Pal saab died yesterday morning. He was my neighbour. I did not know him and yet whenever I used to step out of the house, I couldn’t help noticing his name tinged deep with the colour of patriotism and public service, prominently written on a plaque – ‘ TI Yashwant Pal’.
I had, however, known his wife, Meena Pal, since long ago, when I was a reporter with the Nai Duniya, and she was a tehsildar in the Dewas district. She had, at that time, gone to do a crackdown on the mining mafia in an area of Dewas. The mafia had chased her with dumpers and attacked her when she had escaped to the jungle. This story and the photograph had then made it to the front pages of all the newspapers. I had done a detailed follow-up story from Dewas. In those days, the mining mafia attacking government officials was very common. I had tried several times to get her version over the phone, but did not succeed. One day, I saw her near my house; she was standing in front of the plaque- ‘Yashwant Pal’. I came to know that day that she was the wife of Yashwant Pal.
She knew that I was a journalist, so she did not talk to me much and maintained her distance. But Pal saab, even without any formal introduction, used to give a generous smile every time we saw each other as if we had been long acquainted. He was a very gentle and humble human being, unusual for a policeman. One could have hardly imagined that such an individual would be dealing with crime mongers. Even before I could wish him, he used to say ‘Jai Hind’.
Fifteen days before death, he had the lights installed at the gate of his house. He even got the house painted. He had bought numerous plants and flowering plants and had decorated the house by placing them upon the wall. He had organized the whole house. It had appeared that he was tired of living in the government quarters and had wanted to live in his house in comfort and peace and so the home improvements.
But despite all this, he could not even live there for one day. He went into isolation with his wife and two daughters, but on April 21, only his wife Meena Pal and two small daughters returned home — crying and desolate, gazing at a precarious future.
These three women could not even witness the last rites of the lone man in their lives, could not even touch him.
Probably, the biggest tragedy of this virus is that it does not even allow us to bid that last farewell, a final memory of our dear to take and keep with us. We don’t even get a chance to look at the coffin or the remains. We are not allowed even a gaze at the flame of their pyre.
At 1:30 am, in this house bearing the name of Yaswant Pal, there are three women either gazing blankly at the walls, or sobbing to themselves or drowsily dropping their necks, there is no one to inquire or tell.
I am thinking of his name at the entrance. How would the three names of the surviving members exist in absence of that plaque?
(This article is taken from the Facebook post of Journalist Naveen Rangiyal from Madhya Pradesh)
