IT was 1984. I was a young Cavalry Major posted at Roorkee. The regiment was tasked to conduct a lecture on the evolution of the Armoured Corps. I was detailed to collect the material and do the basic research. The nearest big town was Dehradun and it was a military cantonment.  The research I managed, but pictures put me in a spot. They were needed to embellish the presentation and in colour, but for that I needed 300 slides to be projected and each cost Rs 50. My budget comprised of cavalry élan, panache and optimism; jugad, no cash.It suddenly struck me that a retired Colonel was heading the ONGC, on whose largesse much of Dehradun floated. I was at his office in minutes and asked his PA for an appointment, which was haughtily negated with a brusque ‘he is terribly preoccupied with a visit by the Prime Minister. Try your luck later’. No way buddy, I thought. I had no time! Pictures, script, rehearsals. It was either my way or the highway to perdition.I saw a crowd of preoccupied, weight-shifting ONGC honchos with weighty files waiting to enter Col SP Wahi’s plush office. The man had style all right, I mused. You could see his natty private helicopter parked outside his campus mansion with its litchi orchard bursting with fruit; his textured lawns. That’s when I chose to be Cavalry; uniformed Cavalry. With an apoplectic doorman behind me, I entered his hallowed space with an unnecessary ‘May I come in, Sir?’ I was already inside.Colonel Wahi, his trademark Hercule Poirot moustaches quivering, looked up, clearly annoyed: ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? Please leave.’ I was unruffled. ‘Sir, all I wanted to say is that the ONGC is Asia’s best performing behemoth. You’ve got us 29 million tons of oil a year and because of you, Bombay High has made India, the PM, the Army and the EME proud. Just wanted to say that.’ I swivelled to go, but was halted in my tracks by his imperious ‘Wait’! Getting up from his chair — it was an amazing office: deep sofas, fancy lights, velvet curtains, rich carpets, paintings — he told his hapless, stunned PA: ‘Major Mehta is an old friend. Send in tea and a crate of litchis.’The Cavalry had struck gold.I sat across his designer table munching ginger biscuits, heavenly cake; sipping Earl’s Grey in translucent chinaware. Colonel Wahi was —  behind his ferocious moustaches — full of childlike wonderment and warmth. ‘Let them wait,’ he chuckled, ‘you Cavalrymen are brash. I know that! So, how are Gurinder, Morris and Hanut? Is Hanut still unrelenting, tough?’ These were Cavalry icons and I sang their paeans…Post-tea and his recall of halcyon days, I made my 300-slide pitch. Collect tomorrow, he said. That was it. That was the man, and his astonishing efficiency and decision making. I still have the slides; wouldn’t part with them for anything.Colonel Wahi passed away on February 13 at Gurugram. His management style is studied worldwide.I miss him. India misses him.