IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 85- SACRED PENSION Brig PS Gothra(Retd)

“Where are we going to stay?” I asked, hoping for the comfort of a cot that didn’t dent my wallet.

“Sir, no fauji mess there,” replied  Colonel Thapa, a lean Gorkha officer with a quiet smile. “I’ve booked rooms in a small hotel. We’ll have to pay from our own pockets. It won’t be reimbursed.”

I raised an eyebrow. We were traveling in his car to a  place on temporary duty for a board of officer.

“At least we’ll be comfortable, sir,” he offered, optimistically.

“But you do realise,” I said, half in jest and half serious, “someone could claim briefcases of cash were handed to us for staying in a hotel. You should’ve explored options — civil rest houses or even a good ol’ sarai.”

He was silent for few seconds. I caught the faintest sign of irritation crossing his face.

Two minutes later, he burst into laughter.

I looked at him. “Kya hua?”

“Just read what is written on the rear of that truck.”

I turned my head. In bold paint, it read:

ग़रीब की आह और चूतियों की सलाह कभी नहीं लेनी चाहिये। (One should never take the curse of the poor or the advice of fools.)

I tried hard not to laugh out loud. But a smile escaped me. Somewhere in that slogan, I sensed a subtle jab at my “sarai" advice. I forgave him for the hard time we had together under fire.

To lighten the air, I tried another angle. “You’re riding in style. New car?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. Had to dip into our savings. They’ve stopped giving CSD cars beyond a certain price bracket. Even though we’re a double-income-no-kid couple, it hurt buying from the open market. I don’t know which genius decided that faujis shouldn’t be allowed to buy better cars.”

I felt oddly relieved. For a moment, I had feared he might point to the next truck’s bumper that said, बुरी नज़र वाले, तेरा मुँह काला। (O evil-eyed one, may your face be blackened.)

Thankfully, the only thing that stopped us was the tempting fragrance of gud wali chai from a roadside dhaba. We pulled over.

The tea was sweet, hot, and nostalgic — the kind that reminds you of forgotten evenings in field areas. As we paid, the usher at the dhaba gave us a crisp salute.

“Ex-fauji, no doubt,”  Colonel Thapa noted. “Beyond security guard age, yet still sharp.”

As we resumed our journey, the conversation turned reflective.

“Sir,” Colonel Thapa said, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “look at the plight of our ex faujis, they have to salute every Tom, Dick and Harry to make both ends meet even when they are getting pension. I don’t know what will happen to the released Agniveers, without a pension they will be exploited by society.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “they’ll land up with  best jobs. Who knows?”

“In our Gorkha community,” he said softly, “pension is sacred. It’s a source of izzat a great achievement as one has completed one’s unblemished coloured service and pension recipient is a honoured person in the village, whichever rank he may have retired. As most are in the Army, everyone understands the system and when one really wants to curse someone they say:

‘जा ताला जागीर न खानु पाउस।’
(May you never enjoy your pension.)”

“Other warrior classes, like the Sikh, Jat and Marathas also feel the same about the pension. But such a contingency is possible only if you are thrown out of fauj,” I commented.

“Maybe or maybe not,” he  said.

The words lingered in the cabin.

It hit me. What kind of fate would deny a soldier his pension if not dismissed from service?

Not a martyr. A soldier killed in action earns more than just pension — he earns immortality.

Not a man who dies in service. His family gets the pension.

No, the curse only fits in the rarest of rare cases — where the soldier dies without a dependent, where his wife passes before him or with him, and the children are either not there, or not eligible.

It’s a one-in-a-billion scenario.

But it left a chill in my spine.

I remembered that morning — 31st October 2021 — when I saw the first pension amount credited to my account. No drumroll, no cannon fire. Just a silent SMS.

But I smiled.

I knew, somewhere in the divine balance of karma and duty — no one had cursed me.