I AM glad to note, for what my feelings on this point are worth, that the group of retired military personnel from India (and Ms Nirmala Deshpande, a Field Marshal of Peace as one enthusiastic Pakistani paper has described her) who have been visiting Pakistan these last few days, have been well looked after. General Musharraf received them and among the luminaries they met were First Mujahid Sardar Abdul Qayyum Khan, General Aslam Beg and Air Marshal Asghar Khan.

In Islamabad a seminar was arranged for their benefit. Their engagements were covered extensively in the press.

What reason have I to be glad? Because of the piquant memories associated with a similar trip undertaken to New Delhi last year by a group of retired Pakistan army officers of which I too was a part. The recent visit from Indian was a sequel to that.

Lt-Gen Naseer Akhtar, one-time Corps Commander Karachi, and Maj-Gen Jamshed Malik, a former Director-General Military Operations, were the spearhead of our peace phalanx. General Jahangir Karamat was supposed to come but, guided no doubt by that instinct which has helped him through his illustrious career, he wisely backed out at the last minute. Two brigadiers - one jovial, the other serious-minded - formed the middle echelon of our party. The rear was brought up by two NGO-professionals, the type adept at such international contacts. Odd man out was myself, a former captain among these senior celebrities.

As peace warriors, the ostensible purpose of our trip to Delhi, there was perhaps something incongruous about our group. After all, someone like Asma Jahangir as peace laureate, breaking alarmingly into peace dances when least expected or distributing sweets among puzzled Indian security guards, fits the part. Robust ex-generals, both Akhtar and Malik being pictures of health, as peace advocates is a more unfamiliar sight. Appearances were saved, however, by two charming ladies who also came along and whose presence added zest and colour to what might otherwise have been a drab delegation. Like all stage artistes who look their best in costume, generals and brigadiers look their best in military make-up. Without that advantage the effect can often be startling.Anyhow, there was little peace-like about our departure from Lahore airport. Those were early days of General Musharraf's military rule and as half a dozen officials, including a captain or two in uniform, fussed over our tickets and boarding cards, and up-graded the generals, the weight of the brass we were carrying showed. As our group of retired generals, brigadiers, NGO-types, myself and the ladies broke every queue within sight, I heard a person in the first-class line asking someone as to who we were. Back came the reply, "educated illiterates", which sounds much better in Punjabi.

But I was far from displeased. The fuss at Lahore airport I was convinced was a foretaste of the fuss that would be made over us in New Delhi. Indeed this was one reason why I had readily agreed to this trip, conjuring up in my mind visions of military clubs, leather sofas and gravelly conversations about war and peace carried on over unhurried whiskies and sodas. The reality was somewhat different.

I had promised myself a highball on arrival. After a tedious taxi ride through the evening rush hour traffic we arrived, to my gathering amazement, at an international youth hostel in Chanakyapuri. For accommodation we were put two to a room in rooms which had four beds each. No towels, at least not in the beginning, and no soap. Which of course is no reflection on the hostel because as youth hostels go it was an excellent place and cheap to boot. The piquancy of the situation lay in the heavy brass of my companions - generals, brigadiers and whatnot - and the spartan (and clean, let me not fail to add) simplicity of our accommodation.

It would be unfair to zoom in on the living conditions of Pakistani generals alone. Generals everywhere live well. That's how they get their barrel chests and deep voices. Try getting a deep voice over a diet of cabbages and plain water and the meaning of this will become clear. As for Generals Akhtar and Malik, they were no run-of-the-mill generals, division commanders who fade into well-deserved oblivion. The first, as I said, was Gauleiter Karachi when Gen Asif Nawaz started his MQM-bashing operation in that city in 1991. After Waheed Kakar's retirement his name also figured briefly among those being considered for next army chief. Malik, besides being DGMO, was also additional secretary, defence. In other words, army high-flyers here finding themselves wedged into student dormitories.

Back in 1992 while visiting Karachi I had sought to meet the all-powerful Corps Commander Karachi (Akhtar) in order to get a better picture of the get-MQM operation. But he was a busy man and I was unable to meet him. Now he and I found ourselves sharing the same room. Did I hear the laughter of the gods in the distance? I cannot say although I remember a wry look crossing my face.In the cafeteria a grim council of war was held. From old habit one of the military celebrities waved a hand for some tea to be brought forgetting that in a youth hostel there is only self-service, at the counter, and no "koi hai" turbaned waiters rushing to answer your summons. The hostel manager, a retired squadron leader, happening to be close by, and sensing the delicacy of the situation, quietly arranged for some tea to be brought. After the ride from the airport and the shock of the youth hostel, it was only natural that the faces of all assembled should be slightly drawn. But my companions, to their credit, said not a word about their discomfiture and vowed to soldier on for the sake of peace. I being made of weaker stuff could scarcely hide my disgust. Peace, yes, but at what cost? As the chances of getting a highball at some cheerful place diminished, the gloom that had settled in my heart deepened.

Back in our room as the former Corps Commander Karachi got ready to go out for dinner and asked me to come along, I said I would rather stay behind with the duty-free stuff I had bought at the airport. Early next morning as my stoical companions got ready to fly off to Calcutta, I announced my decision to stay back. Italians and other favoured races have fought wars in style. Here was peace being waged on bread and water. I clearly realised heroism of this order was not for me.

But I must give the generals and brigadiers their due. They were chumps, at least to my way of thinking, to go on a trip the details of which they knew little about. But once there, unlike me they showed grit and not a little resilience and made the best of a bad job, which is how one should take things in life. Whatever they may have felt inside, on their faces they let pass no trace of annoyance, in sharp contrast to my visible peevishness. I respect them for this.

What did I do for the rest of the three days I spent in New Delhi? I took in the sights - Chandni Chowk, which I love, the Red Fort and the Jama Masjid - became a temporary member of the Delhi Press Club which is a good place to sit in the sun on a wintry morning, and spent my afternoons in the refurbished bar of the Imperial Hotel, a place to be recommended to every thirsty wayfarer.

I even went to GP Road, Delhi's answer to Hira Mandi. Patriotism need have no fears on this score: GP Road is not a patch on Lahore's famed Bazaar of Beauty. Up narrow flights of stairs lie low-roofed tenements crowded with imports from Nepal, whose grasping attitude, driven by God knows what extremes of deprivation and poverty, gives them the aspect of predators. Before those grim sights even my stout heart quailed.