Generally speaking
Wheels of fortune: Razdan is all set to leave for his office / Photo: Arvind Jain
DAWN TO DUSK
S.K. Razdan is the Indian Army’s first paraplegic major general
By Rekha Dixit
It is a nippy November morning. We are in the defence officers’ colony at Dhaula Kuan, Delhi; a verdant locality teeming with peacocks, babblers and sparrows. Sunil Kumar Razdan is expecting us, his front door wide open. The nameboard, however, still says Brigadier S.K. Razdan, although he picked up the rank of major general on October 27. “Hah, these things don’t matter,” he says. “Those who know me know the rank. It doesn’t concern others.”
Razdan may brush off his rank lightly, but his promotion is no trivial matter. He is the Indian Army’s first paraplegic major general.
We step into the drawing-room. There is a walnut wood side-table with chinar leaf patterns. A dragon motif carpet. A wooden rhino with a distinct Assam provenance. Every bric-a-brac a memento of the officer’s assignments, from freezing Demchok in the north to Andaman in the south and the furthest reaches of the northeast.
“October is a significant month for me,” says the Libran. “I was born on October 8, and 40 years later in 1994, at the hour of my birth [10:10 p.m.], I received the paralysing shot.” It was again in October, a year later, that Razdan resumed his military duties.
“Let’s walk back to that day, 16 years ago,” says Razdan. His tale is like an Alistair MacLean plot, full of guts and glory. He was part of a crack team in Kashmir sent to rescue women taken by the Lashkar-e-Toiba as sex slaves. “Women, whatever the situation, have to make noise,” he grins, recounting the squeals and jangles that alerted terrorists to the ‘silent’ rescue operation afoot. Just then, an animated telephone conversation floats from the bedroom, “See, she must be talking to her sister,” he says of his wife, a twinkle in his eye.
Going back to the story, he recounts killing two terrorists. The third fell face up. “I thought he was dead, but he fired,” he says. “The shot went through my abdomen, my intestines spilled out and my spine broke. I knew I would never walk again. Yet, I shot him dead.” Razdan bends his head and clutches at his hair, his face twisted in agony. I think the memory is painful; later, I learn it is a particularly sharp stab of neurotic pain, a result of the damaged neurons.
Razdan refused to be evacuated till the encounter was over, sustaining himself on self-administered intravenous drips. He was later awarded the Kirti Chakra.
The active life of a Parachute Regiment officer, often picked for dangerous and sensitive missions, must be very different from the present one. “But I was trained in an elite force whose work starts when everyone else gives up,” he says. “I am used to challenges.”
Razdan’s day starts early; he does his ablutions without help, then exercises. The self-designed regime includes push-ups, stretches and a session on a self-made pulley-operated gym. In the sunny front yard, Razdan demonstrates his exercises, pulling off his sweatshirt to reveal enviable biceps. At this moment, his wife, Manju, steps out. “Arrey, what are you doing? Are you Salman Khan?” she says, taking in the scene. “Salman Khan, wow, let me have a glimpse, too,” giggles a neighbour from the balcony upstairs. Manju is in a hurry; she has to run several chores. Razdan reluctantly puts back his shirt. “I will take her to the bank and then we will continue,” he says. He wheels himself to the car shed and shifts without assistance from wheelchair to the driver’s seat. “It is important to know driving,” says Manju. “If I could, I wouldn’t be so dependent on him.”
With the couple gone, their son Parth, a medical student, says, “I was three when dad was injured. But he has always been so self-reliant.” Parth is talkative like his father, but his introvert elder sibling Ishaan shares the passion for adventure. He has just been selected to train as fighter pilot with the Air Force. “Together, all they talk is bullets and ballistics. I don’t understand anything,” says Parth.
When the general returns, he has the look of one who can play truant because the lady is away. “Let me cook for you,” he says, heading to the kitchen and rustling up a spicy dish of cabbage cooked with apples. “Actually, my speciality is mutton do pyaaza and roomali roti. Manju is pure vegetarian. But for us men, apart from a charpoy in the four-legged category and a kite among flying objects, everything else is a tasty dish!”
Razdan and Manju make jokes at each other’s expense. “She is a sham cook, only entering the kitchen when there is a party,” he guffaws. But what they don’t articulate in words is obvious everywhere—love. He regards her as his strength, she insists he is the pillar of support. “I quit teaching for two years, I was so broken. But he resumed work in a year, and I, too, picked up my career again,” says Manju.
The general has a demanding career, he often returns by 8:30 p.m. “Fortunately, the Army preferred to see the skills I have instead of the disability,” he says. He is now assistant chief of the Integrated Defence Staff. His speciality is counterinsurgency.
At work, the biggest challenge is to perform like others; he hates sympathy. “I am lucky I have not received help I didn’t want,” he says. The Vishisht Seva Medal he received last year is testimony to his professionalism.
He has given the service a lot, what has he got in return? “See, this is not a give-and-take business transaction,” he says. Yet, he believes the military gives much more than money. “It is a wonderful life, isn’t it?” he says to his mongrel, curled up in a patch of sunshine. The dog looks at him disdainfully before dozing off.
Despite work pressure, Razdan actively pursues several hobbies. “I go to the Rajputana Rifles’ range regularly,” he says. “I can shoot from any position, except sitting on my haunches.” He recently finished Orhan Pamuk’s Snow. “I love Forsyth, Doyle and Puzo—authors who explore workings of the human mind,” he says. Sometimes he sketches; once he even wrote a book on a military topic. “I never bothered getting it published. I think we used the pages for having samosas,” he chuckles.
Razdan is a whiz with gadgets. He once designed a gun that could be fired by the solar-powered battery of a calculator. More practically, he customised his urine bag, from a plastic rum bottle. Yet, he won’t use a mobile phone.
The general doesn’t take lunch. “I have to keep my weight under check,” he says. He dines at 9 p.m., the meal often preceded by a peg of his favourite Scotch whisky. There is no fixed time for calling it a day. “It depends on the pain; sometimes I am asleep by 11 p.m., sometimes I toss till 3 a.m.,” he says. He refuses painkillers, preferring to conquer the pain himself.
The cabbage apple sabzi is ready now; the sahayak serves it to us. It is yummy, but a tad too spicy. I reach for water and he says, “Don’t. Try to overcome the discomfort. After a bit, you will learn to deal with it. That is the way to approach every irritant in life, minor or major.” A lesson I humbly take back with me.