Death be not proud
Afriend informed me the other day that Goody Grewal and Vinod Uppal had died of Covid-19 at the Army Base Hospital, Delhi.
The first memory of Goody to cross my mind was of Gentleman Cadet GS Grewal commanding the passing-out parade of the Indian Military Academy, Dehradun, and at the finale marching straight as a lance up to the podium for the conferment of the coveted Sword of Honour.
Fifteen years later, we met at the Defence Services Staff College, Wellington, where Goody was a regular presence at the Sunday morning horse rides. All riders were mounted on their favourite horses and Major Gen RK Ranjit Singh, the Commandant, was set to lead. Late to arrive, Goody lunged towards his horse and in the fog of the hangover of the night before, he brushed past the General, who smiled, doffed his hat and called out, “Good Morning, Goody!”
Goody responded with his trademark jolly laughter and struggled to mount his horse. A brisk-paced, hour-long ride and as always, Goody was back at the Bar in the Officers’ Mess to wash down the last vestiges of the hangover toxins! That too was the lovable man who would superannuate from service at Chandimandir as the GOC-in-C, Western Command.
My last meeting with Vinod on December 3, 1971, was all too brief but among the most unforgettable of my life. We were in our battle location close by the western bank of Munawar Tawi river. In the twilight of dusk, we sat sipping hot tea laced with sugar and rum, the last luxury for several of us. We watched with apprehension as the adjutant ran up to announce that the Pakistan Air Force had struck our forward air bases and we were at war. And shortly, we would be part of ground zero, pounded by some 180 Pak artillery guns of all calibres in one of the fiercest battles fought without let-up, for 96 hours hence.
Vinod was the recipient of a rare war souvenir from that thunderbolt phase of the battle. Vinod was jolted and thrown off balance, similar to receiving a punch smack in the middle of his forehead, but on regaining composure, he removed the steel helmet and smiled; a rifle bullet had penetrated, but possibly being at the terminal stage of its penetrative velocity, it stopped a wee bit short of his forehead! The round base of the spent bullet, firmly lodged but protruding a centimetre outside, a weird tilak as it were! Knowing his jolly temperament, this must have been the staple of Vinod’s merry episodes from the Chhamb battle.
God be with you, my friends, snared in the pandemic’s dance of death.
