Remembering Happy :(

Remembering Happy :(

Today, April 17, is a day very close to my heart and I shall continue to cherish this one till my last breath.

And as I prepare to take a walk down the memory lane, I can’t help but feel besieged by such strong emotions that are impossible to pen. Yet, I try... an attempt to immortalise something so immensely beautiful yet terribly painful.

It was on this day three years back that I met Varun @ Happy at my home in Panchkula. I was so so happy to have Happy over after almost a decade that emotions flowed freely yet words failed.

Happy, on his side, was glad too, to see me, yet he seemed unusually reserved - an effect of the vast distance of over nine years may be, I thought to myself. Or, perhaps, the hectic and erratic work schedule coupled with long hours of travel – I secretly wished.

Breakfast went off quietly with not many words said or heard. But, as the day progressed, Happy opened up and slowly but gradually, I could see my best friend of childhood come to the fore – the childish giggles, silly jokes, non-stop chatter, endless bullying sessions over Coke and junk food.

By afternoon, the good old "16-year-old" Happy was in full form – pulling my ears, cracking PJs on me, teasing me about all the weight that I had lost in the past nine years and just being himself. What a relief to have my buddy back. Happy was he, and so was I!

Lunch was a lot peppier, so delightfully intercepted by animated conversation between Happy and I that even mum-dad stared in stark amazement as to what was on. “Prank time,” they shivered, recalling how Happy had almost killed me when as a kiddo, he had attempted to scare mum by jumping off the pram that he was sharing with me, thereby, sending it rolling down the staircase!

However, they found their fears to be unfounded when they realised that it was nothing but long lost love coming gushing to the two of us – how we had missed each other all these years. A sigh of relief swept across the faces of my happy folks.

After some rest, I decided to oblige Happy who had been so keen on a Chandigarh darshan. Mum-dad turned down the offer to come along; some of papa’s old-time friends were to come over for the evening.

Before we left, mum cautioned me to drive safely and take good care of Happy. Suddenly, the man in him shouted as if shaken out of deep slumber – “Oh! Don’t you worry, your gal is mine for the evening. I will take good care of her.” That he was treated to irritated snubs and dirty looks and rebuked for being an MCP, goes without saying.

Out of the house, Happy wasn’t too happy being driven around by a “lady” but he had little choice. Fretting and fuming, he had to settle for the navigator’s seat as I took to the wheel.

Few moments passed, Happy was quiet as I drove along. Suddenly, faint strains of a melody playing on FM brought smiles on his face. Turning on the volume, Happy started humming along the tune – it was “Last Christmas”, an old George Michael song that was his all-time favourite.

Song over, Happy forgot the grudge that he had been so blatantly nursing against me for denying him the right to drive me around town in pure gentlemanly fashion.

After a quick tour of the main shopping piazza at Sector 17 and the famous Geri Route en route to Rock Garden, the car finally came to a tranquil halt at the parking lot of Sukhna Lake. As we marched towards the lake, beautiful childhood memories came rushing – how we had spent so many evenings at this spot, enjoying the spicy roadside bhel and pista kulfi along with the serene lake view.

However, something very strange happened while we crossed the road that lie between the parking lot and the main entrance to the lake. Just as we took the first step towards the lake, a car zoomed past a few meters away. Happy retreated a few steps, pulling me along. When I remarked that the vehicle was at a safe distance, a calm and composed Happy replied: “But I do not want to risk my life and waste it by dying in an accident. There are a thousand better ways to lose one’s life. I am off to one such mission in a few hours,” he had replied, in a prophetic manner, indicative of the future.

At the lake: Not wanting to be seated anywhere but by the side of the old banyan tree where he used to sit as a young school goer along with the cousins, Happy threw a tantrum, teasingly reminding me how mum had directed me to look after him through the evening.

Seething with anger at the childish behaviour, I unwillingly requested the young couple occupying Happy’s favourite spot, to make way for the “gentleman who wants to click some professional shots of the lake from this particular angle.” Being one from a big media house helped me here. The couple obliged, but not without murmurs and stares.

Unable to hide his glee, Happy jumped and grabbed his spot, insisting me to smile and “be happy with Happy”.

It was an enchanting evening, mild breeze blowing into our faces and dark clouds hovering overhead made the setting sun look so captivating. It was a view to behold. Happy and I finally agreed on at least something.

The calm and peaceful environs of Sukhna slowly started to affect Happy, who was now more relaxed. He opened up completely now, as if wanting to pour his heart out to his bum-chum who would understand every word he says, without being judgemental. I found myself remarkably connected to him as he talked of how life had taken unplanned turns over the past decade and brought him where he was today.

There was depth in each word as it came straight from the heart. And an equal amount of pain, mixed with a queer but clearly passionate pride, seeped through.

Happy had initially, not wanted to be where he was today. He had experienced this life from close quarters and seen his mother endure solitude and hardships in silence. Which is why he had cherished the dream of being a mighty successful engineer and bring about a technological revolution across the backward areas of the nation after completing his engineering degree in electronics and telecommunications.

But destiny at large, and his dad in particular, had other plans for him. The obedient elder son that he was, Happy could not say “no” to his dad. Like a true dutiful child, he had taken the plunge, so that “dad can feel proud of me”. And he had come out with flying colours, being at the top of whatever he did, winning numerous awards in the process.

Not knowing how to react, I cleared my throat and in a brave attempt, gently pressed his hand, trying to comfort him and pull him out of his difficult memories.

Happy turned towards me and stared into my eyes: “Arre buddhu, why are you taking unnecessary tension? I am perfectly alright and greatly thankful to dad and the Almighty for guiding me towards my calling. I could not have asked for more. I am indebted to both of them and simply love what I’m doing. I am made for nothing, but this,” he smiled with a fanatical pride in his eyes.

And though I could not understand the sudden shift in emotion and mood, I was glad to see the smile reappear on the face that I have loved since I first saw it as a toddler.

Happy was back to being happy and along came a long list of what he can do now that he was unable to do some years back.

He could cook Maggie on the top of a clothes’ iron, climb trees, sleep on the road, share his washroom with 50 others in their birthday suits yet feel proud to be there, sing in the lonely night and still not feel embarrassed of his out-of-tune melody, run 15 km yet manage to set the dance floor on fire and he understood the value of life more than any of his friends and of course, me.

He went on and on, talking about the adventures he has been a part of on his endless outdoor expeditions in the most unusual parts of the country, his newfound love for golf and horse riding, his new “toys” and new friends, especially the one he shared his room with.

Happy raved about his roomie with child-like enthusiasm and how handsome and interesting he was. The chap had even studied with him in one of the primary classes in a small hamlet of Punjab and hence, qualified to be his childhood buddy just like me.

Beginning to lose interest in Happy’s tales about his roomie, I started to look around at the deliciously supple waves hitting the edges of the beautiful lake in front of us. Suddenly I heard what I could not believe were Happy’s words: “Will you marry him?? Abhishek... that’s his name!”

Surprised and shocked, at the sudden “proposal”, I laughed off the question with a wave of the hand and signalled Happy to get up and get going. But Happy was in one of those unrelenting moods. He wanted an answer as to why I was being non-committal and simply laughing off his “serious talk”.

Trying to avoid an argument, I promised to answer him once home. Driving back home with Happy was kind of weird. All the while, he was trying to reason with me as to why I should consider his roomie for marriage. He was handsome, well-educated, smart, intelligent, had a great sense of humour and to top it all, he was a Punjabi. As if his Punjabi roots were of utmost importance to me, and reason enough for me to marry him!

Trying hard to ignore Happy’s proposal on behalf of his friend, I concentrated on the road instead. In no time, we were home but the bizarre grin on Happy’s face threatened me of an impending danger.

As soon as we entered home, we were greeted by loving smiles from mum-dad. Happy pounced on the sofa, almost dragging dad to it as well. “Come sit, both of you. I got to talk to you,” he said.

“Your girl is silly,” he announced, before getting into the details.

Details over, now it was mum-dad’s turn to harass me. “I will consider him and let you guys know. Give me some time and now, let’s talk about something else,” I put an end to further instigations. Happy was once again happy, so were mum-dad; hope springing with joy in their lovely hearts.

Interestingly, passage of days, weeks, months made mum-dad forget Abhishek but Happy was in no mood to let go of the “suitable boy”. He kept reminding me about the guy in mails, scraps on Orkut and frequent chat sessions over the phone, soliciting a reply in the affirmative. If he was adamant, so was I... not ready to settle for someone whose life was so unsettled that he would give all the nomads of the world a complex. This, despite the fact that I was so head-over-heels in love with his lot. “After all, how can I forget those long periods of separation during which, my kid cousins used to almost always forget their own dad and lay claim on mine,” I thought to myself.

Back to the evening of April 17 - Dinner followed over lengthy discussions about life and other sundry issues.

A long chat session over coffee well past mid-night and it was time to bid goodbye. Taking leave for a few minutes, Happy ventured indoors – to get ready to leave. Mum, dad and I sat in silence – not willing to let go of our loved one. 

A few minutes later, a dashing young man emerged out of the room clad in green. Our eyes widened and were affixed on the strapping young man’s shoulders, where three stars were proudly twinkling. The plate on the officer’s chest read: ‘Varun Chhibber’. The happy-go-lucky Happy had metamorphosed. And we had, in front of us, a proud, confident young Captain of the glorious Indian Army.

Over come with an inexplicable emotion, all three of us hugged him, one by one, our hearts swelling with unspeakable pride. It was time to bid adieu to Capt Varun, who was on his way to his next field posting to a CI area up north and had halted at our place due to erratic flight schedule. He was to report at the AF station three hours prior to his early morning flight. Downstairs, the official vehicle was waiting to take him away to the AF station.

“I’ll call you once I reach my place of posting and in the meantime, you think over Capt Abhishek... Life as a Signaller is undoubtedly awesome but Infantry isn’t too bad after all, my dear little sister, so think about him,” he said teasingly.

“And I’m tempted to say that I would love to see your kids forget their dad on each of his numerous field postings,” chuckled Varun, referring to our other kid cousins, I had mentioned earlier.

Once again, I hugged my darling brother tight and bid him goodbye, with promises of more frequent visits, regular contact through mails and phone and more options of “suitable boy”.

Varun embarked on the fauji vehicle that had been waiting upon him and we stood there for long... following with our eyes, the path trodden by a brave soldier of our family.

The gypsy zoomed off and papa’s phone rang. It was chachu... wanting to know if Varun was off in time to be able to catch his flight. Dad confirmed. Brotherly chat followed and dad could not hide his pride. He was happy that Varun was carrying forward the family tradition with élan. Chachu was happy too, to be serving in the Indian Army, which was the calling of his son Varun’s life too.

Mum, dad and I came back with smiles on our faces... after all, it was not everyday that we got a chance to meet such a lively, lovely, lovable and positive person like Varun. And that, he was a part of our own family, was all the more reason to cheer. Barely a few minutes had passed, the phone rang yet again. This time, it was Varun. Having reported at the AF station, Varun had ample time on hand before the take off of his flight – a few hours to be precise.

He called to ask if we could go over and be there with him for a while. He wanted to make the most of every moment by spending them with his loved ones, especially me, who he considered his best friend from childhood days. After all, we had grown up together as brother and sister and being so near in age, understood each other like the back of our hands.

Jumping with joy at the request, I pleaded with dad to take us there. Hesitant, he declined, citing official reasons that might restrict our entry “there”. Varun assured that there was no problem and we could be with him for a while.

Receiver down, we headed straight to our car and off we were. After a few ‘fauji’ hurdles, we were taken to a waiting room.

Varun came, and along came the same old sense of pride and honour. We chatted for about an hour and it was again time to say goodbye.

This time, Varun was a little sad. He did not want to leave but duty was calling. He hugged each one of us tight and escorted us to the car. Unknowingly, tears swelled in the four pairs of eyes.

He rushed towards us and hugged us once again, getting kissed on his forehead by mum, and kissing mine in return – a symbol of elder brotherly love.

“I wish I could hold this moment in my eyes forever,” he said, evoking fervent snubbing by mum. “You will see loads of such moments in the times to come,” she rebuked him gently.

Varun was melancholy, his eyes speaking a strange language as if he knew this was the last time he was seeing us and we, him.

Unfortunately, that was the last time we ever saw Varun though phone calls did come and so did mails.

On the fateful night of 2 February, 2009, Maj Varun Chhibber lost his life in J&K during a patrolling mission. A young life was snuffed out and a promising career was cut short. He was later honoured posthumously as a martyr by the Indian Army. 

Varun left behind a retired Colonel father, a teacher mother and a Naval officer in a younger brother and countless heartbroken relatives and friends – I being the worst hit perhaps, after his immediate family.

I lost an awesome, caring and loving elder brother in Varun and the greatest friend too. More than anything else, I lost an idol.

Needless to say, the country lost an outstanding Army officer, one who had a great future ahead.

But Varun continues to live in our hearts and will always find his place there. Because, not even the omnipotent Almighty can take away the beautiful memories of Varun that He had showered upon us.

Lucky to have had known the great soldier so closely.

And though no words are enough, this is a younger sister’s ode to her loving elder brother who has been immortalised in our hearts. Love you bhai... continue to come in our dreams.

In memory: Maj Varun Chhibber

(May 31, 1981 - February 2, 2009)