looked the last time she’d seen him.
This last weekend would have been Shankar’s fiftieth birthday. She wondered how he would have spent it. Surrounded by a wife and a few children. She pictured a joyful scene. But Shankar looked the same in her mind’s eye. Despite the years, she couldn’t muster a picture of an older Shankar.
This was one of the reasons she’d come to this raising day. It felt like a milestone one, and she wanted to do something special. Visiting Shankar’s dream regiment, his last home, seemed like the right thing.
The day was full of programming. On raising days, the regiment celebrates its founding day. And they celebrate with all of the previous soldiers and officers as well, not just the present ones. Hundreds of veterans were flooding into the small, hill-station cantonment. There would be welcome breakfasts where old colleagues would reunite and relive the same oft-told stories, welfare sessions with martyr’s families and widows where experts would come in to educate these families on how to claim the support the government owes them, afternoon tours of the cantonment and equipment/training demonstrations, evening tea to meet the current soldiers and officers, and a long evening of eating and drinking.
But Lalita chose to just take a slow walk around the cantonment. She walked from the main entrance, past the parade ground that stood on the edge of a valley. The morning sun lit up the entire valley and the surrounding hills. Behind, the regimental mess stood a little further up the hill. Stairs leading up to it were painted sienna, and the mess’ entrance was flanked by two alabaster lions. Lalita wondered how these ended up here — did the regiment specifically commission these lions, or were they remnants of the cantonment’s British past.
She continued on the main road down past the obstacle course, the soldiers’ barracks, and down the sloping road to the officers’ homes. She stayed there a while. Looking past the fence of one ground floor home, at the garden in front. It was framed by bottle-brush trees with bright red flowers. The short parapet at the end of the garden created a tiny boundary between this house and the lush jungle that sloped away beneath it. She saw two young boys come out and lay rice on the parapet. It looked like they were spelling their names in rice. She could hear them talking — the rice was for the birds, and the one whose name got eaten first was the one the birds liked most. In the distance, she could hear gunfire from the practice firing range.
She couldn’t go any further, the rest of the road was blocked to anyone but currently serving soldiers. She turned around and retraced her steps. By now the cantonment was full. Everywhere she saw laughter and happiness. People who hadn’t seen each other in years joyously hugging. She saw two old retired officers — she heard people call them “Brigadier Sahib” and “General Sahib” — wave down a bus full of veterans, get on, and then heard the bus explode in excitement. The veterans on the bus had served under both these officers. It felt like class differences and ranks mattered little today, all that mattered was that old friends had reunited.
Then it seemed like it didn’t even matter if you were old friends. Multiple women stopped her and asked who she was. When she explained, they asked what year Shankar graduated from the military academy, what year he served in the regiment, who his commanding officer was, who his friends were. Lalita had to really wrack her memory to remember some of these things. But the women were patient and warm. They helped her figure some of it out. They even tried to make some connect to Shankar and stopped a passersby who they thought knew Shankar.
Even though she hadn’t intended it, Lalita found herself pulled along with these women. Hearing stories of what the regiment meant to each of them. What theirs and their husband’s lives used to be like here. They made currently serving officers stop and explain things to her. The word “family” kept coming up every time they described the regiment’s community.
Little by little, Lalita began to piece together what Shankar’s time here would have been like. What he did day to day. How close he must have been to his colleagues.
By evening Lalita decided to go to the night’s drinks for officers and their families. She was buoyed by what she’d learned so far — she felt like she was honoring Shankar’s memory by reliving his days here. And, she wanted to learn more about it.
When she got to the venue, she wasn’t ready for the steep stairs leading down from the road. She walked down them sideways, navigating them in a sari and heels. Once she got there, the venue took her breath away. It was a small flat ground in the side of the hill, covered by lush green grass. Tall coniferous trees ringed it on all sides, and the stars shone in the sky above. Tastefully decorated tables spotted the ground, a bar was one side, and a wooden dancefloor in front of it. Lights strung between the trees washed the entire setting in a warm yellow glow.
The veterans were in full attendance. And so were the presently serving officers, now done with their days’ responsibilities and training. They were dressed in their regiment’s ceremonial outfit — white shirts, black pants, and maroon cummerbunds. All of them with nearly identical close-cropped haircuts. The same one Shankar was sporting all those years ago when he visited home.
She recognized quite a few faces from earlier that day, and joined them in conversation. After her first stiff drink, Lalita asked the questions she’d felt uncomfortable asking earlier. What were the operations like? Shankar had been on three operations with this regiment before his final one. She wanted to know what that experience was like for men this young. They shared their experiences without giving any details about where the operation was, what the objective was, or when it happened. Lalita didn’t care. That’s not what she was interested in. What did it feel like. Here they were less forthcoming. Lalita had to just guess.
After another drink Lalita let go of her line of questioning. The music had turned upbeat and people were dancing now. She made her way with her new friends and joined in the revelry.
A little after midnight, and many songs later, Lalita felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw a young officer. “Excuse me ma’am, but would you mind joining me for a few minutes?”. Lalita was confused but obliged. This man, boy, was far too many years her junior to be hitting on her. He led her to the stairs and started walking up. Lalita hesitated, she didn’t want to climb up and down these stairs more than absolutely necessary. “Sorry ma’am, I wanted to show you something and it’s at the top of the stairs.”
Lalita labored her way up. Once at the top, the man looked at her meaningfully and then gestured at a motorcycle. It was a Yezdi. It looked brand new — the handle bar and seat had been recently upholstered, and the metal parts were in excellent condition and gleaming. But she knew it couldn’t be new. As far as she knew, Yezdi didn’t make motorcycles anymore and she hadn’t seen one in years. Other than that, it was just a motorcycle.
She looked back at the officer blankly. Realizing that she didn’t know what she was looking at, he said softly “this was Captain Shankar’s ma’am.” Lalita stood rooted.
He explained how when Shankar died, the unit reached out to her family to send his belongings back. But they hadn’t wanted the motorcycle back then, it would be expensive to ship and no one in the family rode except Shankar. Instead of selling the motorcycle, the regiment decided to keep it — as a memory of a fallen brother — and sent Lalita’s family the money they would have got from selling it. Any young officers in the unit who couldn’t afford their own motorcycle would take ownership of it until they left. At which point it would pass to the next. But they treated it like a memory, to be cherished, preserved, and passed on. For twenty five years, generations of young men had maintained this motorcycle in pristine condition.
“How did you know whose bike it was, and how did you know I’m his sister?” Lalita asked. Even she was surprised by how neutral her voice sounded. Because inside she was welling up with emotions.
“All of us know this as Shankar’s Ride ma’am. We have a tradition that every time the bike passes to a new owner, the old owner tells him Shankar’s story. Who he was, how long he was with the regiment, how he liked to ride his bike (he chuckled at this), his operations,…and how he passed away. And since I’ve had the bike, I’ve tried finding out if anyone from Shankar’s family was coming to raising day. Today’s the first time.”
There was silence between the two of them. Then he asked quietly, “Would you like to go for a ride?”
Lalita nodded. Her throat was tight now, she couldn’t speak. The young officer kicked the bike stand, swung his leg over, started the engine, and then waited for her to get on behind him. Lalita got on side-ways, her sari preventing her from putting legs on either side. “Ready?”, he asked. Lalita shook her head in a ‘yes’, not realizing that he couldn’t see her.
He twisted the accelerator and headed up the road. It was dark except for the light from the motorcycle. It lit up the road, the base of the trees on one side of the road, and the hill side on the other. Above the stars continued shining. And below them, Lalita felt the cool breeze blow across her face as tears streamed down her cheeks.
The events above are true. To preserve anonymity I’ve changed the names of people, places, and regiments.