WHEN we were invited for dinner by Captain Hathiram and his wife, whom we had not yet met after my posting to Armoured Static Workshop, Ahmednagar, in 1971, my wife and I had hardly expected an elderly Parsi couple to welcome us while sitting on a swing. Seeing Mrs Hathiram in a skirt was a culture shock for a young Captain from a small town, though my wife felt fine, having studied at Baring Union Christian College, Batala. The Hathirams lived in an old-style British bungalow. Their aesthetically decorated house and table manners left an indelible impression on us. The couple was humility personified.
When I was posted at HQ Technical Group, Delhi Cantonment, my boss was Maj Gen P Minas. He was meticulous in his personal and professional habits and would give detailed instructions that left nothing to the imagination of those executing them. He taught me the habit of reading long minutes and notes word for word. And, of course, the habit of listening: he would spend so much time just listening to the problems of others. He had only two pairs of uniform and his shining black shoes were conspicuous by the cobbler’s repair work.
One morning, I received an urgent message from his PA and rushed to meet him. He was sitting on a sofa and was engrossed in reconstructing the broken arm of a porcelain doll. After I saluted, he explained how the toy had to be got repaired from a particular civilian employee of 505 Army Base Workshop that overhauled Army tanks.
In 1982, as a Lt Col, I was posted as an instructor at an Army training establishment in Secunderabad. One morning, a local daily carried the photograph of MK Rustomji, a celebrated management expert who had arrived from Bombay in the city to deliver a lecture. He was staying in a guest house. That was the time when the Dhirubhai Ambani miracle was being discussed in management schools. I was excited at the prospect of Rustomji coming to my institution.
Consumed by the thought of meeting the great man, I drove my scooter to the guest house. I gave a slip with my name written on it to the caretaker. He hesitated for a moment, but then knocked at the door. A handsome old man wearing a multi-coloured dressing gown emerged out of the room. He held my hand after I saluted him. He not only spent two hours with me, but also wrote my name with a shaky hand in a set of three of his books.
Indeed, compassion, humility and frugality make the Parsi community worth emulating.