Remaining Connected, during Covid-19 epidemic

Sunday Musings: Having worked with both, I can confidently postulate – a diplomat speaks a lot but says little. A soldier, accustomed to cryptic orders, talks little while conveying plenty. But with adding years I feel less confident about the latter part. Deafness makes one talkative, so as to avoid the strain of hearing.

Army peers of my vintage are all in eighties. In most cases, our hearing is indifferent, if that is not an understatement. We have created a WhatsApp group. I anchor the exchange of greetings.

If someone had told me that Coronavirus can be transmitted electronically, I would scoff at it. But ever since I was hospitalized for COVID, my phone calendar has gone booboo.

To reconfirm correctness, I invariably call the celebrant the preceding evening, under the pretext of ‘wishing in advance’. Here is a sample of one such exchange of 2023.

After a long wait – which the recipient required to wear his aural gadget – “Hello, who is calling?”

I announced my name.

“Kalyan? You live in Maharashtra?”

“No, not Kalyan – not L for Lousy; but D as in Dirty.
K-A-D-Y-A-N”.

His voice brightened up:

“Oh Raj Kadyan? Of course, I have your number saved.

There was another hold when he went specs-searching to read my name on the gizmo. After some cuss words, he located the vision enhancer. Godfrey Lobo was a renowned boxer in the Academy, who fought in heavier weights. Despite the head pounding he took in the ring, his thinking remains intact in his 89th year.

“Godfrey, I have called up to wish Ruth a happy birthday tomorrow” I said referring to his wife.

“Tomorrow? …. Ah yes, 7 April is the birthday of a very dear friend of ours. You might remember him from NDA. Short and stocky, Jaichandran. I think he was one batch junior to us. A very fine fellow. He had good boxing potential. In the NDA novices boxing, he reached the third round but was then knocked out by an RIMC entrant. These Rimcolians come with an advantage in sports”.
After pausing briefly to recoup his lungs, he continued, “Jaichandran lived many years in our neighbourhood here in Bangalore. He once went on a visit to Delhi and never came back from that mad city.”

Then, realising the implicit faux pas, “Do you live in Delhi?” he asked, going on the back-foot.

“In Gurgaon; it is just on the apron of New Delhi. I actually called….”

“Yes, I know Gurgaon.” He said, “Had passed through it once in the 1970s while driving to Jaipur. Do you still have lots of cows squatting on the road?”

“Perhaps even more,” I said. “Look” I said veering the discussion back to the context, “I want to wish Ruth a happy birthday for tomorrow.”

“Ha-ha!” he laughed throatily, “Thank you for your kind gesture. I will convey. Actually, her birthday was today. She has already cut the cake; the delicious Black Forest with eight candles, one for each decade. The eighth candle was half size as she claims still not being eighty; you know how girls are”. After another lung filling pause, he resumed without giving me a chance to speak. “Anyway, many thanks. Greetings are always welcome, early or late”.

Considering that I have erred by weeks and months in many cases, this appeared well within the permissible margin of error. I recall what a medic had once said while explaining the cardiac abnormality of a relative. ‘The erratic heartbeats can be either regularly irregular; or irregularly irregular’. If my phone underwent an ECG, it would surely fall in the latter category.

For the second call of the evening, the response was prompt.

“Hi Raj”, he said on the second ring. “Nice hearing from you.”

“Hello Randhir, I am calling to wish you both a very happy wedding anniversary tomorrow”, I said, praying I won’t be wrong-footed again and adding, “I hope you have adjusted the freezer settings suitably so that the champagne cork hits the ceiling.”

“Oh yes. Come and join us in Chandigarh …. but I know being a teetotal you are a useless company.”

“How many years of married life tomorrow?” I asked, ignoring his chide.

“Fifty-six.”

“So, you got married in 1967?”

“No, 1968.” I could overhear his murmured calculations. “Actually, it is fifty-five years”.

“I hope Dolly is not overhearing” I said, “Forgetting one’s wedding details can be highly risky”.

“Luckily, she is in the other room” he said, in low tones. “And you jolly well are not going to tell her.”

His admonition carried the authority of a Corporal of yore when we were fellow Zojilians in the IMA over six decades ago.

If rules and physicality permitted, we would love to re-join the Academy. The unique camaraderie formed there is hauntingly indelible.                                                                                                               (pics credit-Freepik & Dreamstime.com)