Life in the early fifties in Kashmir, was not very pleasant. Shortages of electricity were common, and so were other amenities. The damp cold meant being shut indoors for days at a stretch, only to be let out to go to school. This was like being sent from the frying pan to the fire.

Once as my mother was trying to fit a heavy pullover over me, my uncle casually remarked, “Akka, why are you dressing the little fellow, where are you sending him?”

My mother was known as Akka, meaning 'elder sister' to one and all, for reasons which were not very clear to us.

“I am just preparing him for school.”

“School?” he was shocked. “Why so early, is he not too small to go to school?”

“Too small? He is six now!” my mother answered.

“Six? What's six? Till I was ten, I never went to school or wore shorts.”

I marveled at this man's words. Clearly this uncle of mine was a visionary, a leader of men, who had the well being of the younger generation at heart. I realized that my parents had very little idea of children's education, and worse, they were making a big error in not taking his advice.

In addition to his views on children's education, there were other reasons why Kaka (as Col N. G. Kulkarni was commonly known) was so popular among kids. In Udhampur, he commanded what was known as a 'Khachar Company'. His unit had about 200 mules that were used to transport goods, on unmotorable roads. We kids had an extremely good equation with the mules, we enjoyed riding them and they probably preferred our weight to that of the Army supplies.

Whenever the issue of holidays arose, we preferred Udhampur, where we could ride to our heart's content, eat as much as we liked and enjoy ourselves. Kaka and his Nepali wife had no kids of their own, so they spoilt us, much to our parents' distaste, and our delight.

Once during the summer vacation, we saw an ice cream vendor, and we were all screaming for ice cream. Dad would have bought us each a stick, but Kaka was adamant. We had to earn it, he said. In the evening, two dozen large mangoes were dumped before us and we were asked to peel and separate the pulp.

The next morning an ancient ice cream machine was brought out and washed. An army truck had delivered a huge slab of ice, and the process of making ice cream began. First, milk was heated and cooled and mixed with mango pulp, then the mixture was put in the pot and it was fixed in the wooden bucket of the machine.

The slab of ice was crushed and poured all around the ice cream pot. Salt was added and then we began turning the handle to churn the mixture inside the pot. As the milk thickened, the churning became more and more difficult. Though we were sweating, none was ready to let go of the handle. After hours of labour, Kaka declared that the ice cream was ready, and the feast began.

After we had eaten ice cream till we were sick, we realized that the fruits of labour are indeed sweet. Kwality and Baskin Robbins may have come out with a hundred flavours of ice cream. But I have not found one that could match the homemade ice cream. This was the second time I began to adore Kaka.

In Marathi, Kaka means Uncle, more specifically father's brother. Col. Kulkarni was actually not related to us, but he was Dad's colleague and he had been around since we were very small. But he was closer to us than any family member. And he was a regular visitor to our house, especially at odd hours.

I recall waking up at midnight to hear a roar of laughter. Kaka would be telling a story to my parents, whom he had woken up at an odd hour. Mother would cook up a simple meal for him while he sat in his favourite chair with a glass of rum in his hand. I guess he was never empty handed, either he had his glass or his cigarette.

After his retirement, the Army asked him to look after the liquor section in the Army Canteen. Putting Kaka in charge of the liquor was like putting a fox to guard the chickens, but such are the ways of the Army. I guess Kaka was his own biggest customer, and I don't think his sales ever fell short of his monthly sales target.

As much as we were attached to him, he was to us. When someone was sick, Kaka would find time to visit the hospital. When someone got married, Kaka was at the reception, taking charge of the bar. The only marriage he missed was mine, since he was in the Military Hospital with cirrhosis of the liver.

The very next day after my marriage, we went to the hospital to seek his blessings, which he gave of his bounty. Later we heard that the hospital discharged him so that he could spend his last days at home. In any case he was setting a bad example for junior officers by drinking in the ward.

For the next few months we feared the worst whenever the telephone rang. Thankfully Kaka nursed his liver to greater heights of activity by goading it with more rum. When we went back home after six months, he invited us for dinner, to celebrate my marriage and his recovery.

I was prepared to have a limejuice aperitif, but he would have none of it.

“Rum!” he roared, “that is what you should have, don't worry about me. I will take a very small drink just to keep you company.”

His first drink I noted had very little rum but a large amount of water. In his subsequent drinks, the amount of rum went on increasing while water reduced till he had matched his drink with the famous Patiala Peg in size and strength. That night we drank to his health, my marriage, and my children (yet unborn). He also promised to host a gala party when my son got commissioned in the army. A promise he kept after 28 years.

Ingenuity was another name for Kaka. He was rarely in a fix over any issue. He ensured he got what he wanted irrespective of the time, or the odds. When he built his bungalow in a secluded area, he forced the Municipality to construct a road to connect his house to the main road. The odds were heavy, but he got it done.

Those who have interacted with this strange animal named Municipality would know how sluggish it is. After getting the road built, he decided not to trouble them further, but got a local signboard painter to make a nameboard for the road. This board was made using the dimensions, colour and layout of the official boards put up in the town. He named the road after his own father and got it fixed at a vantage point. Now every passer-by could note that the road to his home was Gajanan Marg.

Slowly people began to call the road Gajanan Marg and used the name while addressing letters to the locality. Postmen began to identify the road as Gajanan Marg, but the best incident took place about 8 years after Kaka had put up the board.

One day a municipal vehicle drove up to the road and removed the signboard Kaka had put up. In the preceding eight years the signboard had weathered the monsoons of Belgaum and rust had eaten through parts of it. The paint had worn off and it was difficult to read the name of the road. Municipal workers took off the board and in its place, fixed a new board. The new board proudly reiterated the name of the road as Gajanan Marg.

Kaka was one of the earliest car owners of the town, and he knew all mechanics by their first name. His Premier Padmini (of 1964 vintage) had been to every garage in town. Generally he would not allow us to touch it, other than to push start it. Yet a few years back when I was on a holiday in Belgaum he rang me up and said, “Ravi, I am told that your dad's car has gone for major repairs.”

“Yes, Kaka. It was coming apart at the seams.”

“If you wish, you can take mine.”

I did not reveal my shock in my voice, but agreed when he asked me to come over and pick it up. I went over to his home and had a cup of coffee with him. I noted that he was fully dressed for a visit somewhere. After asking me how long I would be there he suggested we go to the city.

He sat with me while I drove to the city, telling me about the difficulty he had getting around the town. A few years ago he had slipped in the bathroom and had a hip fracture, which had not healed properly. He used a walker, hence his walks were limited to a few yards at the maximum.

After making purchases in various markets, he directed me towards the Infantry Mess.

“I have to make payments of my Mess bills,” he told me.

Once in the Mess area, he made me park the car under a large tree and hollered for the Mess In Charge. A young officer came running, followed by a waiter. Kaka asked the officer to prepare his bill, and told the waiter to get him two rums while the bill was being made.

“Kaka, it is 2.30 in the afternoon, I can't drink rum now,” I protested.

“They are for me,” he said. “If you want something, you can order it.”

I realized that I was going to be caught up for the rest of the afternoon and settled back to enjoy it. For Kaka was an extremely pleasant man, whether sober or drunk.

These old memories came back to me this morning when my sister rang up. Before we had even exchanged pleasantries, she told me, “Ravi, Kaka passed away yesterday.”

Shaken to the core, I said in a small voice, “I hope the end was peaceful.”

“Very,” she said. “Nobody knew when he passed away. His servant called us at around 11.00 am saying that he did not wake up from his sleep. My husband went to their house but found him dead, he called the Military Hospital and they sent the ambulance and all that, but it was just a formality.”

“He hardly lived long after Kanchi Kaki (as his Nepali wife was known).”

“No. Kaki died just last month. One month of separation was probably too long for him.”

“I suppose there is no one to whom we should send condolences?”

“No. We were the closest family to him, there is no one left.”

When one writes about a man dead and gone, it is customary to put his year of birth and death following his name. Kaka's name would be written as Col. N. G. Kulkarni (1918-2005). The years of birth and death mean nothing, but the dash in between means a lot. His whole life was summed up in that small dash. And what a colourful dash that was!