There’s a scene in the movie, ‘Scent of a Woman’ in which the blind old retired Lt Col Frank Slade blasts the disciplinary board assembled by the school to ‘try’ the culprits of a prank they played, and only one of whom, Charlie, refuses to give up the name of his co-conspirators because of integrity and a sense of loyalty he feels that comes with it. He ends it by saying, ‘I’m not a judge or jury. But I can tell you this: he won’t sell anybody out to buy his future!! And that, my friends, is called integrity! That’s called courage! Now that’s the stuff leaders should be made of. Now I have come to the crossroads in my life. I always knew what the right path was. Without exception, I knew. But I never took it. You know why? It was too damn hard. Now here’s Charlie. He’s come to the crossroads. He has chosen a path. It’s the right path. It’s a path made of principle — that leads to character. Let him continue on his journey.’That was fiction. But there was an incident in my childhood that flashed before my eyes when I first saw that movie. And it involved a beautiful, fruiting, Jamun tree just off the main quadrangle at the Air Force School in Agra, circa 1981, just before Baba cleared the exam to go to DSSC, Wellington, and we never saw Agra again.
The school’s Jamun tree was famous because it was forbidden to climb it or pluck fruit from it, the school going so far as nail a hand-painted board on it cautioning against the same.
I was in Class IV and Abhijeet must have been in Class II, about the same age as Kymaia today. However, from a physical perspective, he was stronger, and tougher. Also, he was incorrigibly mischievous. If something was out of bounds, Abhi just had to go there. If something was not allowed, he just had to try it. And while that made him a fun guy to be around, it also made him a dangerous companion, for there was always risk lurking not far from where he stood. And on that rainy, drizzly day, just as recess was announced, danger came calling in the form of Abhi coming over to my class (how he managed to come so quickly after the bell, I’ll never know) and asking me to come on an adventure.
Those days, we spoke Hindi with each other and he used to call me ‘बड़े भैय्या’ (elder brother), which was respectful and all, but also put a huge burden on me to behave in a manner more mature than I was really prepared to. Anyway, he was there, and he had a plan.
It was thus: Just as the second recess bell goes, I should run to the Jamun tree, and I should bring my handkerchief with me, for he knew of only one boy who was guaranteed to have this piece of clean white cloth in his pocket, no matter what. I was then to wait under it but on the other side of the trunk (from where a passing teacher or chaprasi or ayah would not have been able to spot me) for further instructions.
Knowing my kid brother was going to get into some kind of trouble (I was known to be amongst the first 3 rankers in class and had never at that point had, and only once since then, a teacher wield a wooden/steel ruler on my soft palms, while my parents would throw a party when Abhi simply passed, and were habituated to ignoring calls to come see the Principal unless he murdered someone, which they hoped he wouldn’t; just so you can visualise the contrast), this cryptic information raised a red flag and my rational mind cautioned me against accompanying him in this foolhardy quest, whatever it was; but then knowing he was walking into some kind of trouble also made it imperative that I be present too.
Eventually, brotherly love and loyalty won over reason and survival instincts, and as soon as the next recess bell rang, I sprinted to the Jamun tree, looked around to see if I was being followed or observed, sidled around the dark side of the foliage, unfolded my neatly ironed white handkerchief (with my initials KAG on them, embroidered by my loving mother), and waited. No sooner had I done the required task was I surprised by a whistle from above. It seemed that the boy had miraculously not only beaten me to the tree, but also managed to climb it. I was told that he’d be plucking and throwing Jamuns from his perch, and I was to collect them in my pristine kerchief. I asked him, both of us speaking in loud whispers by then, what I was supposed to tell our dear mother when she spots the inevitable stains on my mouchoir, and he said, I won’t have to because that would be in his pocket by then! While I was thinking whether this was a comforting thought or something I should be wary of, he started throwing down Jamuns and my mind had no time to think, as my hands started to gather them and collect the bounty in the said handy hanky.
Suddenly, there was a commotion, as one chaprasi spotted me under the tree and shouted as he came charging down to catch me. Abhi yelled, ‘ भागो!’ and himself, with the deftness that I later saw in the movie ‘Tarzan’, detached himself from the branch, landed softly on his toes, and scampered across the quadrangle, disappearing in a cloud of dust, as I stood rooted to my spot, like a deer caught in the headlights, except I knew nothing of deers or headlights then, though that is immaterial to this story. I felt someone grabbing my arm and pulling me after him. It was the chaprasi.
In the Principal’s office, I stood outside, a first-time experience for me, with my sole plea being that I be allowed to wait in, lest someone see me and it spoil my reputation! I was busy tucking in my shirt and running my palms over my disturbed hair to notice that Abhi had appeared down the corridor, and along with the crowd that had gathered, was gawking at the spectacle of me standing there with Jamun stained fingers trying to look respectable. And then, the chaprasi came out and told me I was called inside.
The Principal’s office was an airy affair, with the window opening to the quadrangle and a large table in front of it, with a globe and a blotter with fountain pens and ink pots of two different colours (blue and red, I think) on my left, some trophies and paperweights to my right, and two wooden trays on each side framing the whole scene. Behind it sat the venerable lady herself, in thick glasses, looking at the now open handkerchief with the evidence of the crime laid out in front of her. She looked at me and then the chaprasi, before saying, ‘Are you sure it was this Gadgil brother and not the other?’ and when she received an answer to the affirmative, nodded her head from side to side in disbelief as she looked at me in pity thinking (I am speculating here, but I wouldn’t be very wrong) how easily today’s youth is corrupted. I bowed my head in shame and hoped she’d forgive me one time and not go at me with the ruler, a pain I had no idea of and was rather unwilling to find out for the first time.
The interrogation began.
Madam Principal: ‘Did you know that the Jamun tree is out of bounds for students?’
Me: ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
MP: ‘I will let you go since this is your first offence.’
Me: ‘Thank you, Ma’am. It will never happen again.’
MP: ‘All you have to do is tell me who you were with? Was it someone from your class? Or was it your younger brother?’
Me: ‘__’
MP: ‘Well?’
Me: ‘I was alone, Ma’am.’
MP: ‘No, you were not. Someone was in the tree throwing the Jamuns to you.’
Me: ‘No, Ma’am. I climbed it and plucked and threw them down. Then, I came back down and was collecting them when I was caught. I am sorry. This will never happen again.’
MP: ‘Ha! You expect me to believe you?’
Me: ‘I am not lying, Ma’am. I was alone. I have never lied. You know it.’
MP: ‘Who are you protecting? Why do you think they deserve your loyalty? They left you and ran away. Tell me the name and I will let you go. Otherwise, extend your palm and take your punishment.’
Me: <silently extending my palm>
Suddenly, from the door, Abhi comes in. Followed by the hassled-looking chaprasi.
Abhi: ‘Ma’am, you got the wrong boy. It was me. Bhaiyaa was only passing by when the chaprasi caught him. He just saw my handkerchief on the ground and picked it up. He was not involved in this at all. It was me. Punish me.’
Me: ‘No, Ma’am. He is lying. I do not know what he is talking about. You know I never lie. Punish me. You go away, Abhi. I will handle this.’
Abhi: ‘No, बड़े भैय्या, Ma’am knows I am the naughty one. It was me. You have to believe me. Bhaiyya did nothing. Punish me.’
Me: <sobbing now> ‘You go. Go away. You didn’t do anything. Ma’am. Don’t listen to him. Punish me.’
Abhi: <sobbing> ‘No, he is lying. he had nothing to do with this. Punish me.’
MP: <sobbing> ‘You two, come here.’
And she hugged us both.
Later, we sat in the Principal’s cabin and ate the Jamuns together. Of course, as promised, Abhi took the blame for the stained handkerchief when we got home. We told nobody.
Until one day, Kymaia wanted to know about her Abhi chacha. And I remember telling her this story for the first time on 26 April 2016, when Abhi would have turned 42. I had written a post then.
And even today, whenever she wants to hear one about him, this is her go-to.
Abhi, I don’t know where we got our moral compass from (I’d like to believe it was our parents, our relatives, our friends, our teachers, and our books that we learnt from), but whatever it was, how I wish you were here to teach your little niece about loyalty and integrity. How I wish you were here to watch her grow into a fine young woman. How I wish you could tell her about how sweet those Jamuns tasted!
