NETAJI'S LIEUTENANT SINGH

NETAJI'S LIEUTENANT SINGH

by Iqbal Sachdeva

On the 110th birthday of Netaji Subash Chandra Bose, when a grateful nation paid glowing tributes to him, I recalled meeting his trusted secretary, one Lieutenant Hardayal Singh, a tall lanky Sikh from Chandigarh. The first time I saw him was a crowd cheering him while he recited his favourit poem 'O Cheeni Kudi' (That Chinese girl), in the city park.

'Did Netaji had some secretary like Lt. Hardayal Singh in the Azad Hind Fauj (Indian Liberation Army)?' I asked late Alok Mukherjee, a senior Bengali journalist, who recollected having read somewhere about him.

Once, while hunting for a low cost eating joint during my bachelor days, I ran into his humble Dhaba (tuck shop) run in a cornor of the ex-servicemen's guest house, and made a package deal with him to eat there every day of the month on a fixed charge.

Eating in his simple but clean Dhaba made me overcome my home sickness.  His wife, a simple village woman, rather plump and dark, ran the kitchen, cooked chapatis and curries everyday.  His clumsy looking, but two stout sons, worked as bearers and served meals to the customers.

Hardayal, soon became a friend, nay, guardian, and would enjoy chatting with me during my earting times.  Going by looks, books and talking style, he would call me 'doctor sahib', which I was not.

Frankly, Hardayal's family was in a deplorable condition.  They were poor and the familty worked, long hours to eke out an existence.  But had a uniquely pleasant smile on his face.  He would often laugh at himself loud, with his rather big yellow teeth, jutting out of his weather beaten face covered profusely with his grisly salt pepper beard.

'Netaji was not only a great leader but also a great human being,' he said, relecting on his past days.  'Inspired by his love for India and towering personality, one day, I, alongwith my regiment, deserted the British army and joined AHF. I was a Havaldar (sargeant) and being literate, I was put on secretarial duties.'

'Every morning, I would open the mail, sort it out, put it in a folder and present the file to Netaji with loud patriotic 'Jai Hind' salute, which he always responded with a general's demeanour.' recalled Hardayal. 

Once every week, Hardayal's old soldiers in arms, would meet at his tuck shop and revive old memories and voice out gripes and glitches, against the government for the delay in honouring them with pension very much due to them.  'After all we fought for a patriotic cause!' they would opine.

'We are the real freedom fighters and not deserters!', would voice out Hardayal.

Moved by their plight, I wrote a couple of letters to the editor of daily Tribune, Chandigarh, but of no avail.

'It is diffcult to live by this meagre Dhaba income. As soon as, my elder son is 18, I will make him join the army and then later the younger one as well,' had said Hardayal, while he recited his latest poem to me, at lunch time.

'Why army?' I said.

His eyes welled up tears and recited Netaji's favourite song:

       Kadam Kadam Bharaye Ja, Khushi ke geet gaye ja,

       Yeh zindgi hai qaum ki, tu quam pe lutaye ja!

(Move forward step by step, Keep singing the happy songs!

This life belongs to the nation, Sacrifice it for the name!)

My eyes became moist as I swallowed the last morsel.

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