Mrs Indira Gandhi

5 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Indian Army

Second Lieutenant – The Extinct Species

The Unguided Missile

We were commissioned as Second Lieutenants from the academies and joined our Regiments—eager to go, like unguided nuclear-tipped missiles, primed for detonation but uncertain of trajectory.

Years later, when I commanded our unit, our young officers often remarked on a peculiar aspect of my leadership. No matter how serious their mistake, my response was invariably the same: “That’s all. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it from here.”

They wanted an explanation. Why no rebuke? Why no fault-finding mission?

One day, in a lighter moment, I obliged.

“When I was a Second Lieutenant, I messed up more than all of you combined.”

They clamoured for details. Dil Mange More. And so I delivered.

The Gurgaon Incident

I joined our Regiment in 1983 at Gurgaon. During a battery deployment exercise, our 130mm gun, towed by a Kraz vehicle, needed to cross the Delhi-Jaipur Highway. In those days, the highway was narrow and followed a different alignment. Traffic was halted for the military convoy.

Enter the Superintendent of Police of Gurgaon, who demanded passage and was refused. The refusal escalated. Words were exchanged. Then fists. Whatever transpired—and the details remain mercifully hazy—I ended up facing a criminal charge of attempted murder using lethal weapons, alongside a Court of Inquiry.

I escaped both. Thanks to our Commanding Officer, Colonel Mahaveer Singh.

Teen Murti Bhavan: Three Days That Defined a Second Lieutenant

On 31 October 1984, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated. By evening that day, our Battery received orders to assume security at Teen Murti Bhavan, where her mortal remains would lie in state.

Our Battery Commander resided in Delhi, so I marched the Battery forward and reported to General K. Balaram, the Adjutant General, who was in overall command. Those who served in that era will recall General Balaram’s formidable reputation—the first, and perhaps only, AG to be granted Vice Chief status.

Late Lieutenant General K Balaram, PVSM

Our Battery Commander, then a student when General Balaram commanded at Wellington, warned me profusely. He narrated countless incidents of the General’s exacting standards—how he rode his own scooter after office hours, never touching his staff car. I braced myself for the worst.

Instead, I found an unexpected camaraderie. General Balaram and I smoked Capstan cigarettes together. In the chaos following the assassination, all cigarette shops in Delhi had shuttered. Naik Paul, my driver, inexplicably maintained a steady supply—to this day, I do not know how.

Whenever work pressure mounted, General Balaram summoned me to the Operations Room we had established inside Teen Murti Bhavan. He craved a deep inhale of smoke and a cup of tea—specifically, the tea brewed in steel glasses by our soldiers. Thus, every summons meant either the situation at the gate had spiralled, or the General simply needed a break.

The Gatekeeper’s Trials

We were responsible for the VIP entrance, through which every head of state passed. Whenever things went awry, General Balaram’s voice thundered across the compound: “Get that Second Lieutenant! Only he can solve this chaos.”

Enter Yasser Arafat, flanked by four bodyguards armed to their teeth. I refused them entry. “Our boys will ensure his security,” I declared. Arafat gave me a long, penetrating glance, then ordered his bodyguards to stay put with me. Even the Chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organisation thought better than challenging a Second Lieutenant.

Next came the Japanese delegation, led by Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone. Over a hundred press personnel accompanied them—journalists, reporters, photographers. I informed their liaison officer that only five could enter with the Prime Minister. The officer pleaded helplessness. I solved the problem my way.

I assembled the entire press corps outside the entrance. When the Prime Minister arrived, I randomly called out five individuals and sent them inside. Chaos erupted. “My photographer is inside, but I’m the reporter!” “My reporter is inside, but I’m the photographer!” I announced calmly that whoever had entered would emerge with material for everyone to share.

Then came a man claiming to be the Commissioner of Police, Delhi. Denied entry through the VIP Gate, he exploded. “Who are you to stop me? What are you doing here?”

“If you had done your duty,” I replied evenly, “I wouldn’t need to be here.”

These were but a few highlights from those three unforgettable days.

With Veteran Colonel Mahaveer Singh during Golden Jubilee celebrations of 75 Medium Regiment in 2018

The Pattern Repeats

A few weeks later came another altercation with a senior Delhi police officer. Again, a Court of Inquiry. Again, our Commanding Officer saved me.

That was life as a Second Lieutenant.

The Extinct Species

When I assumed command in 2002, I realised something remarkable: the species of Second Lieutenant I had embodied—the unguided missile, the chaos magnet, the perpetual disciplinary problem—had apparently become extinct.

Or perhaps, like me, they had simply found Commanding Officers who remembered their own youth.

Now, when our young officers messed up, I saw not failures, but reflections. I heard not excuses, but echoes. And I understood that leadership is not about catching mistakes, but about catching people before they fall. “That’s all. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it from here.”

Because someone once handled it for me.

4 Comments Posted on by Reji Koduvath Canada

Cannabis – Marijuana

The Media Circus

In early October 2021, Indian media exploded with headlines about Aryan Khan—son of Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan—being arrested by the Narcotics Control Bureau (NCB) on a cruise ship. Many media houses celebrated the event with theatrical pomp, throwing in bits of masala and spice. Some even went berserk, particularly those active on social media.

Can such media glare and media trial be justified?

Shashi Tharoor summed it up with characteristic precision in a tweet: “I am no fan of recreational drugs and haven’t ever tried any, but I am repelled by the ghoulish epicaricacy displayed by those now witch-hunting Shah Rukh Khan on his son’s arrest. Have some empathy, folks. The public glare is bad enough; no need to gleefully rub a 23-year-old’s face in it.”

I needed a dictionary to decode that tweet—ghoulish (ugly and unpleasant, or frightening), epicaricacy (deriving pleasure from the misfortunes of others). That is Tharoorian English for you!

A Personal Note

I too am not a fan of recreational drugs and have never tried them. The smell of marijuana smoke puts me off—though I have been a cigarette smoker for over four decades. But the way the NCB, the Indian media, and the judiciary conducted themselves in dealing with this case leaves me equally unimpressed. It seems absurd—perhaps because I have lived in Canada for eighteen years, where a similar case would have been handled very differently.

Canada’s Approach to Cannabis

This prompted me to delve into Canadian cannabis laws. In our province of Ontario, one must be nineteen or older to buy, use, possess, or grow recreational cannabis—the same minimum age as for tobacco and alcohol. The law permits smoking and vaping cannabis in private residences, many outdoor public places (including sidewalks and parks), and designated smoking guest rooms in hotels, motels, and inns. However, it is prohibited in publicly owned sports fields, spectator areas, and public areas within twenty metres of such spaces.

One may grow up to four cannabis plants per residence—not per person—if aged nineteen or older, for personal use only. Seeds must be purchased from the Ontario Cannabis Store or an authorised retail store, and the activity must not be forbidden by one’s lease or condo rules.

After the law was implemented in October 2019, I noticed a drastic decrease in the odour of marijuana smoke during my walks, especially at park corners. It appeared it was no longer “cool” to flaunt it.

The law also permits possession of a maximum of thirty grams of dried cannabis in public at any time. I also realised I could grow four cannabis plants at home for recreational purposes—if I ever chose to.

A Memory from Kerala

My mind raced back to the 1980s—to a television interview with a tribal chieftain from Kerala, India. In the early 1970s, when Indira Gandhi was Prime Minister, she visited the tribal area accompanied by K. Karunakaran, then Home Minister of Kerala. The chieftain was fortunate to have an audience with Mrs. Gandhi. She asked what she could do for the welfare of his people. He did not ask for a school, a hospital, a proper road, drinking water, or electricity. Instead, he promptly said: “Our people should be allowed to grow two cannabis plants per household.”

Mrs. Gandhi smiled. Mr. Karunakaran nodded. The chieftain later claimed that thereafter, the police and the State Excise Department accepted it as an unwritten law and never bothered them again.

A Reflection

The contrast is striking. In one country, a young man’s arrest becomes a national spectacle, his family’s name dragged through the mud. In another, cannabis is regulated, normalised, and largely stripped of stigma. In yet another, a tribal community quietly secures permission to grow what they have always grown, through a simple request to a visiting Prime Minister.

What is the difference? Not the plant. Not the person. But the culture of law enforcement, the role of media, and the appetite for public humiliation.

Perhaps the question is not whether cannabis should be legal or illegal. Perhaps it is: why do we treat some users as criminals, others as patients, and still others as mere inconveniences? And why, when a celebrity’s child is involved, do we turn a legal matter into a morality play?

The tribal chieftain may have asked for less than he deserved. But he understood something that the media and the NCB seem to have forgotten: that justice and dignity are not always found in the law. Sometimes, they are found in a smile, a nod, and a little bit of grace.