After the 1971 war ended and the date for General Manekshaw’s retirement drew near, he noticed that his driver, Shyam Singh, appeared unusually stressed. An unmistakable look of anxiety was etched on his face—something the General immediately picked up on.
“What’s the matter, Shyam Singh? You look as glum these days as if the buffalo back home has stopped giving milk.”
“No, Sir, that’s not it,” he said, before falling silent.
As the days passed and retirement loomed closer, Shyam Singh finally spoke to the General: “Sir, I have a request that only you can grant.”
“Go ahead, Shyam Singh.”
“Sir, I wish to retire from service early. Please recommend my discharge.”
“But what is the reason? Is it a land dispute or a family problem? You should complete your full term of service. I’ll even get you promoted to *Naib Subedar*—just don’t leave the service,” the General reasoned.
“No, Sir, it’s something else entirely, but I cannot reveal it until I am discharged from service.”
Understanding the driver’s candor and sense of dignity, the General initiated the necessary paperwork. Once the discharge orders arrived, the General asked again:
“Are you happy now? Tell me, why are you retiring early?”
The driver snapped to attention and said, “Sir, after driving your car, I cannot bring myself to drive for anyone else. That was the greatest honor of my life. I want to return home holding onto that very honor.”
The Field Marshal laughed and said, “You’re a huge fool! You Haryanvis—stubborn and unyielding to the core.”
But with the discharge papers already processed, nothing could be done. He was a true Haryanvi, after all—once he set his mind to something, there was no turning back.
Still, one day the General asked him, “What will you do after retirement?” “I’ll manage something, Sir; I’ll find a job.”
“How much farmland do you own?”
“None at all, Sir; I come from a poor family.”
The General was stunned. Here was a poor man who had quit his job simply because he could not bring himself to drive anyone else’s car.
On the day the driver left, Sam Manekshaw handed him an envelope.
“Shyam Singh, open this only after you get home.”“Yes, Sir.” The driver saluted and left.
Upon reaching home, he got busy looking for work and completely forgot about the envelope. One day, he landed a job driving a cargo truck. Then, one day, his wife said:
“I was putting your Army uniform away in the chest when I found this envelope in your pocket.”
“Oh, I had completely forgotten about it. I didn’t open it because I’m not very literate... The ‘Sahab’ probably gave me a letter of appreciation, the kind senior officers often give.”
“Still, open it and have the schoolmaster read it; I want to know what’s inside.”
So, the couple went to the village school and requested the headmaster to read the letter aloud.
The master put on his glasses, opened the envelope, and fell silent as he looked at the paper.
“What happened, Masterji? Why are you staring at it like that?” Shyam Singh asked.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No, Sir.”
“It is a transfer deed.
After the victory in 1971, the Haryana government had awarded Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw 25 acres of land as a war grant.
He has transferred all that land to your name. You are now the owner of 25 acres.”
This is the story of the great General Sam Manekshaw—who gave away his war grant land near Sonipat to his driver and donated his Field Marshal’s pension to the Army Widows’ Welfare Fund.
Can anyone ever match him?
कोई टिप्पणी नहीं:
एक टिप्पणी भेजें