After our break, most cadets returned with photographs of smiling girls in their wallets. Everyone proclaimed them as photographs of their girlfriends, but most probably, they were just boasting. Very few cadets from the second term had any girlfriends, at least, not the steady kind who would give them photographs.
One evening, as we climbed into the tank, the conversation veered towards girlfriends. Maachh carried the photo of his girlfriend in his wallet, or so he claimed to our sceptical gang.
‘How long have you known her?’ asked Bertie, clearly jealous when he saw the beautiful, smiling girl in the picture.
‘Oh, a long time now,’ replied Maachh flippantly, as though he were a casanova, and romantic affairs were routine for him.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘How does it matter whether you believe it or not?’ Maachh retorted belligerently. ‘I know what’s going through your mind. You must be thinking that no girl would look at me, but the truth is somewhat different, my dear friend.’
The matter was getting out of hand, and Randy, as usual, had to intervene.
‘Okay chaps, it is time to call a truce. One thing I want to make clear at this stage is that we should never squabbleabout girls.’
I seconded the proposal, and both of them made a solemn promise not to fight over girls.
Bertie and Maachh were forever on the prowl, seeking females. They were ceaselessly working out ways and means of befriending them. The two seemed to be obsessed with the idea of introducing the flavour of romance in their barren lives.
Their favourite hunting ground was the Gole Market. The funniest part was that Bertie didn’t want Maachh to accompany him during his forays there. ‘It cramps my style,’ he complained to me. ‘No girl will look my way if that buffoon accompanies me.’
Frankly speaking, I found Bertie a nice and lovable chap. He was quite good-looking. Besides, he had a fantastic sense of humour. I liked the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed, giving him a very impish look. The only department where he was a little lacking was height. But he more than made up for it with his attractive smile. He was loaded with charm, and full of chivalry. Besides, he was a terrific dancer, while Maachh had two left feet. Maybe being a Goan gave him these advantages. When it came to wooing a girl, he was far ahead of the poor Bong.
Bertie’s hunting ground was restricted to the Gole Market, and his favourite haunt was the card shop, which was frequented by sentimental girls who picked up cards for all occasions. Like a gentleman, Bertie would leap to open the door for them, or perform some equally gallant action. His gestures were designed to melt the toughest of hearts. The only obstacle in his path was Maachh, who was always in tow.
One look at Maachh, and his gaping mouth, and the girls would make a quick exit. Not surprisingly, Bertie’s first task was to shake off Maachh.
‘I have to call my mom,’ was his oft-repeated excuse. Thereafter, he would head in the direction of a public phone booth, leaving Maachh to do his window-shopping, and while Maachh unsuspectingly remained engrossed in the task, Bertie would sneak off in another direction. It was difficult to shake off the obstinate chap because Maachh was always a step behind.
Bertie realized that he would not be able to make any headway as long as he was saddled with Maachh, so he hit upon an idea.
There was a small church within the campus, and Bertie decided to get devout. It was one place where, he was sure, Maachh wouldn’t want to tag along. The next Sunday, dressed neatly in his mufti, and smelling of Old Spice, Bertie made his way to the church.
‘Why has he suddenly turned religious?’ wondered Maachh.
‘Must be the tests looming in the distance,’ I hazarded a guess.
‘Not likely.’ Maachh shook his head doubtfully. ‘I know the guy inside out, down to his bone marrow. He is not the religious kind.’
He confronted Bertie immediately upon his return.
‘Did Jesus listen to your prayers and throw some good-looking girl in your path?’
‘Shut up,’ replied Bertie, irritated with Maachh’s questioning.
‘Don’t try to duck, man. We all know why you went to the church.’
‘I am a Catholic, and my religion demands that I visit the church every Sunday. Anything wrong with that?’
‘Nothing except that I don’t believe the reason for your visit.’
‘Who cares what you think?’
‘It’s okay, Bertie. What Maachh means is that one could do two things at a time. For instance, you could pray while concentrating on the girl seated in front of you,’ Randy commented.
His remark diffused the strain. Randy was the unquestioned leader of the pack. He was a balanced guy, with the right mix of seriousness and light-heartedness.
The next Sunday, Bertie again made his way to the church, while we went to the city on liberty.
‘I know he is up to no good,’ Maachh was brimming with resentment. ‘What kind of a pal is he to desert the gang?’
‘Let him be,’ said Randy. ‘Why can’t you leave him alone? He will come back when his mission is accomplished.’
Although disgruntled, Maachh held his tongue when he realized that both Randy and I were not in favour of interfering.
Three times in a row, Bertie did not come with us to the city. This was a serious turn of events.
‘It is time we paid our homage to Jesus Christ,’ said Randy. ‘We’ll tail Bertie when he goes to the church next Sunday.’
Maachh enthusiastically supported the suggestion. ‘Yes, we must. We must see what the guy is up to.’
‘Shouldn’t we leave him alone?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Certainly not! He is a pal, isn’t he? If he is in trouble, it is our duty to rescue him,’said Maachh, expressing his solidarity.
‘According to you, he is tailing some girl, so how could he get into trouble?’ I asked.
‘Girls are the biggest trouble a guy could have,’ he replied seriously.
Maachh was absolutely vehement about shadowing Bertie to the church. I could literally see him rubbing his hands gleefully in anticipation of catching him red-handed.
The next Sunday, the three of us began following Bertie from a respectful distance. We need not have bothered. The guy was so preoccupied that he didn’t look back even once.
Silently, we slid into a pew at the back. From our vantage point, we watched our friend as he took his place in the second row, just behind a curly-haired damsel. Saner chaps than Bertie have fallen in love at the first sight of a pert nose, and a pair of mesmerizing eyes shining under a pair of arched brows; and this one even had a mole above her upper lip.
‘Wow! I don’t blame him for his recent conduct,’ Maachh declared sotto voce.
The three of us stared appreciatively at the object of Bertie’s fancy. She was worth relegation, we agreed. We slipped out of the church just as the service was getting over, and stood behind a clump of trees lining the path.
The crowd of Sunday worshippers began emerging after a while.
‘What’s Bulldog doing here?’ whispered Maachh, pointing to the heavy-jowled man walking beside the curly-haired angel.
‘He’s also a Catholic,’ reminded Randy, ‘doing what every other Catholic in the campus is doing.’
The Bulldog, Mr Stephen D’Souza, our geography instructor was well known in the Academy. He was a temperamental chap, cool one instant, and hot the other.
‘Oh man!’ Randy slapped his forehead. ‘The female is Bulldog’s daughter!’ Being in the vicinity of the church had definitely had an effect on Randy.
‘Bertie has had it,’I commented.
The Bulldog was not known for his kindness. Besides, Bertie’s performance in geography had been miserable. He couldn’t differentiate between Australia and Russia on the world map. To
his ignorant mind, Meghalaya was a part of Sikkim, and he never scored more than thirty-five in the subject, which just about got him through.
‘Can’t imagine Bulldog having such a pretty daughter,’ sighed Maachh.
‘He will rip Bertie apart if he gets to know of his interest in the daughter,’ I predicted. ‘He’s not named Bulldog for nothing.’
‘Let’s get back,’ Randy commanded. We had no intention of being caught by Bulldog. Besides, we had seen enough.
We picked up our cycles, and began pedalling furiously back to the squadron. The intention was to reach there before our pal.
After dinner, in our battle tank that night, Maachh cornered Bertie, ‘Don’t you want to stay in our group any longer?’ he asked Bertie seriously.
‘Where is the doubt, man?’ Bertie replied.
‘There shouldn’t be secrets among friends, don’t you agree?’
‘There are no secrets,’ replied Bertie, puzzled where the discussion was leading.
‘Well, then, share with us the happenings at the church,’ said Maachh. He looked at us for support, but we pretended to be deeply engrossed in our fags. Randy and I had decided to keep out of the discussion. We would step in only if things got hot.
Bertie was clearly not in a mood to share the details of his rendezvous with us. When the Fish’s efforts at interrogation failed, Randy and I decided to get the truth out of him. Puffing on our fags stylishly, we embarked on the job.
‘Bertie, wouldn’t you like to share your experience with us?’ began Randy. ‘We are your pals, after all.’
No one dared to defy Randy when he took on that tone.
‘Actually, there isn’t much to share.’ Bertie let out a ring of smoke through his nostril. He had perfected the art, much to Maachh’s embarrassment, since he had been trying to blow the curly ribbons of smoke for a long time.
‘He is not going to tell us,’ declared Maachh, his nostrils flared with the effort of blowing smoke rings.
‘We are waiting, Bertie,’ Randy reminded gently.
‘Okay. I will tell you all that happened,’ the guy finally relented. ’The first time I went to church I happened to sit behind a lovely female. She was the best-looking girl I have ever seen.’
A dreamy look floated over Bertie’s face.
‘I waited for her to look back, which, of course, she didn’t. At the end of the Mass, when everyone was moving out, I saw her father. He turned out to be our geography instructor, D’Souza. I was so upset with the discovery that I doubled back to the squadron without approaching her.’
‘You fool!’swore Maachh. ‘You should have gone up to Bulldog and wished him.’
‘Do you really think I should approach the Bulldog?’ Bertie asked Randy.
‘I think you should. Like cancer, he would either be benign or malignant. If he is benign, you can continue haunting the church, and his daughter, without any fear, but if he is malignant, stop the pursuit immediately. That’s my advice.’
As usual, Randy’s analysis made sense.
‘Just think about it. The church is the ideal place for such an experiment. He couldn’t tear you apart in a religious place, and that too, just after singing hymns,’I added my bit of wisdom.
The Sunday after that, we all decided to share the experience of Bertie’s interaction with the Bulldog.
‘It will boost my confidence,’ he said, requesting our presence.
It would be a make or break affair. We decided to trade it for a morning of window-shopping in the city.
‘Having you guys around will give me moral strength,’ said Bertie.
‘Don’t worry, that’s what buddies are for. We’ll hide behind the nearest clump of trees and pray for your welfare,’ I assured him.
‘If you want us to cheer you, we’ll do that,’ Maachh added flippantly.
Concealed in the safety of the bushes, we waited for the Bulldog and others to emerge from the church after the Mass, which he did soon enough, smiling from cheek to cheek. His wife, a docile-looking woman, followed a step behind, with the daughter.
‘He’s in a good mood,’ said Randy.
‘Imagine the Bulldog smiling,’ tittered Maachh, pleased with his comment. ‘He must be a bully at home. Look at his timid wife and daughter.’
‘Bulldog wouldn’t be ferocious if he had a harridan for a wife,’ I commented philosophically.
‘Harridan! What’s that?’ asked Maachh, wanting to brush up his vocabulary.
‘Don’t bother, you wouldn’t understand,’ consoled Randy, patting his shoulder.
‘There he comes,’ shouted Maachh. Our pal had materialized.
Bertie, who was tailing the crowd, suddenly straightened his shoulders and approached the geography instructor. We could easily hear the two of them from our vantage point.
‘Good morning, sir,’Bertie greeted the Bulldog politely.
‘Good morning,’the Bulldog replied, his brows arching into a dangerous angle of irritation. He looked at our pal as though he were a toad that had hopped out of the pond right on to his bed. It was clear that Bertie’s intrusion was not welcome.
The girl was watching the interaction intently.
‘I am Cadet Albert Rebello, sir,’Bertie tried again. He was wiping his sweaty palms on the seat of his trousers. His feet were constantly shuffling, a sure giveaway of his nervousness. We felt sorry for the chap.
‘Tcchhh,’sympathized Randy. ’All this humiliation just for a girl …’
Randy was a complete male chauvinist.
‘Oh, yes, you are in the second term, aren’t you?’ said the Bulldog sternly. ‘I remember now. Your grades in geography are miserable, my son. Work harder on the subject instead of tailing your instructors.’ His manner was as frosty as the weather in Antarctica. Our chum nodded his head dutifully, croaked out a reply, and moved out of the Bulldog’s path. Bertie looked awfully crestfallen. It was downright mean of the Bulldog. We could imagine Bertie’s position. Imagine being snubbed before the very girl you wanted to impress. Randy’s face was the hue of a black storm as we rode back to the squadron. ‘That guy hits below the belt,’ he hissed.
It was a very glum Bertie who returned to the squadron later in the morning.
‘It was your idea that I should wish the Bulldog.’ He blamed us for the fallout. ‘I should not have listened to you guys.’
‘That idiot of a Bulldog,’ raged Randy. ‘How dare he insult you right in front of the church crowd?’
‘Sorry, Bertie,’ I apologized for the gang. ‘We never thought he would turn out to be such a cad.’
‘What’s a cad?’ Maachh intervened. ‘Something like bad?’
‘Never mind,’ said Randy. ‘You took a chance and it didn’t work. That doesn’t mean that you should get so dejected.’
Over dinner, a collective decision was made. The Bulldog needed to be taught a lesson.
Our minds were ticking furiously as we discussed various plans and discarded them. As usual Maachh came up with the most preposterous ideas.
Finally, it was decided that we would puncture his scooter tyres, for three days in a row. That would be revenge enough. Each of us was assigned the task of deflating the Bulldog’s tyres on the designated days.
First, it was Randy’s turn. He performed the job without any problem, while Maachh kept vigil. We need not have worried about being seen. If a cadet came across another one deflating an instructor’s tyres, he would’ve been just too pleased. No one squealed on anyone, that was the first rule in the Academy – not even under extreme provocation. The seniors and the instructors were our sworn enemies.
A little while later, the pompous instructor arrived at the parking lot, and kicked his scooter to a start. Minutes later, he dismounted and stared at the deflated tyre. We watched gleefully
from a distance, as the Bulldog walked his scooter home that afternoon, in the sweltering heat. Phase one of the operation had been carried out successfully.
It was my turn next. I did my bit without any hitch, and we watched again as the Bulldog stared disbelievingly at his scooter tyres, and cursed. He realized it was no accident. The tyre couldn’t have developed another puncture the very next day.
It was on the third day, during Maachh’s turn to puncture the tyres, that things went wrong. The Tragedy King, as usual, was on an overdrive. He decided to break the rear-view mirror as well. While he was in the act of extracting revenge, we spied the Bulldog arriving.
There was no time to warn our friend, who was busy hitting the mirror with a large stone. Maachh stood there for a moment admiring his handiwork when the Bulldog appeared round the bend. It took him an instant to understand what Maachh was doing, and he ran towards the parking lot, his face a furious crimson. The Bulldog began yelling at Maachh, who took off on his spindly legs on the double.
‘Stop! Stop, you *** cadet!’ shouted the Bulldog, running after him. ‘Come here, this instant!’
But there was no stopping Maachh. Without a backward glance, he disappeared into the maze of classes in the Sudan Block.
The Bulldog hadn’t been able to recognize our pal from the back. It was a close shave, and we heaved a sigh of relief. He reported the matter to the deputy who assured him that an investigation would be launched. For the next two weeks, the Bulldog left his scooter home and walked to the classes, sometimes taking a lift from another instructor. We had a tough time keeping a straight face each time we attended his class. The dirty looks he directed at us gave us a feeling that he knew who the culprits were, but had no proof to substantiate his suspicions.
Boots Belts Berets Page 13
