Many of the second-termers had brought exotic things from home. Since most of us had begun shaving just six months back, the desire to own expensive shaving creams, and aftershave lotions, was almost obsessive. As an unwritten law, just Old Spice was permitted to the junior lot. Only the sixth-termers had the privilege of using exotic brands of aftershave lotions. One evening, as we entered the anteroom, our nostrils perked up to the pleasant smell pervading the hall. The scent was overpowering and special. It was quite evident that it was an imported aftershave lotion, and an expensive one, too.
‘Someone’s got rich,’ commented Maachh.
‘Sshhh… could be a sixth-termer,’ I cautioned.
Everyone was silent because no one knew who had used the aftershave, or which brand it was.
The moment the CSM arrived, he asked, ‘Any females around?’
A heavy silence greeted his query. He continued, ‘May I know who is trying to impress someone and whom?’
There was pin-drop silence as we sat like the deaf and mute.
‘I am really impressed, and now I want to know by whom. Who is it? Own up.’ He asked.
A first-termer, Irshad Hussain, tentatively raised his hand, and all heads turned towards him.
‘I pity the poor pig,’ muttered Maachh. ‘He’s going to buy it today.’
No first-termer had ever defied the unwritten rule.
‘What’s the brand?’ the CSM asked Hussain.
‘Brut, sir.’
‘Go, get it.’
The poor chap doubled up to his room and brought the aftershave. It was immediately confiscated by the CSM. Thereafter, the CSM smelt of Brut whenever he went to the city on liberty.
The habit of confiscating expensive things wasn’t restricted to the CSM. Most of the seniors never missed an opportunity to grab whatever came their way. Bertie’s cousin was in the merchant navy, and he brought expensive chocolates, clothes, and perfumes regularly for his kin. The guy had just returned from a long voyage when Bertie went home for the break. We were astounded to see the articles our pal brought with him when he came back from the break. Like a true mate, he gifted each of us something from his collection. For Randy, there was a pack of expensive fags; for Maachh, a cologne; and for me, a smart silk tie.
We decided to smoke in Randy’s room that night. Just as we had begun smoking, in walked a sixth-termer who had smelt the tobacco while passing through the corridor. He had run out of fags, and wanted to borrow some. In return, he was willing to overlook our offence. Smoking in the Academy was banned even for sixth-termers. It was a different matter that they flouted orders and smoked openly inside the squadron – what applied to them didn’t apply to anyone else. If ever a junior was discovered smoking, the fellow would be punished severely, but it was considered the exclusive privilege of the sixth- termers to smoke in the squadron. The others had to smoke on the sly.
‘If you lend me some fags, I can forgive you for the offence,’ he blackmailed us.
Randy had kept a special pack just for such occasions. It was a Marlborough packet with cheaper fags inside. ‘Take as many as you want, sir,’ he offered magnanimously.
The senior was thrilled at the sight of the expensive pack. He nodded his head approvingly, and asked. ‘Can I keep the whole pack?’
Randy winked at us behind the senior’s back, and replied with a straight face, ‘Of course, sir. It is all yours.’
No sooner had he left that we doubled up with laughter.
Randy loved smoking. In fact, he was quite addicted to the habit. The guy smoked nothing less than 555, but when the seniors came to borrow from him, he offered them Charminar, packed in expensive packets. It had helped him to establish a bond with the sixth-termers. Smoking a good brand was considered a status symbol. It was the packet cover that mattered, so most sixth-termers kept cheaper brand fags in exclusive packets, and flaunted them around to impress others. At the same time, when they ran short of fags, they didn’t hesitate to borrow bidis from the civilian orderlies.
Our schedule was crammed with studies, exercises, and learning. The second term was worse because new skills were introduced in our busy routine. One of them was swimming. While the cadets who were from Sainik School knew swimming, there were a few like me who had never ventured near a pool. Of the twenty-two second-termers in the G squadron, there were six of us who had never entered water before.
The night before our swimming classes, I was a worried guy. No amount of reassurance from the gang could console me.
‘You guys will not understand,’ I cried. ‘I suffer from hydrophobia. There is no way I can learn swimming.’
‘Come on, Pessi. You’ve got to give it a shot,’ said Bertie. ‘We’ll be there in the pool with you.’
‘Yeah, the ustaads won’t allow you to drown and sully the pool, so you are in no danger,’ smirked Maachh.
The next morning, I stood shivering near the pool, staring at my reflection in the clear blue water. Tentatively, I stepped into the shallow end with the five non-swimmers, while the rest of my pals enjoyed themselves at the deep end. Gradually, the fear ebbed, and the six of us splashed around at the shallow end like little children. The first day ended quite pleasantly.
The next day was real bad. Ustaad Bahadur Thapa ordered the six of us to enter the deep waters. We looked aghast. How could we enter the deep waters when we didn’t know anything about swimming? I looked at the others for help, but they were as nonplussed as I.
The ustaads came at us with long poles and pushed us into the deep end. My fervent pleas drew no sympathy from them. I spluttered and swallowed litres of water. I have never prayed as hard as I did at that moment, sincerely invoking all the deities I could think of. The thought that I would meet my watery grave so far away from home made me absolutely miserable.
In desperation I tried to cling on to the ustaad’s long pole, but he gave me a nasty shove and I fell into the water. Determined to cling on to the pole, I caught hold of it again and wouldn’t let him shake me off. This time, the ustaad let go of his pole, and I went down with it. I struggled to rise up from the bottom where I had sunk with the pole, and managed to emerge spluttering. Having drunk a bellyful of water, I struck out blindly with my limbs, trying to keep myself afloat. I was panting and puffing with exertion and fright. My eyes were bloodshot, and my lungs were on fire as I tried to stop breathing, for fear of swallowing more water.
The wild flapping of the limbs worked, and I managed to surface. Clinging desperately to the railing, I tanked up oxygen. The moment I had caught my breath, the ustaad emerged from the shadows and pushed me into the deep end once again. I began paddling and striking with my limbs, just as I had seen the others do – anything to keep myself from going down.
The second day was spiced up by an interesting incident. After our swimming lessons, when we emerged from the changing rooms, we found Maachh missing. He was still sitting in the pool, half submerged in the shallow water. The guy refused to emerge from his watery refuge. While swimming, the Tragedy King’s swimming trunk, with its loosened elastic waist band, had slipped to the bottom of the pool. Nude as the day he was born, he clung to the railing, with only his head above the water. The ustaad finally realized his predicament, and threw him a towel, which the fish wrapped around his torso, and emerged amid catcalls.
The NDA teaches you fast. It was a matter of staying alive and afloat. Rocky learnt to keep afloat the very first day. I learnt it the second day, and the rest of the non-swimmers learnt it within the next two days. Once we had learnt to keep ourselves buoyant in the water, we were taught the correct breathing techniques, and the arm and leg movements. To practise the breaststroke, we were made to lie on our bellies on the floor and simulate the movements. Keeping the hands and legs off the floor was a major effort. This exhausting exercise carried on for a long time. It was a punishment, which
we could escape only by getting into the water and practising the strokes effectively.
Within a week, I was able to manage a few strokes, and was taken off the floor. Surprisingly, I began to enjoy swimming. My hydrophobia was a thing from the past, and I was filled with an ambition to master the breaststroke. Maybe my seriousness had something to do with the weightage this stroke was given during the end-of-the-term swimming test. The jump from the ten-metre board was, of course, another matter. I dreaded it just much as everyone else did. Ninety-nine per cent of the cadets never practised the jump from the ten-metre board.
Randy seemed to be the only guy who enjoyed diving from that height.
‘Once you get down to it, the damn thing is quite simple,’ he boasted.
‘All you have to do is go up on to the board, stare straight, and keep walking till you fall into the water.’
It was this seemingly stupid suggestion that helped me when the time came for the dive.
Passing the swimming test was mandatory or one lost a term. Of all the fears, ‘relegation’ was the one the cadets dreaded the most. So, even the worst case of hydrophobia got cured within a few days. By the end of the second term, there was hardly any difference between a novice and a champion. Cadets who learnt swimming in the second term went on to become swimming record holders in the fifth and sixth terms.
twelve
p
‘Iwonder what they take us to be – Superman or Phantom? We are expected to be know-alls. Talk about great expectations,’ cribbed Maachh. ‘One can’t be a good swimmer, boxer, rider, athlete, shooter, and yet be good in academics. Next, they will want us to sprout wings and fly in the sky.’
‘And to think that I joined the NDA because I thought I wouldn’t have to slog over my lessons,’ rued Bertie.
‘I don’t understand why you guys are cribbing so much,’scolded Randy. ‘I would love to be a Superman. If you had to learn all these skills elsewhere, you would land up paying through your nose. Do you know how much it costs to learn any of these things?’
‘I couldn’t be bothered, ’retorted Bertie. ‘Who wants to learn all this, anyway?’
‘There is an easy explanation for all this. When you join the army and have to fight a war, how will you cross a river if there are no bridges on it?’ I reasoned. ‘That is why you have to learn swimming.’
‘I guess I will have to spar with the enemy, and ride horses to the battle, ’Bertie said sarcastically.
This particular exchange of thoughts was taking place after our first boxing lesson. That morning, during the PT period, we had been made to wear boxing gloves, and taught the techniques of boxing.
‘Cadet, pack in some power behind your punch,’ the instructor commanded, amused at my puny attempts. I convinced myself that the punching bag was a senior’s face and that helped a little.
‘I wish it was the ***CSM’s face I was punching, ’ panted Maachh, landing a solid blow on his punching bag.
I guess most of the juniors were using the punching bag to release their frustration. Shadow boxing was a real howler, as each of us tried to spar with our shadows.
By the end of the practice, our arms were painful appendages.
‘How I wish I could remove my arms and hang them somewhere,’ moaned Bertie, massaging his biceps.
When a friendly third-termer overheard us complaining, he commented, ‘You morons, stop cribbing about your aching arms! Wait till you begin riding. You will be complaining about your sore bottoms then.’
His words came true too soon. Within a couple of days, we found ourselves cycling towards the stables, which were located near the glider drome.
The only horses I had seen in my life were the ones seen during the marriage season, on which the dulhe raja (bridegroom) rode – probably, the same ones were used to pull tongas during the off season. But seeing a horse up close had a sobering effect, for one never knew when it may kick one. From close quarters, the horses seemed larger than the ones I had seen. They looked all the more daunting when you had to mount them without using stirrups. As usual, the Sainik School cadets were one up on the public school ones. Most of them were good riders.
Our first lesson began with an introduction to the horses and the saddlery. We were dressed up in our riding gear, which comprised riding breeches and a pith hat. Even the horses seemed to be accustomed to this particular dress. We were supposed to pat the horses and say ‘shaabash ghoda (good horse)’ thrice, to which the animals responded with a neigh, as though in acknowledgement of our appreciation. This drill seemed to establish a bond between the cadet and the horse.
On the first day, we were made to practise the art of mounting and dismounting the horse, after which we were let loose in a wooden enclosure with our steed. My horse, Gambhir, wore a philosophical look on its handsome face.
I was hesitant to mount my charger although it looked benign enough to allay my fears. Intending to establish a tighter bond, I patted it the specified number of times, and repeated the procedure again for good measure. Like a parrot, I kept repeating ‘shaabash ghoda’ nervously. Gambhir looked solemnly at me and neighed sympathetically. I got a feeling that it could read my predicament precisely.
‘Dhyan de, cadet (Pay attention cadet)!’ barked Ustaad Raghubir Singh, the tall and stalwart Rajput with a safa (turban) on his head. He looked formidable with his huge twirling moustache. ‘Cadet, mount. Pehle canter karega phir trot (First you will canter and then trot),’ he instructed.
The ustaads were experts, and many of them had won medals at national and international competitions.
I looked askance first at the ustaad and then at Gambhir. The ustaad took the lead, and the rest of us followed dutifully. The horses seemed to know their job very well. We didn’t have to do anything because they followed the ustaad’s horse in a disciplined manner. This was an exercise meant for the horse and the rider to get used to each other. Although I didn’t seem to get used to the horse, Gambhir seemed to have got used to me. Maybe it sensed my nervousness, and responded with courtesy.
After a couple of rounds, the ustaad, satisfied with the progress of his cadets, shouted, ‘Chaal badal (Change the pace).’ It was an indication for the horses to begin trotting.
Gambhir seemed to understand the ustaad’s commands better than I, and followed the horses without any effort from me.
Cadets who showed confidence in handling the horses after the first lesson, were taken out for cross-country riding, with the ustaad leading. I, however, continued to go round in circles within the safety of the wooden enclosure. From time to time, a couple of horses would return sans the rider, and that made me determined to continue trotting safely within the enclosure. Seeing the thrown rider limping behind as the squad returned to the stables, was a discomfiting experience.
One day, Randy’s horse returned without him. As I craned my neck anxiously to catch a glimpse of him, he made his appearance, all dishevelled and bruised. For once, his tall figure had done the damage. He had been knocked off when his horse ran into a low branch.
Bertie was thrown off his steed when Toofan, his horse, bucked and reared. Such incidents were quite common in the beginning, but they managed to scare me. I tried to delay my cross-country ride as long as possible, till the ustaad got after me.
‘Nonsense, cadet!’ he shouted. ‘Ghode par mount karega aur chalega (Mount the horse and move)!’
It was during the cross-country rides that the battle for the fattest or the slowest horse would begin. Tota, an oddly named horse, was the uncrowned king of sloth. No one remembered seeing Tota run or step up its pace despite all kinds of threats and cajoling. Like an enlightened one who has attained a fair degree of spirituality, the horse remained unruffled even during the most provocative situation. Kabutar, another enlightened soul, though not in Tota’s class, maintained a calm disposition for most of hi
s waking hours. For those who wanted to avoid riding, Tota was the first choice, followed by Kabutar, and Mayur. I made a beeline for Tota, but there were two other second-termers fighting over the bemused horse. Ultimately, I had to settle for Kabutar, who turned out to be easier to ride than the fast and wilful ones like Gaddar and Toofan.
All second-termers dreaded riding Sher Khan, Gaddar and Toofan. These three horses formed a treacherous trio, with a penchant for kicking and bucking. Invariably, they ensured that their riders had a nasty fall. Only the best riders could return unscathed after riding them.
If a cadet had the misfortune of spoiling the ustaad’s mood, he would be handed over one of the notorious horses as punishment. Bertie, who never refused a challenge, suffered under the illusion that he was an excellent rider, and accepted a wager for riding Toofan. That was when he was thrown off, and came limping back to the stables.
Although life had gone into the fourth gear for all of us, crowded as it was with different kinds of training and academics, whatever spare time we had was spent thinking about food and girls, in the reverse order.
Randy was a cool guy with a natural flair for attracting girls. He didn’t have to bother about chasing them. They were attracted to him like goats to green grass. All he had to do was loll around the Gole Market, and he was sure to make a conquest.
Maachh was a loser. He could neither attract girls nor get them off his mind. The only girls he had ever conversed with were his sister’s friends, and they talked to him more out of concern for his sister than his charm.
For Bertie, girls were a challenge. He would seek them out, act gallant with them, and press his luck. Though not a bad looker, his over-enthusiasm frightened the girls away. There was always an ongoing competition between Maachh and him where girls were concerned.
As for me, my nervousness with girls fetched me only solicitous and motherly attention. In school, I had been sought out by girls who wanted me to solve difficult mathematical problems, but I could never venture beyond the complex math problems. It had something to do with my childhood. Surrounded as I was by my domineering sisters, I found the female sex intimidating. Although I dreamt of having a steady girlfriend, gathering up courage to woo a girl remained a distant dream.
Boots Belts Berets Page 12
