Boots Belts Berets

by Tanushree Podder

  BOOTS BELTS BERETS

  Tanushree Podder

  BOOTS BELTS BERETS

  Eight years in the corporate sector after her MBA, Tanushree Podder decided to follow the call of her heart and quit everything to take up writing. An author of seventeen books, with two more on the editing table, she has her hands full.

  Boots Belts Berets is her second novel, the first one being Nurjahan's Daughter.

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  FORTHCOMING TITLES:

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  IndiaInk

  © Tanushree Podder, 2008

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

  without the prior permission of the publisher.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real characters, living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  This edition published in 2008

  IndiaInk

  An imprint of

  Roli Books Pvt. Ltd.

  M-75, G.K. II Market

  New Delhi 110 048

  Phones: ++91 (011) 2921 2271, 2921 2782

  2921 0886, Fax: ++91 (011) 2921 7185

  E-mail: roliāvsnl.com; Website: rolibooks.com

  Also at

  Varanasi, Bangalore, Kolkata, Jaipur, Mumbai & Chennai

  Cover design: Nitisha Mehta Sharma

  Layout design: Narendra Shahi

  ISBN: 978-81-86939-38-3

  Rs 295/-

  ~

  For all cadets of NDA – past, present and future – the sentinels and

  pride of our nation

  ~

  acknowledgement

  p

  I am grateful to my husband for allowing me to intrude into the memories of his Academy days. Like a true officer and a gentleman, he stuck to his gallant offer of seeing me through the gruelling hours of work.

  author’s note

  p

  This book comes with a caveat. If you are young, adventurous, impressionable and eligible, and receive an invitation to attend the POP (Passing Out Parade) at the National Defence Academy (NDA), Khadakvasala, Pune, don’t accept it, because if you do, you are most likely to return to it as a cadet one day. The POP works its magic on young blood. It evokes patriotic emotions, makes you proud of being an Indian, and reminds you of your calling.

  The POP can perhaps take the credit for bringing in more cadets, each year, than the high-flying advertisements in the media released by the Ministry of Defence.

  Without doubt, the Indian defence services are the best in the world. And I would say, better even than the Sandhurst of the UK, and the West Point of the USA. Geopolitically, our country is at a disadvantage, as some neighbouring countries have displayed hostile tendencies in the last half-century.

  It is to the credit of our armed forces that we have always managed to emerge the winners in most conflict situations. It is the NDA that deserves the credit for turning boys into real men. Turning out lean, mean, and clean toughies with hearts of gold, is not a small feat. The ragging, punishments, and hardships are just a part of the game, taken by the cadets in their stride.

  With the mysterious aura around the army, it is not surprising that most civilians are clueless about army life, and have fanciful notions about it. I do not blame them. Although I have been married to an army officer for a long time now, there are certain facets of army life that still baffle me. It is the same with most wives – believe me. I spoke to many of them about this and they agreed that there is so much we do not know. The time spent at the National Defence Academy, for instance. It seems to hold a special significance for the officers, whether they are in the army, navy, or the air force. The bonding between the course mates is eternal, and so are the memories.

  The idea about this book occurred when we were posted in Bangalore. Since there were quite a few of my husband’s NDA course mates posted in the city, they decided to meet regularly on Saturday nights. As I watched them going back in time, I realized how much it meant to them. They were as excited as the teenagers who went into the Academy on the first day. Notes were exchanged, secrets revealed, weaknesses disclosed, and nicknames divulged amidst much banter. In the beginning, I was jealous … simply envious. I felt like an intruder who had barged into a fun party. The language, the codes, and the jokes they shared, made no sense to me. Watching the camaraderie between them, I realized that their years at the NDA would always remain the best phase of their lives.

  Along with that realization came the awareness that there was so much I did not know about my husband’s life at the Academy. It was a hidden facet of his persona that sounded too interesting to overlook. I decided to find out as much as I could about it. Although my husband had shared many experiences and memories of his days at the Academy with me, there were many gaps that needed to be filled in. To say that the NDA days were a high point in his life, would not be an exaggeration because all that came later, fe
ll flat before the adventures and experiences shared at the Academy.

  During a vacation, I began goading him to narrate the story of his Academy days. I began making notes at the end of each session, surreptitiously. The idea was to surprise him with a book about his experiences at the Academy. At the end of the vacation, I discovered a huge cache of anecdotes and other experiences. I knew that it had to be shared by everyone, and so, I went to work. Prodding him to reveal the details was just one of the hurdles; putting them together was a major challenge.

  The book is set in the 1970s, during the time my husband was training at the Academy. It was the time when Pune was called Poona, and Mumbai, Bombay. It was a time when Rajesh Khanna was the teenagers’ heart-throb and the Big B was nowhere in the reckoning; getting above seventy per cent marks was considered superlative, and there were no computers around. The concept of control, alt, delete had not hit mankind, nor had video games inhibited youthful minds. Jaya Bhaduri, foreign jeans, and discotheques, were the rage.

  There were twelve squadrons in the NDA at that time. The boys came into the Academy straight after passing high school, and were very young. My husband joined at the age of fifteen and a half after tackling the entrance examination, which is as tough as the ones for engineering or medical schools. Ragging was backbreaking, and called for a lot of courage to face. Today, ragging has almost disappeared, except for a few stolen moments of good fun. In keeping with the times, there is a more liberal approach towards everything. Much seems to have changed in the Academy, and yet, nothing has actually changed. The ethos, training, and the attitude remain the same.

  I am sure all the officers who have gone through the Academy will identify with the episodes, and the ’wannabe’ officers would find them inspirational. Life at the Academy retains the same moments of fun and pain, as starry-eyed, patriotic youngsters pass through it each year, their dreams intact, and their experiences priceless. Writing about the experiences at the Academy, was the best gift I could have given to my husband as well as his friends. Cheers to the NDA!

  Index

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  one

  p

  It was 9.00 a.m. The morning was crisp and the atmosphere businesslike that July, on the platform of the Poona railway station. It had rained all night, and the station building appeared as though it had been washed clean, its exterior cleared of the accumulated cobwebs, soot and dust. Puddles of water had collected in a few places where leaks had sprung up in the roof.

  Tea vendors jostled newspaper hawkers, toy sellers elbowed fruit vendors, and all around was a melee of human limbs. Snack-laden trolleys occupied centre stage, thronged by hungry voices clamouring for breakfast. A cacophony of confused voices, punctuated by the rumble of passing trains, assaulted the eardrums. Trains passed through the platforms, spewing out weary passengers even as fresh hordes of people jumped into them, enthusiastic and cheerful. Hours later they would emerge, tired and dishevelled, at their destination. The fetid air, thick with the smell of urine, stale food, cigarettes, perspiration, and dirt, circulated in the freshness of the morning.

  Like a giant caterpillar, another train weaved its way on to the track, abutting on platform number one, and disgorged, along with other passengers, a load of about a dozen boys from its entrails – all of them gangly teenagers, about sixteen to seventeen years of age. Their eyes shining with enthusiasm, the stance upright, their restless limbs bursting with energy, these travellers were different. They were not like the tired, perspiring, and dishevelled lot of humanity who flitted around the platform. The youthful energy of the boys flooded the platform, purging the murky atmosphere around it.

  I was one of them.

  I glanced at the motley collection of passengers spread around platform number one. Some of them were walking about, stretching their limbs; some brushing their teeth near the water taps, gargling and spitting loudly. A few were purchasing breakfast from the vendors, and eating them from the plates fashioned out of leaves. The tea stall did brisk business, as did the newspaper hawker.

  Nervously, I fingered the neatly folded letter lying in my pocket. We would be met at the station, it stated. Looking around, I spotted a kiosk marked ‘Reception Centre’, on one side of the platform, and made my way towards it.

  My heart was suffused with pride as I saw the letters ‘NDA’ stamped on the banner above the counter. Smart-looking men uniformed in the three colours of army, air force, and navy, bustled around the stall. They were stationed there to help the newcomers, and direct them to the Academy.

  Cautiously, I looked around. A couple of other boys, weighed down by their signature black tin trunks, were moving uncertainly towards the counter. At the last count, there were about ten of us walking towards it.

  Easy, chap, easy! I admonished my fast-beating heart,and strode decisively to the reception centre. My hands felt clammy with nervousness as I approached the reception committee.

  What do I tell them? I wondered.

  The opening line, stupid, think of a good and smart opening line! whispered my inner voice.

  Hi, I have been selected to join the NDA, I mumbled to myself. Not a good line. Should I begin with a greeting? Something like, Hi, I am Nikhil Dutta!

  The palms felt clammier. By now, my lungs were full of unexpelled air. I was hyperventilating.

  I need not have bothered. The other boys had already lined up before the counter by now. No one paid attention as I joined the lot. A couple of girls passed by, throwing smiles our way, smiles that brightened my day. My nervousness dissipated a bit, and the cloud lifted from my mind. Too preoccupied to grin back at the girls, I smiled timidly at the boy standing next to me. The smirk he returned was equally uncertain, but a silent bond sprung up between the two of us, linking our predicament. More boys emerging from a multitude of trains joined us aftera while.

  As soon as about twenty-five of us had gathered at the reception centre, we were led to a bus earmarked for our destination. The baggage, as instructed in the letter, was identical – a black metal trunk with our names painted on it, and a bedding-holder. The other items such as airbags and water bottles, were optional. These were loaded on an army truck.

  We headed for the National Defence Academy, Khadakvasala, about twenty kilometres away from the railway station. I can’t say what the others felt, but I had a funny sensation in the pit of my stomach, as though I was seated on a giant roller-coaster hurtling downwards. This feeling lasted till I stepped on the hallowed ground of the Academy, and gaped at the surroundings. Going by the expressions on the faces around me, I can vouch that a similar sensation must have gripped the guts of the other boys. The Academy, with its beautiful structures, was clean, green and orderly – an impressive set-up. And soon, I was going to be a part of it.

  All of a sudden, my chest swelled, and the constriction vanished. I was overwhelmed by a sensation more overpowering than nervousness – pride.

  We had been offloaded in front of the mess. To civilians, it must be a mystery why such grand club-like places are known as ’messes’ in the defence services. I have often wondered myself.

  In the meanwhile, a second bus arrived from the Khirkee railway station, and another twenty-five lanky teenagers spill
ed out of it. They joined us as we stared, awestruck, at the derelict fighter aircraft, and the captured enemy battle tank, placed on the mess grounds.

  Barely had we finished the tea and snacks served so thoughtfully to us by the spotlessly liveried mess staff, when we were surrounded by a group of goons. They sported extremely short, spiky haircuts that reminded me of the neo-Nazi cult, and acted as though they owned the place. The goons pounced on us as though they had been waiting for us to arrive. As we were bullied and harassed, a terrible thought flitted through my mind – if this was a precursor to my stay, spending six terms in the Academy would be a difficult proposition.

  Official matters took precedence in the next few minutes. We were allotted our squadrons. I was told to report at the Golf (G) squadron, along with five others. The Academy comprised a total of twelve squadrons divided into three battalions of four squadrons each. These were identified by the alphabets from A to L, short for Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Fox, Golf, Hunter, India, Juliet, Kilo and Lima.

  A few of us were told to follow one of the seniors, on foot, to G squadron.

  ‘Don’t bother about the baggage; it will reach there,’ we were assured.

  Quickly, in my mind, I went through the list of things that the alphabet ‘G’ could denote. The letter stood for good, god, grand, great, glorious, and so on. It felt great to be a part of anything that began with the alphabet. But I was totally unprepared for what followed.

  Two seniors greeted us at G squadron. ‘Welcome to Gunda squadron,’ they said. I was taken aback – not for a moment had any such negative association with the alphabet flitted through my mind.