With Loyalty and Laughter: Life with Our Gorkha Buddy
A fond memory from our beautiful Army journey
Forget chain of command, inside a fauji home, it’s Memsaab, the officer, and Daju… but not always in that order.
There’s Memsaab, who runs the household with the precision of a Quartermaster General and the calm of a tea sipping yogi.
There’s the officer, who commands troops with flair but forgets where he kept his own wallet.
And then there’s Daju. The ever loyal Gorkha buddy. Silent, swift and supremely opinionated when it comes to defending his officer.
Now our Daju, compact, wiry and built like he could carry a mule uphill,wasn’t a man of many words but the ones he did use came with full confidence. Especially when it involved taking his officer’s side.
Take that morning I walked into the kitchen and caught him handing over a bar of chocolate. Before I could say anything he sprang into action like a defence lawyer delivering closing arguments.
“Yo ta dark chocolate ho, Memsaab. Doctor haru le bhancha dherai healthy ho. Antioxidant ho!” (This is dark chocolate,Memsaab. Doctors say it’s very healthy. Full of antioxidants!)
There stood my husband, nodding solemnly like this chocolate was being consumed on medical advice. I raised an eyebrow.
Case closed. Chocolate: cleared for duty.
Then came the stag lunch at the officers’ mess, a strictly formal event. Shirt, tie, polished shoes. No room for rebellion.
I had already laid out his clothes: a crisp white shirt and a dignified green tie.
I stepped out for five minutes.
When I returned, he was dressed. But not in the outfit I’d set out. He wore a dark coloured shirt, the kind he would never normally choose for a formal Army event.
I had no words. I just stood there, numb.
And there was Daju in the background, eyes gleaming like a proud stylist on fashion week duty.
“Yo shirt dherai ramailo lagcha, Memsaab. Bahut smart dekhcha. Modern look ho!” (This shirt looks very nice, Memsaab. Very smart. It’s a modern look!)
My husband, clearly under the influence, muttered, “He said it suits me.”
“Of course it does,” I replied. “So would camouflage pyjamas. Shall we save those for the next formal dinner?”
But I had to admit, when our Gorkhas dress up, they do it with effortless style and silent swagger. Even in that shirt, with Daju’s approval and ironing, he somehow looked ready for a magazine cover.
Then came the geyser incident.
The water heater wasn’t working. Naturally, my husband decided he could fix it himself. Five minutes later—POP! SPLASH! THUD!
Then a heroic voice from inside the bathroom: “I’m okay!”
I rushed in. Water everywhere. Him, wrapped in a towel, looking mildly electrocuted but proud.
I turned to Daju for backup.
He stood at attention and declared “Yo ta minor technical glitch ho, Memsaab. Electrical expert ho!” (Just a minor technical glitch, Memsaab. He is an electrical expert!)
He’d nearly short circuited the fuse box. But to Daju, he was one switch away from becoming chief engineer at DRDO.
That’s when I realised, this wasn’t just loyalty. It was lifelong allegiance. Forged on parade grounds, in trenches, in snowy heights and sunburnt posts. And in the quiet everyday rhythm of cantonment life.
So now, I don’t question.
He wears his “smart” shirts. Eats his “healthy” chocolate. Fixes appliances with a screwdriver and a silent prayer.
And Daju?
Daju remains his silent bodyguard, his one-man cheer squad and his fiercest defender in every minor domestic battle.
One day, I finally asked, “Tum hamesha Sahab ka side kyun lete ho?”
Daju just smiled and said, “Memsaab… woh mero Captain America ho. Ma ta usko shield jasto ho.” (Memsaab, he is my Captain America. I am like his shield.)
Fair enough.
But the next time the geyser explodes, Captain America can sleep on the sofa. With his shield.