A Soldier's Journey Through Life

A Soldier's Journey Through Life

By

Brigadier Lakshman Singh, VSM (Retd.)

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Brigadier Lakshman Singh on SMASHWORDS

Copyright 2011 Brigadier Lakshman Singh

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Brigadier Lakshman Singh on SMASHWORDS

Copyright 2011 Brigadier Lakshman Singh

***

AN ODE TO MY WIFE

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE JOINT FAMILY

OF

THE CORPS OF SIGNALS

Table of Contents

Part One: A Journey Is Written

Chapter 1 The Years of Innocence

Chapter 2 The Early Years

Chapter 3 The Transformation

Chapter 4 June 2004

Chapter 5 An Officer & A Gentleman

Part Two: A Journey in Love

Chapter 6 The Meeting

Chapter 7 The First Step

Chapter 8 The Bonding

Chapter 9 A Man, His Wife And The Mistress

Chapter 10 North East Frontier Agency: The Trap

Chapter 11 North East Frontier Agency: The Escape

Chapter 12 The Aftermath

Chapter 13 A Posting: Poona

Chapter 14 A Posting: Kalimpong

Chapter 15 Ranchi: The Command

Chapter 16 After The Command

Chapter 17 New Delhi

Chapter 18 The Gathering Storm

Chapter 19 New York: The Daughter Beckons

Chapter 20 The Countdown

Chapter 21 A Single Man

Chapter 22 An Homage

Glossary of Hindi language, words & expressions

Tibetan words in use

Acronyms/Abbreviations

Army Ranks

Acknowledgements & Apology

About The Author

***

PART ONE

A Journey Is Written

Chapter 1

The Years of Innocence

My earliest memories go back to the 1930’s and to my mother’s village when I was but five or six years of age. Memories of a village, of sights, smells, sounds and a mud house—that of my grand-parents. Memories of cold winter nights as I lay snuggled next to my mother under the heavy rough home-spun cotton filled quilt. Mesmerized as I gazed steadily transfixed at the pale yellow light emanating from a diva, the sole source of light in the dark room, the flame sometimes burning strongly at others flickering due to a faint air current as someone opened a door. I do wonder now as to what was going on in my mind while my mother, aunts and grandmother continued chatting and gossiping late into the night.

Deeply embedded in those memories specially are the summer nights when my grandmother, a J. K. Rowling of her day recited her collection of fairy tales while we, my cousins included, lay besides her listening with rapt attention against a backdrop of an inky black sky teeming with myriad stars, some shining bright, others twinkling bringing the fairies, demons, rajas and ranis, the ordinary folks in the stories like the dhobi and the tali (oil man) and sinister animals—or so they seemed to me at that time—like foxes and jackals all startlingly alive in my child's mind with my imagination running riot. The same stories requested and repeated night after night became more vivid and fascinating as our imaginations grew by leaps and bounds with each recounting. But soon her spellbinding voice slowly but surely grew fainter and fainter and my inevitable response to her narration, an essential part of storytelling and listening, faded away as I nodded off to sleep plunging into a dream-world where the stories became real.

The houses comprising the villages were monotonous looking. Flat-roofed, constructed of mud bricks and covered with a thick coating of the same, they were not much to look at yet they were ideally suited for the extreme climate be it the freezing cold of the winters or the searing heat of Indian summers. Unfortunately they have now been replaced by kiln baked bricks, perhaps more as a status symbol. Aesthetically a disaster and even uglier to look at but above all totally unsuitable climate-wise—ice-boxes in winters and burning-hot ovens in the summers.

My mamaji, my mother’s brother, kept a flock of pigeons up on the roof of our home. It was his passionate indulgence. He built a small mud abode for the birds and had erected a loft for the pigeons to perch upon that could only be accessed by a ladder. I would join him morning and evening to see the launch of the birds. They took off one by one and I watched as they flew in sheer ecstasy, did aerobatics in the sky then returned when he called them back. The birds understood his language and he theirs.

Aunts & nieces

The morning trips to the farm field with the breakfast consisting of salted rotis, gur, home-churned butter and buttermilk for the uncle working in the field, tied neatly in a clean piece of home spun cloth, the aunt carrying it on her head, the pitcher of butter milk in one hand with the other holding my puny hand, balancing gracefully while walking on those narrow dividers of the fields. Upon seeing us he would stop whatever he was doing—be it tilling, irrigating or weeding and approach us with half a smile. We would sit by the side of the well, under the shade of a tree or in the sun depending on the season. I would of course get a share—a second breakfast of the day and it tasted so good that the flavour still lingers in the mouth.

Being too young at that time, I was unaware of the joy the two young souls were sharing; the few private stolen moments. Privacy in the village being at a premium, the daily trips to the fields by the young bride was possibly a stratagem designed by the knowing elder ladies, who had passed that stage in life themselves, to provide some private moments to the young couple.

My mother owned a large collection of silver jewelry designed to cover every part of the human anatomy that was always a fascination to my young eyes. But even more enthralling was the ceremony at the time of the Dusshera festival when the women of the house crafted replicas of those ornaments in mud taken from the village pond—ornaments to adorn the Devi or Sanji as it was called—a religious icon pasted on the wall of the dwelling.

The village pond was the favourite playground of my cousins with me, a fascinated invitee. A pebble playfully thrown in the pond would make the moss covered placid surface part as the water broke into ripples. The long reeds and bulrushes growing around the pond would sway in the breeze as dragonflies hovered around and the butterflies fluttered aimlessly. Added to this bucolic scene was the humming of bees and the plaintive call of the Koel bird. There was always a herd of buffaloes lolling around in the pond with just their nostrils and eyes showing above the surface. Stark naked, the children would also jump in gleefully and join the buffaloes in an effort to beat the summer heat.

The racket made by the chhaki grinding wheat to flour for breakfast in most of the houses, the chirping of the house sparrows, the sound of village folks outside off to the fields steering their bullocks articulating loudly in a language well understood by the animals, their loud cries combined with the tinkling of the bells round the necks of the bullocks, a cry of the odd bird or call of the rooster and the barking stray dogs, the distinctive smell of burning dried turi or of khoi on the stove mingling with cow-dung all combined to complete the three dimensional picture of sight, sound and smell of the village world around me.

The village at that time was a self-contained and a self-sufficient society, a world of its own with only infrequent visitors like us opening small windows to the outside world. There was ‘Swami’ to cater for the spiritual and religious needs of the denizens. The jast, the owners and tillers of the land, the kahars and chamars, the labour force who were paid in kind not in cash and lived across an imaginary dividing line. They had their own well for water, their own culture and way of life with the area seldom frequented by the residents from the other side.

The naee, Haria, the village barber, the only person who could hold the chin of even the most eminent personage, in public. However his more significant function was that of match-maker. Haria knew the details of all the eligible girls and boys of the families from the villages around. He was also the village courier for exchanging messages, marriages proposals and conducting the delicate negotiations leading to final sealing of the deal.

The village dhobi or the washerman albeit without ironing service, the julahaia, the weaver who fashioned the cloth spun by the women of the house into durries and other items.

The teli, the oilman, with his kohlu, the oil-press extracting oil from the mustard-seed in his one room abode shared with the bullock that drove the wheel and the oil-press.

The pansari, the grocer, with his limited stock of commodities selling spices and daily need of the kitchen as also herbs used for minor illnesses and Moni, the halwai, who also sold his sweetmeats like bundi-ladoo and barfi from a stall at the local railway station.

An occasional hawker catered to any extra needs of the villagers. I recall the watermelon seller who bartered his stock—one thin slice for a fistful of wheat grain. We as kids would run into the granary and picking up a fistful would run back out again, trailing a path of wheat behind us. The thrill and the experience, the taste of that first greedy bite of sweet red pith, black seeds and all, the seeds to be spitted-out, the juice trickling down the chin we gnawed away until the red turned to white nearly reaching the green rind.

Sometime Swang, the folk theatre showed-up or was invited to perform on special occasions like weddings which was always a big event for the village folks. Even people from the surrounding villages appeared to enjoy the show. The most famous and more popular was `Bully’s' the owner and the hero of the day’s play.

Young boys, dressed in heavy skirts faces covered with colourful shawls and decked with silver ornaments borrowed from the ladies of the house of the host, played the female characters.

The action was slow; mostly in verse and song but enough to excite the mostly male audience. The performances would never hold my interest possibly due to exposure to music from films like Achhut-Kanya, Kangan, Bandhan and Pukar. No doubt the festive atmosphere with the disinterested kids running around aimlessly being admonished time and again by the elderly who were getting disturbed was exciting and fun.

My grandmother, a tall woman—taller by a few inches than even my grandfather and complete with a lofty personality to match would preside every morning over breakfast—a grand ritual. As her favourite, I was always rewarded with an extra dollop of butter.

‘The Village Pond and Water Harvesting’

(Cartoon from my article published in the Times of India)

My grandfather, of average height had a rather imposing personality and presence as well. He was respected and feared by all with the exception of myself. Being the youngest child of his eldest son had its advantages. The two of us—one of the first and the other the third generation would argue and disagree as equals on any and every subject.

The children did not have much to do in the village except run aimlessly about the house, with me in tow, much to the annoyance of the ladies of the house and the peacefully sleeping dogs who fell in our random path. I do recall that the young of the village knew enough about the ‘birds and the bees’ possibly due to the confined living quarters and close proximity of the families and were extra keen to share their superior knowledge of the taboo subject with the ignorant cousin from the city.

My father, the eldest son and a brilliant student, first generation out of the village to make it as a top government official was always the centre of attraction during our visits to the village. He had a vast collection of anecdotes and enjoyed relating the same to his idolizing audience. The privileged village folks would gather around him huddled together on woven hemp cots while he took the place of honour on a comfortable cane chair and as he began to speak they listened with rapt attention, responding appropriately—serious at times and laughing delightedly at his narration at others.

There were no approach roads to the village. My father being a privileged government official we could drive down the canal bank with official permission armed with the extra-large key in our hands to open the equally large lock on the chain slung across the bank to prevent unauthorized vehicular movement. For all others—the general public, the only mode of travelling available was the Sahadra-Saharanpur (SSLR, the light narrow gauge 2’-6" NG Line Railway) with head-offices in far off Calcutta.

Maddening slow paced and overcrowded, it was said that an agile young man from the front compartment of the train could jump down, go to the nearest bush to do his business and still have enough time to get in the last but one compartment. The passengers would appear long before the scheduled time waiting patiently for the arrival of the train and accompanying them, of course, was the inevitable endless procession of friends and relatives come to see them off. Time moved slowly in those days and with the slow pace of life there was no reason to hurry. The women clothed in colourful skirts, bedecked with heavy silver jewelry, some with faces covered depending on whether they were the brides or the daughters of the village, some holding the children by hand, others in their laps; the children some wailing others excited in anticipation of the train ride, the men mostly dressed in white dhoti and kurta with turbans tied in the local ethnic style.

Accompanied by my father I would, of course, be waiting in the station master’s office rather than on the platform allowed to witness the ‘mysterious’ happenings in his office. Little understanding the significance of the sudden clicking of the telegraph, the tapping of the key by the station master, of the steel ball falling out of the huge cast-iron safe-like contraption with a clang or the swinging needle in the glass covered dial, it all remained an unsolved mystery to me.

The khalsi upon a sign from the station master would strike the hanging metal-piece, a section of some old discarded rail track that served as a bell, a couple of times with a heavy old bolt. The clanging sound it made announced the impending arrival of the train and then unlocking and pulling the massive lever toward him, he would drop the signal down.

The crowd would begin to stir, anxiously looking towards the direction from which the train was expected. Spying the engine in the distance someone would shout: Here comes the train!

The Sahadra-Saharanpur Light Railway

Soon the cumbrous engine pulling the protesting creaking compartments would chug-in bellowing steam, tooting repeatedly blowing its shrill whistle as if to announce the joy of its arrival. In actual fact it was to warn the multitudes to move away and off the rail tracks. Alarmed and terrorized by the big machine as it lumbered into the station, its pistons click clacking loudly I would like most children cling desperately to my mother's skirts.

The engine would soon be detached from the train to get a refill of water from an overhead tank by the tracks. That was a signal to the patiently waiting passengers who sprang into action running helter-skelter in a tearing hurry towards the compartments. Agitated men with their harassed women in tow pulling behind them their excited children engaged in a hectic activity to find a seat in the already over-crowded compartments. Once settled, there commenced a long ritual of wailing and crying by the women who were departing and ones who had come to see their families off. The already deafening cacophony created by the babbling of so many was soon overtaken by the shouts of the hawkers selling ‘Pahalwan’ chap birees, ‘Scissors’ brand cigarettes, monkey nuts or peanuts, desi pan and not the least by Moni selling his barfees and ladoos, made with milk and ghee, a recipe known only to and perfected by him.

Amidst all this organized chaos the guard would blow his whistle and vigorously begin waving a green flag in unison with the Station Master now parked outside his office with one of his own and the train would slowly roll out of the station announcing its departure with all its bells and whistles and peace would descend once again.

Many years later while sleeping on the terrace, the sad lament of the engine's whistle louder still in the hot summer nights had become a lot more personal to the both of us—Jeet and me. A cruel reminder night after night of my impending departure, until one late night tearing myself from the last painful embrace, words unsaid, on that same train I would really have to leave her behind to answer the call of the Army.

I can only imagine her feelings at that juncture; however, I was utterly miserable walking in that dark night, each step taking me farther and farther away from my wife, silent and lost in my own thoughts with no words exchanged with the person accompanying me to the station to see me off.

***

Chapter 2

The Early Years

I am told that I was born night of 4th early morning of the 5th of November 1930 in Hapur a district or subdivision of the province of Uttar Pradesh or UP as it is usually known as. A large delegation of the female relations from my mother’s village arrived in Hapur apparently to hold her hand during her delivery but instead surreptitiously took off for the annual fair in Garh-Muketshwar on the River Ganga leaving my mother alone to fend for herself. Luckily for her my father had already made arrangements with the local midwife.

My recollections of Hapur are a bit faded; like some under-exposed snapshots. Speaking of snapshots, there is an interesting episode worth narrating. Someone gifted my elder brother a Kodak Browne Box camera. A film roll was soon purchased and snapshots clicked in quick succession. With all of us siblings gathered around him clamouring and anxious to see our pictures, he gingerly opened the camera and removed the exposed roll. Unfortunately, the camera was not accompanied by a short course about the chemistry of photography and to the mutual disappointment of my brother and those milling around him the film was totally blank even when it was looked at anxiously out in the bright sunlight outside.

Historical timeline:

2002: The Godhra Incident: Reference is to the rioting incident in 2002 in the city of Godhra in the State of Gujarat located on the western coast of India involving Hindus and Muslims and the burning of a sleeper coach on a passenger train filled with Hindus.

Fairly recently as old memories resurfaced on 27th February, 2002, the day of the Godhra incident, while driving from Meerut to Noida where I reside today, I took a detour to Hapur hoping to see the place I was born. Unfortunately the sight of the grand ‘Tehsil’ complex razed to the ground and replaced by ugly construction left me a little melancholy. The situation was redeemed to some extent when I noticed the ‘Gate’ built in my father’s time was still standing.

The Gate

Also prevalent are recollections of official visits by the British Collector and the Superintendent of Police to the subdivision treasury. As children we were too scared to even approach their car. I was absolutely terrified of the sentry on guard duty at the treasury armed with a bayonet mounted Lee-infantry rifle. The treasury not only contained cash but also cakes of opium as in those days all transactions were strictly on a cash basis and the British controlled the distribution of opium—a widely used narcotic of that time.

The games of hide and seek played under the moonlit nights, the aroma of tea leaves from an empty teapot after it had been consumed, the intoxicating whiff of brandy inhaled from a small bottle kept for medicinal purposes all come back to me in flashes forming one nostalgic memory. The Morning Glory creeping steadily making its way along the railway tracks and the marked glass bottle—a Rain Gauge—with a funnel for collecting the rain water on the roof of the Tehsil building quite possibly still operative. An exhilarating bus ride late one night to the District HQ at Bulandshahr bringing the sealed wooden boxes containing ballots cast earlier that day for the 1937 elections accompanied by armed police guard—to us an adventure but an important official duty for my father.

Above Left: Jawaharlal Nehru Above Right: Shaheed Bhagat Singh

There was always a secret thrill picking up the slim tin tubes used for storing posters mostly the black and white portraits of Shaheed Bhagat Singh and other revolutionaries and leaders—not for public display and only to be taken out for a private viewing. A dichotomy for my father was a government servant albeit one with nationalist leanings.

At times the family would visit the not too distant metropolis of Delhi for sightseeing and shopping. Chandni Chowk, a popular destination for shopping had trams in those days and they ‘Click clacked’ up and down the tracks laid alongside the length of the road. The persistent ‘clang, clang, clang’ of the hand-held bell rung by the tram driver standing at his station on the 'dead man’s handle' warned jay walking pedestrians, horse driven tongas and the straying cows and dogs while also contributing greatly to the cacophony in Chandni Chowk.

The paranthas of Paranthawali Gali savoured for the first time left a lingering taste in my senses never to be replicated or equalled despite many subsequent visits years later accompanying my wife Jeet on her frequent shopping trips.

The Majestic, the picture hall now closed, the Moti interestingly still in operation screening vintage block-busters like 'Achut Kanya' a Devika Rani and Ashok Kumar starrer so popular in those days that the lyrics of the songs being mouthed on the screen projected alongside on a smaller side-screen. The song-books being sold for two paisas during the interval were in good demand and had many ready buyers since songs were simple and catchy.

Historical timeline:

1937: Inauguration of Provincial Autonomy: Before the introduction of the Act of 1935 elections were held all over the country. The Congress party contested the elections and secured a Majority in nine provinces including the U.P. The party won about 143 seats out of 228 in U.P. The Independent Party won 32 seats. The Muslim League won 28 seats and 25 members were independent. The first Congress Ministry headed by Pandit Govind Ballabh Pant was formed in July, 1937. The first meeting of the Legislative Assembly was held on 29th July, 1937. Sri Purushottam Das Tandon and Sri Abdul Hakim were elected the Speaker and the Deputy Speaker respectively on 31st July, 1937. In the Legislative Council Dr. Sir Sitaram and Begum Aijaz Rasul were elected the President and the Vice-President respectively on the same day.

I was a child of six or seven years excited to accompany my parents on a shopping trip to Delhi for my sisters ensuing marriage. Where else could one go to shop for such an important occasion in Delhi but Chandni Chowk? Of all the purchases made that day I clearly remember the portable HMV gramophone purchased from Maharaja Lal and Sons, for 40 Rupees or so. Hand-cranked with a needle screwed into the sound box and the 78 rpm record with a two and a half minute of play time. Place the needle in the grove of the spinning record and amazingly the sound of music would come floating out no less of a miracle in the pre FM Radio and TV era. Purchases made from the cloth shop located opposite the Town Hall and the Clock Tower, once a famous landmark, alas no more. The old shop more recognisable by the odd sight of the tree out front rather than its signage, a tree that grew so large that its trunk now juts out of a hole in the roof of the store veranda. Even more memorable since it evokes an embarrassingly hilarious mental image of garments specially tailored for a wedding for the three brothers of whom I was the youngest. The eldest who was in college was the proud recipient of a trouser suit while my middle brother and I had to be content with half-pant suits. The new attire should have been a cause for some excitement but for the fact that all three suits were sewn from the same bolt of cotton fabric.

Family photo: From L to R: Ratna, father, sister, myself, mother & Vikram

Inexplicably, I have no memory of the Red Fort, the most famous landmark of Delhi and very much a tourist attraction. The visit to see the Qutub Minar located in Mehrauli is mostly remembered for the vile smelling bats hanging upside down in the dark circular tower that housed the never ending steps going up the winding staircase. The drive from Chandni Chowk to Mehrauli was long—very long with traffic ranging from very little to none, through thick keekur trees and scrub and on both sides.

What does come to mind of New Delhi of that era are the wide open spaces, the nearly empty roads, an occasional glimpse of a solitary commuter bus. However, clearly unforgettable is the sight of the traffic constable standing six foot plus tall, dressed in blue and white with a stylish turban on the head, an imposing a sight indeed, enough to strike terror in the heart of any traffic offender.

The bridge to Delhi over River Jumna, a tributary of the Ganges was a massive steel structure that handled both train and vehicular traffic. Once upon it one was forced to follow at the speed of the vehicle directly in front which at times was a tonga. The horse driven hackney trotted slowly, prodded along by whip lashings and choicest verbal invectives of the tongawalla. The bridge is now sadly to be decommissioned by the railways.

The rumbling of the trains as they passed by over the upper deck made an unusually loud racket. This unfamiliar sound generated a disturbing feeling inside of me as a small child that was accentuated many times over and reminiscent of the horror tales real or fictional recounted by my aunts and the servants in graphic detail late at night. Among those were the eerie and frightening ghost stories of those who had died or were sacrificed during the construction of the bridge by the British to appease imaginary Gods. The recollection of these made me cower and hide my face in my mother's lap.

Leaving Delhi, one exited the bridge taking a sharp 'S' turn. We usually stopped at the gas-station to top up the car. It was a picturesque sight. The small wooden hut that passed for an office was painted green. The ‘station’ was equipped with quaint looking petrol pumps which encompassed two one gallon capacity glass bottles arranged side by side. As the attendant manually cranked the pump handle the petrol level rose in one of the bottles while getting decanted from the other bottle into the car's tank. The process repeated itself alternately.

Back on the road on way towards Shahadra the car took the lower of the two roads then reserved for fast moving traffic, the upper being for camel pulled load carriers known as shikrams, bullock carts and other contraptions slowly trudging along outfitted with ‘hurricane lanterns’ swinging to and fro making valiant efforts to illuminate the path.

Small Towns: The Dawn of Awareness

Upon my father’s posting to Gorakhpur when I was eight years of age, I was admitted to St. Andrews High School directly into the Fourth Class. I remember Amar Singh, the headmaster, a Christian with a Hindu name would read from a chapter of the Bible at the daily morning assembly while most of us a disinterested lot suffered the same in silence.

Interestingly at the time of my interview with him I had given my date of birth as 15th July 1931; 15th being the date when fees of 2 annas (one rupee had sixteen annas then) were collected. How the year became 1931 from 1930 I have no idea. In so far as the name is concerned possibly on asking I derived it from my nickname: ‘Lacchhi’ generally it is the other way round and thus the date of birth and the name became official.

On Fridays we were given a longer than usual midday break to enable the Muslim boys to attend to their prayers. I remember that quite clearly because it was also a day I keenly anticipated since it provided me with an opportunity to borrow a classmate’s ‘baby’ bicycle. It was so much fun and gave me intense feeling of freedom as I paddled furiously home for lunch accompanied by my elder brother, also a student at the school.

From Gorakhpur we moved to Pratapgarh, a laid-back District Headquarter. There was no electricity and any studying at night had to be done by the light of two hurricane lanterns.

During the summer vacations, my mother and middle brother and I escorted my eldest brother’s bride, who was then posted at Muree in erstwhile Punjab, all the way from Pratapgarh in the searing heat of summer travelling in a Third Class compartment. After the vacations we returned along with her. I still wonder as to why she could not have stayed with her husband. But those were the days and those were the customs. My Bhabi (sister-in-law) took to me immediately possibly missing her own brother who she left behind after her marriage in 1942 introducing me to music. She taught me how to play a few songs on her harmonium that we had carried with us all the way to Muree while my brother made me work on my Algebra and Geometry for the next Standard in school which made life easier for me later. I also had the privilege of listening to the child prodigy Master Madan who thrilled us in a live concert.

On the return journey I wondered all the way as to what ‘Quit India’ plastered on the walls of the houses along the rail track meant.

Later my father was transferred to Dehra Dun and thus began my long standing romance with the small town nestled in Doon Valley that continues to date. There I was admitted into the Sadhu Ram High School located nearby to our home. Though not very highbrow it had excellent teachers.

It was 1946 and I was holidaying with my father in Mussourrie when he surprised me with a gift for passing the high school examinations with high honours—my very first wrist watch, a steel ‘Faver-Leuba Genève’ with a grey leather strap.

Adjacent to our flat was a venue where the daily evening prayer meetings of Mahatma Gandhi were held. Shanti, a budding nationalist and son of the senior Congress leader Ajit Prasad Jain from Saharanpur, would regularly attend the meetings joining the multitude of the tourists in town those days. The attraction of the meeting was such that picture halls ran nearly empty for the evening show.

Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, an Indian Muslim scholar and senior political leader of the Indian independence movement was also holidaying in Mussourrie those days. One day Shanti and I along with a friend of ours decided to pay him a visit. With no security, no guards and no one to stop us at the door, we barged into his sitting-room unannounced. Quickly and without seeking his permission, I directed the camera I had borrowed towards him and clicked the shutter in the process getting chided with a smile instead of a frown by the Maulana for not first seeking his approval.

Historical timeline:

1942: The ‘Quit India Movement’ launched On the 9th of August: It was Gandhi’s final bid to secure India’s independence from the British. Although many diverse political ideologies crowded the scenario of the Indian National Movement at that time, yet it was the Satyagraha adopted by Gandhi that finally had the most telling effect in challenging the British authorities. India was on the threshold of Independence by the end of the Quit India movement and Gandhi’s long cherished dream was about to be realized. Quit India movement sealed the success for Satyagraha as a policy of political resistance, and Gandhi’s role as the chief moving force behind India’s Independence came to be universally accepted, although dark clouds of a communal fissure still lurked in the background

1946: Interim Government formed, Constituent Assembly’s first meeting.

I had already listened to the famous 'Tryst with Destiny' speech by Pundit Jawaharlal Nehru on the radio made just past midnight on the 15th of August and when the day dawned anew there was a feeling of excitement in the air—a never before sensation experienced by me in my limited seventeen years. Though I do not recall the VIP who did the honours hoisting the Indian flag, clearly etched in my mind is the vision of