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A meal with a miracle

Meet Colonel Anil Kaul, the man with an appetite for life with all its ups and downs

Photo: V.V. Krishnan

THE `IMPOSSIBLE' MAN Colonel Anil Kaul at Aangan restaurant at Hyatt Regency, New Delhi

After listening to Col. Anil Kaul (Retd.) describe a camp he attended while at the NDA, it becomes irrelevant to ask what his favourite dishes are. The camps get progressively tougher, he recounts, and at one such, it began to rain hard. Sloshing through the black clayey soil of Maharashtra, drenched through, the young cadets reached for their regulation plate and mug, dreading what state they would find them in. Once you manage to eat in such conditions, chuckles the Colonel, your system can digest anything: the proverbial lakkar hajam, patthar hajam.

But there are two ends to every spectrum, and this time we are at the other end from the camp days. At the Hyatt Regency's Aangan restaurant, the Vir Chakra awardee, hero of the dramatic IPKF operation of 1987, cuts a dapper figure.

Not long ago retired from the army, the colonel describes his few attempts to work in the corporate sector, where he found "more black than grey." Now he is working on his own, with a young artist, writing stories of army heroes in comic book format. Two are soon to be ready. "It takes me four to five hours to convert a citation into a story. Mazaa aata hai, it keeps the mind going."

Upbeat

The hero wonders why after sacrificing an eye and a hand for his country, his pension is not enough to sustain his family. Yet he is upbeat, and that smile that bowls you over is testimony to that. His comics may well be a hit. And if ever he is in a position to employ people in his own comic book production business, he will definitely employ only disabled candidates, he declares.

The afternoon is off to a relaxed start as he opts for a Bloody Mary to lead into the lunch. The 101-cover restaurant, tastefully decorated with sculptures and paintings, specialises in North Indian cuisine, especially Delhi food.

The army hero's book, "Better Dead than Disabled", was recently published by Parity Paperbacks. His old world chivalry and polished conversation belie the bluntness of the title. And though his editor actually persuaded him to change it from "Maimed" to "Disabled", it is not a bitter book, any more than Col. Kaul is a bitter man. It is however, a straightforward account of "how the army treats its war wounded" as the subtitle explains, and also, of the murky background of the army's role in Sri Lanka, where the LTTE first considered it as an ally and then a traitorous enemy.

Yet the purpose of writing the book, he clarifies, is not to expose the wrongdoers in the army, but to inspire those in a position to introduce change, to better the workings of the institution.

"All my course mates are now reaching the level of being able to influence. On our website, people complimented me on my writing, my English. I said, stop complimenting me, do something!"

The third generation army officer (His uncle was B.M. Kaul who wrote "The Untold Story" and "Confrontation with Pakistan", much to the army's discomfiture) has never been in the habit of mincing words. However, this approach ensures that today, at 55, when lots of people his age have health problems, "30 seconds on the pillow" are enough to knock him out for the night. "And nothing can shake me out of it till my dog licks me in the morning to take him out."

Kaul opts for the deep fried fish Amritsari, a crisp and dry affair, as the mainstay of his meal. There is hari sabsi ka salan for company, besides butter naan. The pureed spinach dish is one of the specialities at Aangan, along with biryani. But the guest is not to be tempted by too much variety.

As the food arrives Kaul takes a dispassionate view of his experiences after being grievously wounded. People are not aware of the provisions that exist for disabled officers, he points out. "I wish I had had an option. At 36 I had better chance of settling outside than now." After all, he was declared 80 per cent disabled. Yet he continued at his job. It is another matter that he taught himself to fire a gun (despite losing his right eye and left hand, both essential for a right-handed person to fire a weapon), drive and play golf as well. That inspiring story unfolded despite the army, not because of it. Honoured with the Vir Chakra in April 1988, the young officer found he had to struggle harder to prove himself than if he had never entered the theatre of war.

Trying to be as `normal' as possible, he says, in some ways worked against him. "People think, `O yeh to theek hai,' (he is perfectly okay)". The food is a delight, but this story needs to be digested. It is hard to imagine the sheer grit needed to not just survive, but retain that positive view of life. He lives by two adages that explain a lot.

"Smile, and the world will wonder what's happened to you," he laughs wryly. The second: "If you want to leave your footsteps on the sands of time, don't drag your feet!"

`Impossible I do'

The meal is almost over. Game for dessert, he opts for the kulfi. "I have always had a board behind my desk: `Impossible, I do. Miracles take a little longer'."

Watching him cross the hotel lobby as he heads home, one is tempted to disagree with him. Miracles can walk pretty fast.

ANJANA RAJAN

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