A Letter from the Soldier

                                                                            KK

Phunchuk Post, Western Glacier, Siachen

                                                    Sometime in the Late Nineties

KK came upon the soldier rather suddenly, the suddenness leaving both of them immensely surprised. For a split second or perhaps more, they stood stock-still, shocked into a stupor; till instinct and training took over. Their weapons went off simultaneously, shattering the night air and KK’s femur. He was thrown back with the impact and as he fell backwards, he thrust his rifle sharply forward, the polished steel of the bayonet piercing the other soldier’s intercostals as if butter. While KK fell backward, the other man fell forward right onto him and they hit the ground together, the newly fallen soft snow gently cushioning their fall. With his heart pierced by KK’s bayonet, the other soldier’s blood gushed out, flooding his chest cavity, slowly constricting his fast emptying heart in a boa’s embrace. And thus death came quickly to him, quickly and probably painlessly, and perhaps even before he realised he was dying.

But for KK there was no such mercy. His shattered femur was sprinkling blood in a steady gush but it would take time before his body was completely emptied of blood. Till then, he would remain alive, the freeze in the air numbing the pain and slowing the speed of the emptying blood. At first, KK tried get to help, to live. But in that almost featureless landscape of white-gray and in spite of a diminishing mental acuity because of the progressively lesser and lesser quantity of oxygen feeding his brain, it hit him that he was completely lost. There was no more the sound of firing, neither the short staccato bursts of small arm fire nor the whistle and explosion of the artillery guns. There was not even the soft rustle of falling snow. It was suddenly very silent, as if KK was caught in a time warp, where time stood still. Very still, just for him, waiting politely till he died.

KK smiled. He had not been taught how to die. To kill yes, but to die, no. There were no SOPs on dying, he thought and grinned. Or at least tried to, for the muscles of his cheek had frozen solid. He was pretty sure he was going to die as there was scant chance of  anyone finding them soon. The enemy still lay on his chest motionless, very dead; but strangely didn’t feel at all heavy. KK squinted, trying to see the enemy’s face. Because the man’s face lay very close to his own, he had to squint real hard to bring it into focus. When he did, he saw a fair coloured face, as untidily bearded as his own. Here on the glacier no one shaved, neither they nor the enemy as the beard and all that facial hair acted like fur, insulation for the face. But still, through that untidy black fuzz now speckled with white, KK could make out a blurry face as young as his own. He felt a little sad. Sad for that young man, the enemy he had felled, who now lay atop him, young, bearded and dead. He tried to put out an arm to pat the unmoving body on his bosom. But again, it was impossible as he could no longer feel his limbs. So he gave up and concentrated on dying.  There wasn’t much activity required on his part though. It seemed dying was very much an automatic occurrence. Not one to remain idle, KK did the next best thing that was possible in his present condition and thought thoughts. Many thoughts, of sundry nature, some related to his present state, some unrelated. He had never been much of a thinking man but lying there, he found thinking was something he could do easily and effortlessly. And so he thought ..........!

TINNI

University of Columbia, New York State, US of America
Sometime in the Late Nineties

The colour of Fall is undoubtedly orange. Of course, it was sometimes referred to as russet here; but for Tinni the colour could be nothing else but orange. How she loved this colour, this wondrous, live, warm colour. And today the weak autumn sun filtering in through these fall leaves clinging to the branches and reflecting off the leaves already fallen had turned the whole air into a shimmery orange, like those sepia coloured photographs from the beginning of the last century, only the sepia replaced by her favourite orange. Such orange–tinted days usually made her feel warm and cosseted but not today. And it was because of that envelope that lay on her desk. The envelope, a long, thin one was a little bulky and white, the white shining sharply against the dark mahogany of her little desk. An insane number of postage stamps had been pasted over the otherwise pristine white paper. Her name was written on it in a deep-blue ball pen ink, in hand, the writing rather staccato, the alphabets of uniform size placed in carefully precise distances from each other as if the writer had paused, pondered and measured before he formed each alphabet on the paper. It said: Miss Rupashree Dey, PhD Student, Department of English and Comparative Literature, University of Columbia, 2134 Rochelle Avenue, New York, NY 10035, United States. The name and address of the sender too was written, again in that same precise hand on the left lower corner of the envelope: Maj Savneet Singh, House No 345, Sector 35A, UT Chandigarh, PIN 160021, India.

Tinni knew that ‘Maj’ was an abbreviation for ‘Major’ but she didn’t know any majors personally and certainly none from Punjab. But she knew one person from the army but he could no longer write her letters. The beginnings of a faint but ominous flutter deep within her chest signalled to her that this envelope was definitely connected to that one person. It couldn’t be anything else. And so the moment Amelia, her guide had handed the letter to her, she had torn the envelope, a little roughly in her nervousness, her haste leaving unsightly edges to the sharp margins of the envelope. It contained two pieces of paper within, one a single foolscap white sheet written in the same precise hand as the address on top and another, a queer green coloured inland letter. This letter still sealed, had her old address on top. The ink it seemed had not been flowing smoothly out of the writer’s pen and so he had had to repeatedly write over his previous words in an attempt to make his letters visible. The end result, a rather untidy and uneven scrawl was nevertheless still very, very familiar to her. And that is why she had not opened it yet. She couldn’t bring herself to open it. All she wanted to do was to hold the letter in her fists and crush it, as if the friction and heat would render that piece of paper alive. But that would be stupid and melodramatic, neither of which she was. So she picked up the opened envelope, withdrew the letter it contained and with one palm placed gently, protectively over the closed inland, began to read.

Respected Ma’am, (Tinni couldn’t help but smile at this archaic form of address. Who addressed a woman as ‘Ma’am’ these days she wondered?)

1.                         I am, as you would have already read from the envelope, Maj Savneet Singh of the 48 Marathwada Regiment, a very old, and highly accomplished infantry regiment of the Indian Army with a long and glorious history. But perhaps you already know a bit about us, given that you are KK’s ‘bestest’. Pardon me if I sound flippant but believe me I have absolutely no intention of being that.

2.                       Lt Kamal Kanti Mukhopadhyaya VrC, was my unit officer and I was his company commander there on the Siachen Glacier. No, I think I would like to rephrase that a bit: It is with great pride and honour that I say to you that I too hail from 48 Marathwada Regiment, Lt Kamal Kanti Mukhopadhyaya’s unit and that it was my honour and privilege to have served with him as his Company Commander when he embraced martyrdom.

3.                       That morning when the guns began their incessant firing atop Phunchuk, it was I who ordered my men to write their letters. If you have gone through KK’s letter, maybe there is a reference to me. I would be flattered if there is one. No, wrong choice of words again. I would be honoured. I am known as Savee Boss amongst the junior officers in my paltan, of course behind my back. They think I am not aware of it and I let them believe that. And frankly, I like the name. Makes me feel as if they are fond of me and maybe even respect me. And that makes me feel very content, for you see, gaining the respect of one’s men is something we work towards and cherish deeply. But then, I am digressing.

4.                       KK was christened KK the day he set foot in the unit. Atop Phunchuk, I had two officers with me, KK and another young man, Lt Anish Agarwal. I remember the little moral lecture (that’s what we call it in fauj) that I had had to deliver to get KK to write the letter. It was good that I had inkling that the bugger would try to squeeze himself out of this task and sure enough caught him trying to steal a snooze inside his sleeping bag, while the rest of the company penned their letters. But I’m glad I could get him to write a letter, it’s the same one that I have enclosed within.

5.                       The delivery of the letter is delayed because as I learnt later your family had moved out of Nimitpur at that time. The letter was returned to our unit and then placed in my custody. At first, I had tried to obtain your location from KK’s parents but was told that since they had moved to Siliguri, they had been unable to retain contact with your family and only knew that you had shifted base to Calcutta. So left with no other option, I personally visited Nimitpur about a month back and it was there that your neighbour, Mrs Prasad gave me your family’s present Calcutta address. I next made a trip to your Calcutta home where I came to know that you are in the USA. Your father gave me your USA address and that is how this letter is now in your presence. I regret the delay but am glad it has reached the person it was meant for finally. Being the man who had urged KK to write it, I felt it was my duty to ensure that it reached you.

6.                       There is another thing. Not fully convinced that KK would obey my letter writing order completely, I had gone to take a peek at what he was doing. He had by then completed his letter and so handed it to me personally as proof of his having obeyed me. It was then that I had noticed that it was addressed to a lady. Since he was not married, I had assumed he would write to his parents. Seeing a woman’s name, I had naturally supposed that it was his girlfriend and had been a little surprised because KK had never confided to me that he possessed one. When I had probed him a little, KK had vehemently denied that you were his girlfriend. ‘Then who is she KK?’ I had asked, doubting his protestations. ‘She is my bestest, Sir!’ he had said quietly. ‘You youngsters have redefined the English language with funny new words like this!” I had remarked to him and then had asked what this ‘bestest’ entity was. He had been embarrassed but very sure of his reply, “The best of best friends. ‘Jigri yaar’ Sir!” he had added in the easy fauji language he knew I would comprehend better. And I understand how special you must have been to him, for him to write this letter to you.

7.                        The Armed Forces have a very well spelt out definition of what constitutes the ‘family’ of a soldier: his parents, his wife and his children. Once a soldier joins the army, this Family becomes his paltan’s family. And it is in our unwritten tradition and ethos that the responsibility of the well being of our martyr’s family is ours. We maintain close contact with them throughout their lifetime. I know friends do not qualify as ‘family’ as defined by the Armed Forces’ regulations. But for us of the 48 Marathwada Regiment, you are and will always be, a part of our paltan family, for you are our KK’s jigri yaar, his ‘bestest’.

8.                        I am leaving my home address and telephone number in this letter. We fauji’s are never static in any one place. If you ever need to contact the unit, you may call my parents or my wife who reside at this address and they would guide you to my location. The unit is currently stationed in Agra Cantonment. If you happen to venture that way when you return back to the country, please do let us know. It will be our privilege to host you. And as for me personally, I would be pleased and honoured to be acquainted with my KK’s ‘bestest’.

With sincere regards

Maj Savneet Singh

With her heart still beating in hammer thrusts, Tinni picked up the green inland letter, carefully slitting it open with her sandalwood paper knife and began to read, the scrawny letters now magnified, glistening through the water film in her eyes.

KK
Phunchuk Post, Western Glacier, Siachen
Sometime in the Late Nineties

 Heyy Tinni,

Savee Boss announced about an hour back that we must all write our letters; you know ‘The Last Letter’! The mood’s rather sombre here now, and all around everyone’s busy writing their masterpieces. I tell you Tinni, they all look like class ten students to me, scribbling their history exam long questions with only five minutes left to go. In fact, Agro has his head bent so low over the inland that a millimetre more and I think his head will simply merge with the paper.

As for me, to tell you the truth, thinking I had nothing to write, I was stealing a quick nap but Savee Boss caught me sleeping. And in spite of my protestations that I had nothing to say to anybody, he dragged me out of the sleeping bag, thrust an inland and a pen in my hand and ordered me to write. He even said, ‘Write anything, whatever comes to your mind!’ Some help, this advice!!!!

So here I am, sitting in front of this green letter paper, wondering what to write to you. That this letter would be to you had flashed into my mind the moment Savee Boss had shoved the paper before me. Yes, I’m pretty sure that it’s only to you that I want to write my Last Letter! Sounds filmy? I know and I myself can’t help grinning.

But why to you Tinni....? I’m not really very sure; why it was your face that flashed into my mind but that it should be to you, I’m completely sure. May be because you are my best friend, always have been and will always be.....! There’s no one else to whom I want to talk to at this moment, not Ma nor Baba for I cannot face their same old thaka hua middle class sorrows especially when I know I’ll just be adding to it soon, not Shimpa , not Limpa for we were never on the same wavelength, and no, not even Rinni. Yes, that caught even me by surprise, the fact that my Last Letter would not be for Rinni, but for you.

Are you smiling your supercilious first-girl smile now or.... are you crying? I suspect strongly that you would be sniffling. You’ve always had that maudlin streak camouflaged inside you. Don’t, Tinni, don’t cry, that is. In case this is my Last Letter, I’ll be back you know. Rest assured, I’ll be back! There’s still so much left to do : like kissing a girl, for example. (That was to make to you smile!). And dating that delicious Sushmita Sen. (Hope you found that funny too, hope it made you smile, even a little bit.)
So I’ll be back, Tinni, just like Tagore said, in another form, in another avatar........!

Now I know you’ve got that typical Tinni-special goggle eyed look of incredulity of your face...I know what you must be thinking just at this moment: Tublu Talking Tagore???????

Yes, I have been reading Tagore. Well actually I’ll confess, reading only a little but listening to the cassettes you gave me a lot. And I really mean , ‘A  LOT’. Night and day, 24 hours to be exact. You can ask Agro.  His un-poetic Marwari brain, now curdled with all that Rabindra Sangeet, is proof and testimony.

Anyway, here is something for you. I finally managed to translate it, one of Tagore’s poems!!! I know it’s not a great translation, and perhaps not even good enough for you, my bestest Tinni; but it’s the best that I could do and I am quite happy about it.

Just imagine: Tublu Translating Tagore!!!!!!!!!
I’m ecstatically happy and rather fancying myself a poet now. For all you know, I might actually become one in the next life, become one and win a Sahitya Akademi award and then come dangle it in front of your spectacled face. Hope you would recognise me then, because you would have grown old, senile and short sighted by that time......that is if ‘next lives’ follow the simple arithmetic of Time from this life that I am familiar with..........!

Why this song, you might be wondering, Tinni. I’ll try to explain, though am not sure whether I’ll be able to get through to you. The only thing about this rather tiresome business of dying that makes me feel bad, Tinni, is that I know no one would remember us dead, that all we’ll now become are battle casualty statistics, names filed in dusty files, photos with plastic garlands hung in empty memorial halls, dulled medal in a dead father's trunk, busts on street corners with pigeon poop on our heads....! I feel sad that we’ll be forgotten, Tinni, forgotten fast and furious.

Funny, isn’t it, this terrible longing to be remembered?  I know, Tinni, it sounds wimpish and clingy and self centred, my this longing to be remembered. But you are my bestest and you can afford to be nice to me today. So if you can, if it’s possible, if it’s not asking for too much, let them know Tinni, that we died and how and why. Those who will not remember us, who will continue with their own lives, untouched and unconcerned with what happens here tonight on this faraway forgotten mountain of ice.......,  Tinni, if you can, help them not to forget, to remember....!

And of course, I’ll remember my manners, and ekdum ‘Convent school’ style, say ‘thank you’ to you in advance.

Thanks, Tinni!

And here’s the poem, my translated version:

Remember This
(Ei Kothati Mone Rekho)
Remember
In your laughter
And your play:
When withered leaves fell
I had sung
On an autumn day........!

Remember,
I had sung
And sung all alone,
Amongst the dried grass
And the empty woods,
Abandoned and unknown!

Remember
I’d walked by Night,
O Travellers of the Day -
That I’d walked alone
Only an evening lamp
Lighting my way......!

Remember
Into the Great Beyond
On a broken raft, frail
Alone and unafraid
I had fearlessly
Set sail.

Remember
In your laughter
And your play:
When withered leaves fell
I had sung
On an autumn day........!

Rabindranath Tagore
(translated by Lt Kamal Kanti Mukhopadhyay, 48 Marathwada Regiment, Indian Army)

Ok, that enough mush to last me an eternity Tinni. So I think I’ll stop.

Take care, Tinni. And stop wearing those awful whites, blacks and greys. Give a thought to oranges and reds.....I know they will look good on you, believe me. I am tired of so much white and black and grey all around. When you see me next, wear orange. I so feel like seeing some bright luminescent orange just now.

Bestest always

Tublu

TUBLU

Phunchuk Post, Western Glacier, Siachen,

                                                      Sometime in the Late Nineties

 They were on the roof, Tinni leaning against the parapet and he sitting astride it. After warning him at least a dozen times, all dozen of which he had ignored, Tinni had stopped, defeated. But she kept giving him scared glances, ready to pounce and catch him in case he should topple over. But Tublu was not scared of toppling over. That was the exactly the skind of silly girly fears that he scoffed at and tried to teach Tinni to get over. But Tinni was Tinni. And he knew that one of the reasons why she would never sit astride on the roof parapet like him was that she was more afraid of her mother discovering her in that unladylike position, much more than the fear of actually falling off the roof.

“Pah!” Tublu thought derisively. He was not scared of any one. Or anything.......except that one thing, the thing that he couldn’t confide even to Tinni, his best friend. Though of course, he had a sneaky suspicion that she knew all about it......

And this one thing that Tublu was petrified of, was related to Rinni. Rinni with whom Tublu was currently in love.........Rinni,  Tinni’s younger sister, she of the creamy skin, green eyes, brown hair, pink cheeks and pinker lips......! He was morbidly scared that his beautiful Rinni would look down her long sharp nose, down upon him in case he flunked his tenth boards, therefore putting a large full stop to his hopes of an epic romance.He gave a great deep sigh, a sigh so wondrously lovelorn that it could be guaranteed to melt even the most stone cold of hearts. However, all that it achieved at that moment was a particularly disdainful snort from Tinni.

Tinni was his teacher for the evening, entrusted to coach him for his English mocks so that he did not flunk them and thus could stand with his head held suitably high before Rinni’s lofty green eyed gaze.

But the problem was that Tublu hated all languages, never for the life of him understood what all that tumult around poetry and vocabulary was.....Why on earth couldn’t the poets simply say what they meant in straightforward sentences, he often asked Tinni, why did they have to wrap their thoughts with so many weird words..........???

Tinni, of course was the literature freak. He marvelled at how well she did in her languages, both English and Hindi. Probably he reasoned, it was because she studied at that snooty Convent school full of those foreign nuns who spoke English with that funny accent that Tinni had also picked up. It made her sound like those news readers on Doordarshan, he often teased her.

Today, Tublu was struggling with a poem in English by Rabindranath Tagore. The only thing that Tublu knew about Tagore was that every morning at six sharp, his sisters Shimpa and Limpa would wake him and the whole neighbourhood up with their riyaaz of Rabindra Sangeet in their native tongue Bengali, accompanying their vocals with the ear splitting strains from their harmonium. But it seemed that this poet gentleman wrote in English too, for there was a piece of poetry written by him in Tublu’s board English syllabus. And it was this poem that Tinni was trying to get him to assimilate. And the task was back breaking for Tublu. But his little teacher was hell bent on making him a Tagore scholar and so today there was no escape for him. It was with much difficulty that he could muster an interest in those endlessly long sentences of the poem that Tinni wanted him to learn. Only the memory of Rinni’s pink bee stung lips curled in derision at matric failures could entice him to drag his interest back to the poem. In an attempt to focus attention, Tublu shut his eyes, muttering the lines. But as he closed them, it was not the words of Tagore’s poem that danced before him nor Rinni’s pink lips. It was the vast grass covered ground of the football stadium in nearby Dhanbad, where every Saturday he and his pals would sneak off to play hockey.............................................!

Something soft tickled his lashes and the inside of his nose. Tublu opened his eyes. The world was white now and bits of this white were disengaging and settling down softly around him.
Snow! It was snowing again. He still could not feel the rest of his body. He closed his eyes again. Behind his closed lids, the world was no longer white and gray but a bright golden yellow. The ground stretched all around him and far into the distance, smooth and green. He could feel the sun bright and warm on his back.  He was running across the freshly mowed field, running fast and lithe, the smell of the trodden grass under his feet shadowing him like an old friend as he dribbled a bright red ball with his stick.......Tublu smiled in his thoughts. He could now see the goal post. It was very close, shining white in the mid afternoon sun, blindingly white, waiting for him to reach it..........!

                                                                           SAVNEET

                                                           Nimitpur, Jharkhand, India
                                                                               Y2K

The weather was pleasant today, pleasantly cool with bright sunshine and blue skies. The best time to hold an outdoor event in Nimitpur was winters as this was the only time in the whole year that the sticky, stultifying humidity so typical of this small mining town was absent and one could stand in the open without being drenched in sweat. Having made nearly a dozen trips to Nimitpur over the past two years, Major Savneet Singh was thankful that they had been able to schedule the inauguration to this balmy winter day. He looked around happily. The spanking new hockey ground laid with the latest in artificial turf shone bright, almost blinding him with its fluorescence. The spectator stands were painted a pristine white and between them right at the entrance stood the clubhouse painted a smart red and the glass encased VIP gallery, complete with a podium, the latest in PA system (only the best from Ahuja) and of course the flagpole from which the Tricolour now fluttered serenely in the lazy winter breeze. The inauguration had gone off smooth as mayonnaise with all the right and important people attending and saying the right things in the right tone. The stands had been packed, the crowd comprising of the people of Nimitpur totally disciplined, showing the right bit of courtesy and respect that the occasion demanded.

Savneet was happy. His commanding officer and the others of his paltan had just left the stadium but Savneet had stayed back. He stood gazing at the turf, the stands, the clubhouse, the rippling flag, thinking about the last two years journey, sense of fulfilment flooding his soul.

A little flutter of air next to him caused Savneet to turn around. Rupashree.

She looked a little different today, dressed in a bright orange sari with a  thin black border.

He smiled, “Ma’am, it went off well didn’t it?”

Rupashree smiled back. “Yes Sir.” She was a woman of few words, something Savneet had learned over the last two years.

“And thank you Sir, for all you’ve done.” Rupashree continued.

Savneet looked at her, “Shouldn’t we, 48 vaale, be the ones to thank you?”

Rupashree laughed. “With all this thanking, we’d keep going on and on, in Lucknowi andaaz.....!”

Savneet echoed her laughter, “So let’s stop and just shake on it, Ma’am!”

She held out her hand. As he engulfed her tiny palm in his large bear-like one , Rupashree smiled up at him with her quiet eyes. Instinctively, Savneet reached out with his free hand and patted her affectionately on the head. His gesture was both an acknowledgement of the successful culmination of a sacred task they had undertaken as partners as also the acknowledgement of the respect and affection they had developed for each other over the last two years, this soft spoken young scholar and that gruff middle-aged army man.

They slowly strolled towards the exit which passed through the clubhouse. As they walked side by side in companionable silence, Savneet’s mind went back to that day two year’s back when the staff in his Officers’ Mess had woken him at the unearthly hour of half past three in the morning for a telephone call. To his groggy, “Kaun hai?” they had just been able to answer, “Koi memsaab.”

Manpreet would never call at this hour, Savneet had thought and then worried something was wrong at home, had rushed out. Still groggy, he had tottered to the cook’s room where the telephone set was housed in the night, and picking up the receiver, had hollered a worried “Hello!!” into it.
There was a quiet, suave voice at the other end, “Namaste!”

It was not Manpreet, Savneet remembered thinking with relief. But his curiosity was raised.

“Namaste, am I speaking to Major Savneet Singh?” The voice had enquired.

“That’s right!” Savneet’s curiosity had trebled.

“Sir, a very good morning to you. I am Rupashree Dey. I’m calling from New York. USA.”

A memory stirred itself out into Savneet’s consciousness. “KK’s bestest?” he had blurted out.

And immediately apologised. “Pardon me, Ma’am.!"

" I think you’ve received the letter, KK’s letter.”

“Please don’t apologise Sir,” Rupashree was a little embarrassed. “Yes, I’ve received his letter.”

“How may I help you Miss Dey?” Savneet had enquired, curiosity still not stemmed

“I’m visiting India for a vacation next week. I would like to meet you.” Rupashree had said. “It’s about Tublu’s letter. “If it’s ok with you Sir.” She had added, a little hesitant.

“Of course, no problem at all.” Savneet had assured her.

They had fixed up a date and Savneet had spent the remainder of the week tying himself up in thought circles, trying to guess what it was that this girl wanted to see him about.

On the appointed day, Rupashree had arrived, dot on time. Savneet had liked her instantly, at their first meeting itself, a slim, studious girl with quiet manners. She showed him KK’s letter, asking him to read it. Savneet went through the letter slowly, a disquieting lump forming somewhere in the middle of his chest by the time he finished.

Then they spoke at length, Rupashree answering Savneet’s queries about KK, their friendship, their childhood, their hopes and dreams......As she spoke, in her quiet measured voice, Savneet could imagine the depth of their friendship, a little uncharacteristic because they were of the opposite sex and such friendships do not develop easily in middle class small towns like Nimitpur with their baggage of orthodox values. But he had no doubt that it had been firm and true, this friendship between the quiet, philosophical but grounded girl and the wild, head-in-air, sporty, black sheep that KK had been. Yes, it had been a deep friendship, one between ‘bestest’s, Savneet had concluded. And that was precisely why Rupashree had travelled thousands of miles to meet him that day to discuss her plans.

She had spelt out to him when he asked why she was here.“Tublu, Lt Kamal, should not be forgotten. He asked me to make sure he isn’t.”

“We have our own system of remembering our Martyrs, Ma’am!” Savneet had replied in the beginning, a trifle tetchily.

“I know,” Rupashree had been firm. “But that’s only for within your regiment Sir. It’s not enough!”

“So what do you propose to do, young lady?” Savneet had questioned.

And as he often recounted later, Savneet had to concede he was impressed with the detailed proposal and the elaborate plan that this girl had chalked out. It was for a hockey stadium, in KK’s memory,  to be constructed in his hometown  in his old neighbourhood. And not just a hockey ground, but a complete stadium with clubhouse, practice pitch...the works.

“He loved hockey, Sir.” Rupashree explained. “Always bunking classes and tuitions to go to play hockey matches. And he broke many a windows and street light in our colony.” She had smiled at her memories

“If his father had not lost his job, he would have tried for the State team. He was already a district level player.”

At this juncture, Savneet had felt compelled to intervene with the vital question. “What about finances, young lady?” To him, creating a hockey stadium seemed like planning for a trip to the moon without a rocket.

But the girl was prepared. It seems her latest book, a treatise on Tagore that included a translation of his complete Gitabitan into English was receiving more than handsome royalties.

"But a stadium?" Savneet had been sceptical.

Rupashree had smiled reassuringly. “Sir, Indians may not be reading Tagore these days but he is a craze amongst the literati in the western world ....!”
“And then we could institute a trophy in his name for an inter-district hockey tournament, Sir.” She had finished.

Since the whole thing had been a little out of Savneet’s league, he had taken her to meet his current boss, the Commanding Officer. Rupashree’s quiet conviction had been infectious. She had managed to fire the imagination of not only the commanding officer but bosses up the chain and soon the whole regiment was involved. Of course, as Savneet looked back now, it had not been easy, not easy at all. Getting the land for the ground, the necessary permissions, the laying of the field, everything had been interminably, nerve-rackingly, discouragingly slow but they had been dogged, both he and Rupashree. The finances initially had been Rupashree’s own and the little that the regiment could come up with. But as the news spread, small town Nimitpur jumped into the fray with an unbelievable enthusiasm. And that is how the ground got its Astro Turf, thanks to the contributions from the residents. And after two long, really long years, they had finally been able to inaugurate and dedicate the ‘Lieutenant Kamal Kanti Mukhpadhyay Memorial’ Hockey stadium to the young men and women of Nimitpur.

And as for the trophy, it had been donated by the regiment, a smart silver one with a horse, two sabres and a hockey dribbler atop, representing both the regiment and the game. Rupashree had loved the design but she had been adamant about one thing.

“I’m not going to let you name it that odious ‘Lieutenant Kamal Kanti Mukhpadhyay Memorial Trophy’!!.”

“What else could one call it?” Savneet and his boss had tried to reason with her.

“No Sir, that sounds old and dead and boring. Not at all inspiring.” Rupashree had persisted, a little obstinately.

“Ok Miss." The Boss had challenged her. “So what should we call it?”

“Tubludar Trophy!” (Tublu’s Trophy)

While his CO had been left with his jaw hanging open with sheer shock at what he thought was too frivolous a name for a serious and distinguished thing like a memorial trophy, Savneet had instantly understood and felt the aptness of Rupashree’s suggestion. Of course, it had to be Tubludar Trophy, for that is how the young men and women and kids of Nimitpur knew and remembered KK. Tubluda, risen from this same small town that they lived in, risen and become Lt KK Mukhopadhyay, Vir Chakra, the martyr of Siachen. They would never forget their Tubluda and playing, dribbling, dodging, competing from one year to the next for Tubludar Trophy, KK’s memory would pass on from one generation to the next, through their game, through their reminiscences, never forgotten..........!

He had convinced his boss and that is how today the shining Tubludar Trophy, instituted for the inter-district hockey tournament, stood waiting its first claimant.

“Didi, o Tinni Didi!”  They had almost reached the clubhouse and were about to enter when the voice arrested their movement.

Rupashree turned.

It was a young boy, not yet out of his teen, the faint signs of a new moustache lining his upper lips, his slightly bedraggled appearance indicating he was from the slum bordering the stadium.

“Kya hua?” Rupashree asked.

“When’s the first match?” The boy asked.

“Kaun sa match?”

“Voh, Tubluda ka?”

In his enthusiasm, Savneet could not stop himself from answering, “From the day after. Every morning at nine onwards...”

“Ok, Bhaiya.”

The boy jogged off happily, back to a small group of kids gathered at the edge of the ground, all probably from the same slum, milling excitedly around him for news.

The afternoon sun was bright and made them squint. But it didn’t matter.They stood in that bright, hot sun watching the young boys; they, Savee Boss and Tinni, hearts now at peace, souls content with the knowledge that their KK and Tublu would now have his wish, would now never be forgotten, would now always be remembered..............