Boots Belts Berets

by Tanushree Podder

  Randy expressed his anguish at being separated from his pals, and wondered if Makhija could help him out.The softening up worked, and soon Randy was striding towards us wearing an elated expression.

  ‘Don’t worry, the problem has been sorted out. We are in adjacent cabins, so get cracking, and get the slaves to work,’ he announced like a pharaoh.

  We rounded a few first-termers to bring our luggage from the box room and do up the rooms. While the first-termers unpacked and did up our rooms, we sat in my room and exchanged notes about the four weeks away from the Academy. Our mouths worked overtime as we tried to speak and feast simultaneously on the snacks packed by our mothers.

  The first-termers employed to do up our rooms needed constant supervision. Each one of us strutted over in turn, and reprimanded them over some silly mistake.

  ‘They are taking too long to do the job. I guess it is time for them to taste some punishment,’ said Randy, striding out importantly. We could hear him roaring at them. ‘You call this cleaning? I will make you eat all the dirt you leave in the room.’

  It seemed like a rerun of our humiliating days, except for the fact that we were not at the receiving end this time. He sent one of them packing, with orders to change into battle dress, for not having dusted his room properly.

  ‘Get back in sixty seconds,’ he commanded.

  The fellow was smart. He disappeared. With so many new faces swarming around, there was no way of tracing him. ‘If I lay my hands on the guy, he’s had it,’ fumed Randy.

  We realized that even ragging required experience. Lesson learnt, we punished the remaining first-termers by asking them to front-roll or climb up to the seventh heaven. We were not letting them out of sight! Maachh even managed to evolve a new punishment: ‘Climb up to the seventh heaven,’ he barked. ‘Climb up the strands of wire one by one while you are hanging.’

  A couple of minutes later came the announcement thatall first-termers were to go to the Quarter Master Store to collect their kits.

  ‘This isn’t fair,’ ranted Maachh. ‘We’ve hardly begun ragging.’

  I was feeling quite benign towards the poor chaps. ‘Have a heart,’ I said. ‘They will be back. We can get hold of themafter lunch.’

  Becoming second-termers doesn’t elevate you to a hallowed position, we learnt soon enough. With no first-termers around, our seniors picked on us to run their errands, much to our chagrin.

  As soon as lunch was over, we pounced on the first-termers. Since it was a holiday, the seniors were having their afternoon siesta, and we ran the place. And boy, did we cash in on the opportunity!

  All the first-termers were as confused as we had been on our first day at the Academy. The bewildered lot sweated under our instructions. At tea-time, Randy caught a cadet, who had latched on to a senior, and made him crawl under the mat in the central corridor, just the way we had been made to do on our first day at the Academy.

  By now, Bertie and Natty had also returned to the squadron. Happily they joined forces. ‘There’s got to be some benefit of being a second-termer,’ said Bertie, as he commanded a first-termer to do some push-ups.

  After a count of thirty, the chap couldn’t do any more. He fell flat on his face and lay still. ‘Don’t ***mother earth!’ shouted Bertie, drawing a large grin from his prey.

  ‘You find that funny, eh?’ Bertie hollered. ‘Wait till I wipe that smirk off your face.’

  He then proceeded to make the guy go through an agonizing round of ‘Puttie Parade’. That really wiped the smile off the cadet’s face.

  While we were punishing the freshers, Giri, a fifth-termer, passed us by. He noticed Maachh’s recently grown drooping moustache, and walked up to our pal.

  ‘You ***ass don’t you know that cadets are not supposed to sport a drooping moochh? Go and shave it off immediately!’ he ordered.

  All this was done in front of the first-termers whom Maachh was trying to bully. It was a humiliating moment, as the freshers tried to control their pleased grins. Maachh was furious.

  ‘I am not going to forget this embarrassment,’ he vowed. ‘Watch out, Giri. I am going to make you pay for it,’ Maachh said, behind the fifth-termer’s back.

  It was time for the evening tea. We saw a waiter from the mess arriving with tea and snacks. He was carrying a huge tray full of pastries. Maachh began drooling at the sight. ‘I say, this is a rare treat. We must have done something good to deserve pastries with tea. I am going to feast on someone’s share today,’ he declared resolutely.

  ‘Look, it is not going to work. Just take your share and be happy about it,’ I warned.

  ‘Like hell I will. Just watch it, buddy. I have got a brilliant idea.’

  By now, we knew all about his brilliant ideas and their results. I sighed resignedly.

  ‘Come here, you moron! Do you know my name and my term?’ He had caught hold of a first-termer and asked his questions belligerently.

  The poor chap had no inkling.

  After ordering him to execute a few front-rolls for the offence, Maachh continued, ‘I am Giri, fifth term. Now go and get my share of pastries, and be snappy about it.’

  We threw him a horrified look. Such a reckless act could only invite trouble, but our pal continued to grin. ‘Don’t worry, Pessi,’ he soothed me. ‘I just saw Giri going out of the squadron. By the time he returns, his share of pastries will be safely tucked in my tummy.’

  The first-termer went and fetched tea and pastries without any difficulty. The trick worked, and Maachh was exhilarated. He had extracted the price for having to shave off his moustache.

  The eats were kept in the CQMS’s room. The rules were simple: the juniors who were running errands for the fifth- and sixth-termers, had to give the name and take the snacks. Elated with the success of his idea, Maachh went on to have the share of three sixth-termers that evening. What happened after the sixth- termers returned is anyone’s guess.

  As in the first term, the routine was gruelling. The only difference was that we were used to it by now, and went about it in a mechanical manner. And so, there was less stress. The civilian orderlies knew their job, and we were entirely dependent on them. So great was the dependence that most of us could not trace our wallets, handkerchiefs, and wrist watches, without their help. They did all the dusting and cleaning, arranged the books on the table, stitched buttons, and performed odd jobs for us. Our cabins were so similar in layout that it was difficult to differentiate between them. After an exhausting day, none of the cadets looked at the cabin number. We would barge into wrong rooms, especially during the beginning of the term. It was only when we looked at the timepiece on the table that we recognized our rooms, because that was the only object that differed.

  Going to Poona on liberty was a big craze. With our wallets bursting with money after the break, we were dying to splurge. It was only after the breaks that we were rich; the rest of the term saw us in abject state of penury.

  ‘Let’s go for a movie, and round off the day with a grand meal,’ suggested Bertie. There was not a single voice of dissent. With the 500 bucks nestling neatly in my wallet, I had no objection to their plans.

  As luck would have it, Maachh and I were refused liberty after a minor scrape with a senior. We had walked into the cabin of a sixth-termer after a drill and sullied his room with our perspiring bodies. The guy got furious at this minor misdemeanour, and ordered us to clean his room instead of going to the city on liberty.

  ‘You guys go ahead,’ I said, a martyred look clouding my face.

  ‘Don’t be idiotic. Either the four of us go, or no one goes,’ declared Randy.

  There is something about the Academy that makes everyone take the word ’ camaraderie’ a bit too seriously. Randy’s sacrifice touched me.

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ I insisted.

  ‘I do,’
Maachh intervened. ‘He is right. Either the lot of us goes, or no one does. It could happen the other way round next time. Wouldn’t you do the same in that case?’

  I knew I would. It wasn’t for nothing that they called me Gandhi.

  ‘But, how do we go?’

  ‘Where there is a will… and all that crap, remember? I have a plan.’ Maachh whispered conspiratorially.

  ‘Oh, no!’ the objection was unanimous. We didn’t need Maachh’s plans. He would manage to screw up everything.

  ‘If we went according to your plans, we would never get a single liberty during the six terms we spend here,’ said Bertie.

  ‘This time, it is foolproof, man. Just listen to me.’

  Resignedly, we decided to give him a hearing.

  ‘We could sneak out to the main road through the dhobi ghat.’

  His suggestion immediately drew vehement objection from Bertie. ‘Are you crazy, man? The dhobi ghat is crawling with stray dogs.’ He was mortally scared of the canine variety ever since he had been bitten by a frisky pup at the age of six.

  He was right. Going out was easy, but returning to the Academy would be tough. After dark, the dogs in the adjoining village as well as the dhobi ghat, couldn’t differentiate between a thief and a cadet. Quite often, truant cadets were bitten by dogs, while returning after a sojourn in the city. It was another matter that no one from Golf squadron had ever been bitten by a dog. The reason was probably the proximity of the G squadron to the dhobi ghat, or maybe the dogs recognized the cadets belonging to our squadron.

  ‘The city is fifteen whole kilometres away,’ I protested. Those not granted liberty were not allowed to travel by the NDA bus going to the city, which meant that we would have to walk or hitchhike.

  ‘Okay, for Bertie it is the dogs, and for you the distance, right?’ Maachh asked. ‘You guys are absolutely piddly. No adventurism at all.’

  ‘There is no word like adventurism,’ commented Bertie.

  ‘You bet there is. I know for sure.’ Maachh was at his argumentative best.

  ‘Cool it, man! Don’t digress from the topic.’ Randy, the umpire spoke up. ‘I will take care of the dogs; I have a way with them.’

  He would. I believed him. He could charm all living things, girls included.

  ‘And who will handle the ustaads prowling around?’ I asked.

  Maachh’s idea was by no means unique. It was a frequently tried and tested one. Cadets who didn’t get liberty would often hazard their way through the dhobi ghat, and the ustaads lying in wait at the other end promptly brought them back.

  We wore old clothes and dark glasses, but the haircut was a sure giveaway, so we all wore caps. That didn’t help much, as the ustaads specially targeted guys with caps. Barely had we stepped near the periphery of the dhobi ghat circumventing all troubles when Ustaad Pyare Lal loomed in the distance. He spotted the four of us, and began running towards us.

  ‘Nonsense, cadet, tham (stop)!’ he roared.

  His words propelled us into a faster gait. We knew that our goose was cooked if we were caught. Most likely, we would be punished severely and disallowed liberty for the rest of the term.

  ‘Run!’ shouted Maachh, leaping over the low wall that surrounded the dhobi ghat. We drew our caps low over our brows and sprinted like rabbits with the ustaad in hot pursuit. The distance and speed made it difficult for him to recognize us. We knew we were safe as long as he couldn’t pinpoint our identity.

  The Academy had made us smart and swift. We could outrun any ustaad, climb any wall, and break through any ambush. Soon, the four of us had gained a good lead, and Pyare Lal fell back, shaking his fist threateningly at us.

  The day spent at the city was all the more enjoyable because of the sense of victory after the escape. The movie, meal, and the bird watching were worth all the trouble and more.

  TN Swami, Tabby for short, a sixth-termer during our second term, was a great character. His room was in a constant state of disorder. The seniors would get after juniors to clean up, but he was a senior, and the boss. Every morning, he would emerge from his room virtually in his undies, and by the time he reached the ground floor, he would be fully dressed, picking things from the rooms of juniors, on his way down.

  As the word about his activities spread, the juniors began avoiding him, and would leave their rooms well before Tabby emerged from his room. When the guy found that the juniors had locked their rooms and left, he began raiding his course mates’ rooms.

  One morning, we found him all black and blue after he came out from the bathing stall. We presumed that he had had a fall. Then we noticed that he had sobered down a lot and had also shed the habit of picking things from others’ rooms. Everyone was relieved. It was much later that we learnt that his own course mates had thrashed Swami for his habits.

  eleven

  p

  The buzz was strong. A new deputy commandant had been posted to the Academy.

  When Commodore Ferreira, who looked, thought and acted like Rommel, took over from his army counterpart, the cadets were delighted because, it was believed, that unlike their army counterparts, the navy chaps were a lenient lot.

  Our happiness was short-lived. Ferreira proved to be a man wilier than the desert fox, and soon he had earned the label ‘Ferreira the Führer’, courtesy Bertie. Although we had yet to meet him, we had heard enough tales about him to warrant caution.

  One morning, at dawn, while it was still dark, we were assembling in the squadron parade ground. It was usually first- to third-termers who came down first, followed by the fourth- and fifth-termers. The sixth-termers never came to the squadron parade ground, but went straight to classes from their cabins.

  At dot 6.00 a.m., a voice barked in the dark, ‘Stand where you are.’ The voice was stern in inflection, loud in tenor, and impeccable in its accent. We stood rooted to the spot. The next moment, the headlights of a black Ambassador car, which was parked behind the bushes, were switched on, and Commodore Ferreira emerged from it.

  ‘Where is your SCC?’ he demanded. ‘I mean, your ex-SCC.’ He had already pronounced the punishment for the SCC.

  On hearing his booming voice, the sixth-termers came running down. Like a one-man court, he dished out punishments to the seniors. He ticked them off for their late arrival, and generally shot off a series of punishments to a couple of sixth-termers who were not properly turned out.

  For the juniors, it was a delightful morning. Any person who punished the seniors was a man to be respected. We were happy to see him sorting out the sixth-termers.

  The moment the SCC came down, he was ordered to remove his shoulder tabs. Ferreira de-tabbed the SCC, and took away the tabs with him.

  After the shock treatment, the Führer began walking around the squads, inspecting the cadets. As Ferreira continued his inspection, tragedy struck Maachh. He didn’t have his bike. Swami, who had a flat tyre, had taken his bike away.

  ‘What is your bike number, son?’ Ferreira asked Macchh.

  ‘107, sir,’ replied the Tragedy King.

  The wily deputy went towards the rear of the squad where the sixth-termers were standing and spotted bike number 107.

  Swami was awarded ‘28 plus 4’, which meant that his entire month was booked; twenty-eight days of running, and four Sundays of the Sinhgad hike. One day more of the same punishment would amount to relegation (losing a term). From that day onwards, the sixth-termers knew they had met their match. There was a palpable smell of fear in the air.

  During the second period, Ferreira landed up at the swimming pool, where the sixth-termers had assembled for their swimming class. He called the G squadron cadets to attention, and displayed the SCC shoulder tabs he had acquired in the morning. Even as the chaps were wondering about his intentions, he said, ‘Anybody wants these?’

  A f
ew hands went up. Everybody wanted to be the SCC, certainly a prestigious appointment.

  ‘Dive from the ten-metre board and it’s yours,’ the Führer shouted.

  The hands that had shot up a moment back were promptly withdrawn from sight. To jump from the ten-metre board was a tough task.

  ‘No one?’ he roared.

  There was a silence thick enough to be cut with a butter knife. After a pause the Führer shouted once more. ‘Up you go, the whole lot of you, and dive from the ten-metre board. Scared of diving, are you?’

  He made all the sixth-termers of G squadron jump six times each from the ten-metre board. The cadets trembled, not because of the height, but because of the devil in the form of Ferreira standing down below.

  IP Singh, or Inky, who hesitated the least and proved to be a good diver, was awarded the tabs of the SCC.

  During the same period, we were informed that we had a new SCC.

  Maachh was thrilled. Now on, no senior ventured to take his bike. Before that fateful day, his bike had routinely found its way to a senior’s hand. As a result, he had to go running to classes most mornings. At the same time, he had never seen a sixth-termer walk to classes.

  ‘***rascals!’’ he ranted. ‘They never walk. I am going to make them run.’

  He decided to deflate the tyres of the sixth-termers’ bikes, targeting those he wanted to extract revenge from.

  ‘What’s the point in deflating their tyres when they can easily fill them up again?’ I asked. ‘Have you forgotten the bicycle-pump lying at the cycle stand?’

  ‘Do you think I am as silly as that? If I deflated the tyres at night, and they discovered them in the morning, it will be too late for them to do anything. Lingering around will make them late for class. Besides, I am going to hide the pump, too.’

  The first time Maachh tried to puncture a bike at night, it made such a loud hissing sound that all cabin windows overlooking the cycle park flung open, and he was caught red-handed. He got a sound thrashing and spent the entire night doing Puttie Parade. That put an end to another one of his brilliant ideas.