Beating Retreat

          Sri Husband and I had attended ‘Beating Retreat’ years ago. It marks the end of the Gunn-tantra Divas celebrations.

“I’d worn two layers of everything,” I recollected. “Socks, leggings, vests, sweaters, shawls…”

“… even monkey-caps,” he remarked. So he was paying attention. Meanie; he knows well my Goan brains don’t function in North Indian winters. (They don’t at some other places and times of the year either, but that’s not relevant.)

I concurred, “It was so-o co-old, hands were blue, bones were paining, there were icicles on my eyelashes…”

“…don’t exaggerate. Delhi temperatures aren’t as low as those in Siachen or Spiti,” he quipped.  

With Googleshwar’s blessings, I checked out where Siachen and Spiti were and the temperatures there. Minus Celsius and in double digits. I read out: “…faeces freeze and have to be transported elsewhere… ice crystals stab the inside of lungs so every breath is agonizing.” Then commented, “How do our soldiers live there days after weeks after months, away from homes and hearths? Such heavy, drab stuff they wear. At ‘Beating the Retreat’ they wore grand, colourful uniforms, remember? Perfect marching. And the music and tunes beat Bollywood even.”  

Sri Husband: “Did you like it better than the R-Day Parade?”

Me: “Too bad Obama and his missus missed it. We’d taken a bus from Ghaziabad to Delhi, remember? Two hours travel time.”

“It’s not that far.”

“There was fog over the Yamuna bridge and everyone was crawling at 5 kmph.”

“Foggy Delhi.”

“People had were walking alongside vehicles to guide the drivers. We could barely see anything.” Memories.

Here and now, the television was making us relive our experience. Armchair travel is comfortable and inexpensive. On a mild Goan evening, chai-nashta in hand, we were enjoying India’s military musicians’ performances.

The parade represents a centuries-old custom when, at sunset, soldiers ceased fighting, sheathed their weapons and withdrew from the battlefield.

Today it’s a tourist-attracting daily ritual at the Wagah Border, but in Delhi, an annual event held on 29 January at Vijay Chowk, at the foot of Raisina Hill atop which stands Rashtrapati Bhavan, the residence and office of (who else?) the Rashtrapati. The grand Rajpath leads to it from India Gate. The sprawling lawns on either side are studded with trees. Hundreds of people visit these lawns. On parade days, thousands. All hands are inside pockets or under shawls; gloved if visible. Hunched shoulders. And steam puffing out of smiling mouths humming familiar tunes played by buglers, trumpeters, drummers and other instrumentalists.

“’Sare jahan se accha’ is my all-time favourite,” I said.

“Music has no boundaries. Its writer Iqbal went over to Pakistan, leaving behind his legacy.”

Thanks to a stint in a school-choir, I could sing the words of ‘Anchors aweigh’ alongside the playing. Sri Husband promptly wished for another cup of chai and left the room.

The Army’s regimental bands, the Air Force and Navy bands were aura-some. The members were young and old. Their haircuts, the prim turnout, the disciplined movements, the general feeling of tidiness of the surroundings at Vijay Chowk, the dipping sun, the mist and the biting breeze, I could feel it all, sitting in my room.  

“Indian military music has catchy numbers,” I said. “How come no cds are available in the market?”

“Some things should be left alone for their charm,” said Sri Husband, adding, “This unique ceremony of display by massed bands was started in the early ‘50s by Maj Roberts.” History lecture shuru, I thought.

We watched the red, olive green, orange and dark blue uniforms come together in formation around the flag, playing the unforgettable ‘Drummers’ March’ where so many hands with sticks beat various sized drums together, very fast, as soft as a whisper, then loud again, like waves.

As the flag was lowered, bells chimed ‘Abide With Me’. I share a love for this hymn with the Mahatma.

When I had witnessed the ceremony live, and now, chin on hands in front of a screen, as the simple tune spread around the room and its beautiful verses unfolded in my mind, eyes moistened. Poignant, nostalgic moments.

“I feel like crying,” I said.

“You say that whilst watching Arnav and Barkha,” Sri Husband said.

“Not the same thing.”

The soldiers and their animals walked in step, up Raisina Hill, into the darkness. With a suddenness that always delights even when expected, the entire complex of buildings, including South Block is lit up by fairy lights.

Wonderful evening, beautiful end.

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