Those who have read the famous best-seller ‘The Time Machine’ would recollect that a scientist had invented such a unique machine that could travel into future. In the process, he was able to see for himself what he and the world generally would be like a few years hence. I had more or less the same type of experience some years ago.

My ‘time machine’ brought me to Belgaum railway station to participate in the eagerly awaited eighth reunion of the Maratha Light Infantry. I was respectfully and courteously welcomed on behalf of the Regional Centre by unfamiliar young faces. Though strangers to each other, we all knew that we had one great binding factor– the enviable Maratha hackle. Having comfortably settled down in the allotted room, I could not resist the temptation to roam around the Regimental Centre. The little things were what I noticed first-a habit I had long since got used to during my active service with the Ganpats. Over one decade of my retired life was, I felt, a long enough period to make a new breed of Van Winkle out of me. Hence, my curiosity to see all the changes. I could hardly believe the Regimental Centre could change so much with the passage of time. The very complex had altered beyond recognition. It was larger, more tidy and more populous. There were rows of houses and barracks that I had not seen before, and those that were my familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were seen at the residential houses. There was a busy, bustling tone about everything. Everyone appeared to be giving me a curious glance. Everything was strange indeed!

The reunion function commenced the next day. I met my long lost buddies with a lump in my throat. Oh boy ! How young I felt in their company. We retraced the forbidding heights of the Himalayas, penetrated the leach infested jungles of the Naga Hills, marched through the scorching heat of the Thar desert and fought the 1965 and 1971 wars over again. Yet we had occasion to listen to the new battle being fought by the young generation with strange new weapons and equipment. Unfamiliar young faces introduced themselves.

In the social gatherings we ‘old timers’ walked over a boisterous, louder group. They carried the perennial air of self-confidence and joviality associated with young age. The carefree laughter subsided for a while. A momentary uneasy silence descended on the scene. To break the awkward atmosphere created by us, I asked a young officer regarding the well-being of one of his battalion’s retired COs. "Met with a tragic mishap after his retirement, sir. Fell from the roof of his house right between his wife and his youngest son". I uttered a deep, sad sigh and, in a state of shock, drifted over to another group. What a way to die for a war veteran who came unscathed from his close encounters with death during his active service!

The reunion dawned bright and clear so typical of a place like Belgaum. I recognised an old barber. He had also since retired and ran a hair cutting saloon now in the Camp Bazar. I noticed from the signboard in front of his shop that he did not call himself a barber any more. ‘Ganpat Salunke Hair Stylist’- he claimed himself to be, having cut jawans’ hair with a jungle hat on their heads. I settled down in a chair for the hair-cut. Not that I needed one but how else could I hear all the gap shap which was his favourite past time. He entered into spirited diatribe about the new generation. "Once upon a time long hair was the exclusive preserve of the hippies; they have gone but the style remains. Now all the straights also sport it". He rambled on about a world gone into reverse. The Qutab Minar is no longer the tallest structure in Delhi, nor would the modern generation like to climb it. No lift, you see! The superstars of sports would no longer play for the sake of the nation or in the interest of sport. Only for the lure of money. Indeed, it was a world gone topsy turvy!

Having my hair cropped, rather ‘styled’ at an absurd price, I decided to visit the JCOs Mess in its quieter moments. The good old radio had disappeared; its place was taken by a sleek looking TV set. There was something called VCR that kept it running; live transmission not-withstanding. The Mess NCO told me that among the selection of video cassettes, as many as nearly half were in English- Rambo, Iron Maiden, Benson & Hedges golden greats, Jaws, Close Encounters etc. He drove home the point that JCOs and Jawans were no longer the illiterate, rustic men straight from the outback that we had in our time. All of them were matriculates with a fair percentage of graduates thrown in. The cinema hall is not bursting to its brims any more on picture days. A number of jawans want to watch their favourite programmes on TV or on video.

We assembled for a prearranged bridge session in the Officers’ Mess. Moghe, Baba Desai, Krishan Awasthi, Bahukhandi and I. In one of the rubbers, Moghe and Bahukhandi were partners while Awasthi and I were at their opposite ends. Sober, sensible calling went on for a couple of rubbers and then tempers started rising as often happens in this game. Mutual recriminations among partners also commenced; a usual feature of this otherwise excellent game. Moghe carried the bidding to a game call. Awasthi, sitting on his left, took his habitual long, hard puff of his cigarette through his clenched fist. When he does that, there lurks a danger for the opponents. Very coolly, in a low whisper, he uttered the rather dreaded word-DOUBLE. Bahukhandi went two down. Then the inevitable postmortem. Moghe pointed an accusing finger at him and screamed : ‘‘You are a nut. If only you had used your grey matter, you might have got away with an over trick". Red faced, Bahukhandi rose from his seat to his full stature, threw all the cards into thin air and shouted back : "Long time ago I had taken a silent vow not to be your partner in bridge knowing fully well your short temper and tendency to shout. Gentlemen, I am not playing any more. Here is the money on behalf of my partner also". Having said this, he sank back into his chair and started sulking. After lots of persuasion and all-round apologies, the game was resumed but not without making frantic efforts to round up all the scattered cards strewn all over like the fragments of an artillery shell. Such is life! That is what makes it tick and so colourful. I was reminded of a pop song with the theme that the person who brings cheers and happiness to this world will only be remembered. The serious and the colourless personalities will soon be forgotten.

Time to bid farewell arrived. There was a trace of a sentimental tear in old comrades’ eyes. We promised to attend the next reunion too. There was silence in the vehicle leaving us at the station. So much was left unsaid. There was no further attempt to express affectionate feelings for each other. There was no need to. It was all there on our faces. Suddenly, I tried to find my voice. Stuttering, I uttered a few words of praise for my regiment for making our stay so comfortable and for looking after us so well. Even these feelings were not adequate. My inner self told me that there was only one way I could have felt ! What was it ? I asked myself looking out of the train window for a long, nostalgic moment trying to remember something. Yes, I got it now! My true feelings surfaced. I had come back home!

Back in my house, in my half asleep state I shouted to Lama to bring me my bed tea. I wondered why he was so late in bringing it. Instead, my better half brought me back to realities. "Have you gone crazy or something ? There is no more Officers Mess and no more Lama here. Remember, you had retired a long time ago. Get up fast and prepare tea. Bring one cup for me also. Lie back in bed again, that’s bed tea for a retired soldier!"