Boots Belts Berets

by Tanushree Podder

  A week into the first term was the intro-night. I was quite anxious about the event, as I had heard some very disquieting rumours.

  ‘It is nothing, yaar, just an intro as the name suggests,’ Maachh tried to dispel my apprehension.

  ‘But we have to introduce ourselves wearing nothing more than our undies.’

  ‘Where is the problem? After you have bathed in the nude with the guys, undies are a fair degree of dressing up.’

  I was still quite nervous. It is one thing to undress in a bathroom, and quite another to stand in underwear before an audience, and introduce oneself. Add to that my stage fright and you have a perfect case of intro-phobia.

  Maachh had a fantastic idea. ‘Let’s anoint our bodies with a lot of hair oil,’ he suggested.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I objected. ‘We will smell like Banke Bihari from Jhumri Tallayya.’

  ‘Pessi, are you as stupid as you appear, or is it a put-on?’ he scolded.

  ‘The oil will make us slippery enough to elude the grabbing hands.’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ I was horrified. This piece of news was disquieting. ’Are they going to grab us?’

  ‘Yes, my dear innocent babe. They will maul you if you don’t manage to slip out fast enough.’

  The five of us poured a couple of bottles of highly scented hair oil that Bertie had pilfered from some first-termer’s room.

  It was a highly strung self that entered the squadron anteroom on the intro-night. The lights had been suitably dimmed for the occasion, in deference to our state of undress, but the music was loud. I found it an infantile psychological attempt at lulling the nerves. I had already reached the end of my tether.

  ‘All you have to do is stand in front of the squadron, introduce yourself, and then bolt across the anteroom and out,’ my mates reassured me.

  Despite their attempts at nonchalance, I could detect the jumpiness in their voices.

  It isn’t easy to face a jeering lot of seniors bent upon making your life hell, clad in nothing but your basic fig leaf.

  Ranade was the first one to go before the crowd of seniors. As he introduced himself in a tremulous octave, the audience went berserk. They hooted and whistled, and he turned a pasty yellow, his face the hue of a poached egg. I half expected him to collapse, but he managed to blurt out his lines and scamper across the hall.

  There was a melee as hands reached out to grab his underwear, and he struggled to protect his dignity. Next, it was Harry, the surd. He seemed totally unaffected by all the hooting and booing as he closed his eyes and made his speech. Thereafter, he bolted like an Olympics sprinter, but his speed couldn’t save him from losing his underwear at the hands of a few fourth-termers blocking the exit.

  It was Rebello’s turn now. He went up and began singing ‘Silent night, holy night’, effectively creating a trance. There was absolute silence as the cadets tried to come to terms with his act. Before they could react to his con act, he made a quick getaway.

  Smart guy! I wished I had the presence of mind to think up something as stunning.

  One by one, all the first-termers introduced themselves in their unique characteristic manner. Hands pounced on the chaps, and stripped them if they were slow to make an exit. The smooth-skinned and cute-looking guys had a tough time as they were delayed for long and subjected to a lot of discomfort before being let off.

  Finally, it was my turn. I strode up with trembling innards. I had practised the short speech at least a dozen times in the room, but the cat got my tongue the minute I stood before the crowd.

  I froze. I just couldn’t speak. The crowd hollered and hooted, but my tongue seemed to have got glued to my palate. And then Bertie came to my rescue. From one dark corner of the room he began singing ‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.’ That was my cue.

  A hush fell over the gathering as they wondered if it was some kind of a planned programme. I quickly uttered the perfunctory sentences and made my getaway while the attention was diverted, narrowly missing the hands that reached out for me.

  As soon as the song ended, the seniors began shouting.

  ‘Where are the buffoons? The *** buffoons?’

  They were hunting for both Bertie and me, but we had lost ourselves in the darkness of the hall.

  In celebration of Bertie’s heroic rescue stunt, we decided to go for the movie show that Sunday evening. The Academy movie theatre was a popular haunt for the cadets. It was a massive structure with two balconies at different levels. The lower balcony was meant for the instructors and their families, and the upper one for junior cadets. Twice a week, on Saturdays and Sundays, the theatre screened movies, which provided a suitable diversion for the hard-working cadets.

  The rules were strict. Hooting or whistling was not allowed, not even when the vamp gyrated sexily to a hot number. In case a cadet let out a whistle under the cover of darkness, assuming that it would go undetected, the entire lot had to pay for the mischief. The mass punishment meted out for the misdemeanour was a tough one. We had to roll all the way to the mess, which was quite a distance away.

  Come Sunday and we dressed carefully in our muftis. It was the first time for us. We felt like prisoners on parole.

  ‘Wow! Think of all the girls who would be there,’ Bertie’s eyes were enlarged to saucer size as he performed an impromptu depiction of a female form with his hands. ‘Man, I just can’t wait to be there.’

  ‘Watch your step, Bertie,’ I warned. ‘You can get electrocuted if you touch the wrong wires.’

  ‘Oh, Pessi, keep your warnings to yourself,’ he replied carelessly. ‘Do you think I am going to miss the only chance of meeting a female in the Academy by playing Cautious Carl, my pal?’

  I shrugged resignedly. Bertie never looked before leaping. I couldn’t teach him to do so now. I just reminded him that about a thousand cadets had the same idea while going for a movie.

  A host of senior office holders were seen hovering around the theatre, indulging in a popular sport – eyeing the instructors’ daughters. We were in for a surprise when we reached the theatre. All the first-termers were promptly herded into the top balcony. Bertie rushed towards the front row hoping to steal a look at the imaginary girls gathered below.

  ‘Hey man, the hall is deserted!’ he squealed, his voice thick with disappointment.

  A voice rang out from the back.

  ‘So, what did you expect? We guys are supposed to enter the hall half an hour before the show, and leave only half an hour after the show finishes, when all the others have gone home. Stop daydreaming and settle down.’

  After much craning of the neck, a game in which Maachh had an advantage, given his giraffe-neck, we got a royal crick and all we saw was more cadets trooping into the ground floor area. Not a single female was visible.

  Bertie’s idea of taking a leak during the interval yielded no benefit either, as the toilets for the cadets were also on the same floor. We were totally isolated from the others.

  By now, all of us had lost interest in the movie. Maachh was already snoring, his head propped on my shoulder.

  ‘Shucks, man!’ Randy swore. ‘What is the point of taking all the trouble? Might as well loll around the Gole Market or catch up on sleep.’

  Much after the movie was over, we were led out in small groups. It was totally dark outside. We saw the whole lot of cadets front-rolling back to the mess. Without any questions, we joined in. ‘What a let-down,’ cursed Maachh, refreshed after his snooze. ‘All this rolling for nothing!’

  The mess was a long distance from the theatre. If one were to roll honestly, the spine was sure to get all bent and twisted, so we cheated. We slid towards the darkest parts of the road where there were no street lights. Some cadets crept and crawled, rolling occasionally. Some managed to dash into the bushes by the roadside, under the
cover of darkness, and hid there till everyone had rolled by.

  The roll back to the mess was not entirely devoid of fun. Cadets always managed to introduce an element of excitement in the toughest of ordeals. Life couldn’t go on otherwise, given the misfortunes that haunted the first-termers. It was simply a matter of creative thinking.

  Randy charged into a fifth-term sergeant who was standing in a secluded spot, and knocked him down by ramming his head into the senior’s belly. The sergeant fell flat on his back, and Randy vanished. The sergeant got up and gave a chase, but it was impossible to catch Randy who sprinted as though his life depended upon it. Frustrated, the sergeant came back and kicked everyone on their backside, commanding them to roll faster. All the first to fifth-termers rolled together with great solidarity. When asked if anyone knew the name of the offender, no one responded. He kicked us some more till his foot got weary. We would have done our nation proud in the event of being captured by the enemy.

  Randy was our hero for the evening. He had done what everyone wanted to do.

  ‘I wish I had hit the bugger,’ lamented Bertie.

  ‘So do I,’ seconded Maachh.

  At the squadron, it became a challenge for all first-termers to repeat Randy’s feat. At the next movie just after the show, when we were ordered to roll back to the mess, Ravi Sukhdev charged like a bull with his head down and rammed into a sergeant, knocking him down. The next instant, he vanished into the cover of darkness. The sergeant ran after him, but Ravi was too swift for him. We weren’t surprised when he later went on to hold the 400-m low hurdles record at the NDA.

  From that day, it became a challenge for the first-termers to hit and dodge. Those who could evade being caught were heroes, and those who couldn’t, were reduced to a zero.

  five

  p

  There was a shortcut from our squadron to the Sudan Block that would have saved us a good 500 metres on our way to classes, but we were banned from using it since it would mean coming over from the wrong side.

  ‘Darn these rules,’ cribbed Maachh. ‘Here we are, always running short of time, and we can’t use a route that would save us a good two minutes.’

  ‘I am going to do it, guys,’ announced Bertie.

  We stared at him as though he had gone bonkers. Daring to use the wrong side of the path in broad daylight was suicidal. No one in his right frame of mind would do it. But then Bertie was a madcap. He just had to do the forbidden things, and no one could convince him otherwise.

  ‘It would mean another string of punishments for the entire lot,’ I tried to dissuade him.

  ‘It will be worth the punishment,’ he said. He had the last word, as usual.

  He was not the only one; there were some crazy cadets who would sneak through the short cut whenever no ustaad was lurking around. For Bertie, it was a challenge.

  Sure enough, the next afternoon he took the short cut while going back to the squadron after classes. He was spotted in the act by an alert ustaad, who immediately gave a chase.

  ‘Halt, cadet!’ he hollered, but Bertie wasn’t heeding. He led the ustaad a merry chase, and just as the ustaad was finally catching up with him, Rebello entered the squadron, went up to the first floor, and jumped to the ground. Before he could pick himself up and run, the ustaad also jumped from the first floor and landed on him.

  The ustaad dusted himself, stood up and roared: ‘Nonsense, cadet! Short cut leta hai!(Nonsense, cadet! You took a short cut!)’.

  Bertie was immediately booked. The charge read, ‘Taking a short cut from first floor to the ground floor.’

  There couldn’t have been five guys more different than us. Maachh, with his typical Bong accent and predilection for fish and mischief, thought up the weirdest of plans. Quite a physical guy with no interest in the finer arts, he was at his comical best when trying to attract girls’ attention at the Gole Market. Bertie called him the ‘Tragedy King’ because he was the first one to get caught when things went wrong. His days were chequered with punishments.

  In contrast to Maachh, Bertie was the musical kind. He could play the guitar as well as a mouth organ quite proficiently, but it was his rich voice that drew people to him. When he sang, you were forced to stop and listen. But he was also a good athlete. I had never seen anyone do a headstand without support the way Bertie could – he must have had a very strong neck. Another factor that set him apart from Maachh was the fact that he could put others in trouble and escape unscathed. He was the biggest prankster in the G squadron, yet he got away most of the time.

  Randy was always precise, in most things. He conducted himself like an officer, walked straight, and was the best dressed guy around. These qualities did not, however, deter him from playing practical jokes on others. His impressive personality made him a natural leader.

  As for Natty, the chap was content playing second fiddle to everyone. He loved movies, and every Sunday, he could be seen at the theatre, notwithstanding the rolling afterward.

  As compared to them, I was just an ordinary person who wanted to finish the Academy training with good grades and make my father proud. Never a catalyst for trouble, I got caught up in the mischief because of the company I kept. I was the bridle that tried to restrain the wild horses, quite unsuccessfully. But I never gave up trying.

  We became close not by choice, but due to the fact that our cabins were on the same side of the central lobby. We begged, borrowed, and did everything together.

  The next day, we found Maachh front-rolling in the morning; on the seventh heaven in the afternoon; and doing Puttie Parades in the evening. Poor Maachh, he had never suffered so much.

  When I asked him the cause of all the punishment, he let forth a volley of abuses.

  ‘That ***SCC! One of these days, I am going to wipe the smirk off his face forever,’ he ranted.

  ‘But what did you do to upset him so much?’

  ‘Arrey! All I did was break his favourite cup, and he got as mad as a bear with bees in his mouth. One would think he was the Mughal emperor, Jahangir, who had punished a slave with severe lashings because his favourite wine cup had been broken.’

  Maachh liked to exaggerate. That was his major fault. ‘I am going to teach him a lesson.’

  He seemed determined to do something rash. My efforts at pacifying the obstinate Bong, met with no success.

  ‘Let it pass. No point making more trouble.’ I said, putting on the big-brother act.

  The next morning, we found him grinning from ear to ear as he carried the SCC’s tea. ‘Hang around. I want you guys to witness a great moment in history,’ Maachh instructed us.

  Even as I wondered what was wrong with the tea, we found Maachh rolling helplessly with laughter after handing over the mug to the SCC.

  ‘That’s my piss he is drinking,’ he informed us cheerfully. We stared at him as though he had suddenly transformed into a multi-headed serpent from a mythological movie.

  ‘Commendable,’ muttered Randy. ‘Quite commendable! I hadn’t thought you capable of such creative thinking.’

  Maachh had extracted his revenge by urinating in the SCC’s mug of tea.

  Obviously, the change in flavour didn’t have much impact on the senior because he continued to make Maachh fetch his tea.

  There was something about Maachh that invited trouble. He had a foot constantly poised on problems, and landed on his face most of the time.

  We had to go past the NTT (Naval Training Team) office on our way to the morning classes. One day, on the way back, Macchh’s bike had a flat. We left him to deal with the problem and rushed back. It made me sorry that I could not stop and help a guy in trouble, but then, it was just not possible to do so without getting into difficulty myself.

  As the poor chap was returning on the double with his bike, a naval officer stopped him in front of the NTT of
fice and screamed, ‘You, first-termer, why didn’t you salute?’

  ‘I didn’t see you, sir,’ Maachh replied bravely.

  ‘I am standing right in your path and you say that you didn’t see me. Are you blind?’ the officer barked. ‘Who is your squadron commander? Report to him immediately.’

  Poor Maachh! He knew he was sunk. The chap was sure to complain. Panting, he returned to the squadron, parked hisbike, and reported to the squadron commander, Squadron Leader Jain.

  ‘You clumsy baboon, are you blind?’ demanded Jain. Obviously, the naval officer had made his call.

  ‘Sir, I didn’t notice him,’ Maachh continued to defend himself with the same excuse.

  ‘Not good enough. Try a more convincing reply, or I’ll send you for a high jump (the Sinhgad hike),’ threatened Jain.

  ‘Sir, actually, he didn’t look like an officer,’ Maachh finally came out with the truth.

  ‘Get lost, you louse!’ Jain shouted, trying to suppress his smile. ‘Next time I get a complaint from the NTT, you’ll curse the day you were born.’

  Macchh could not believe his luck. He had been let off without punishment. He sprinted back to us, looking like a penguin that had just had a ride on a glacier. His story soon spread around the squadron and he became an instant hero.

  The mother of all pains was the cross-country practice, which we tried to avoid like the flu. For the guys who were not good at any game like hockey, football or basketball, it was a nightmare since they were made to practise cross-country all the time.

  For whatever reason, the instructors seemed to lay a lot of importance on the damned event. Maybe it was their fear that during the war, we would not be able to run fast enough over the hurdles if we didn’t practise hard enough. Anyway, cross-country competition was accorded prime importance, and it was mandatory for every cadet to participate in it. Cadets who didn’t fare well in it didn’t stand a chance of making it to the next term.