‘The experience is impossible to describe,’he began. He closed his eyes, as though he was traipsing down the memory lane. ’There are certain things in life that need to be experienced. They can’t be expressed.’
‘But, you can certainly describe the procedure,’insisted Maachh.
We were eager to hear his spiel.
‘Well, there was this girl – she had the perfect figure – the 36-24-36 kind, and a mesmerizing smile. When I approached her, she smiled, and led me to her room ...’
He paused for effect and we held our breath.
‘What did she wear, or not wear?’ asked Bertie.
‘She was wearing a short, very short skirt with red polka-dots, and a blouse which was knotted at the waist and had a deep plunging neckline.’
His description fitted the scene from a Hollywood film Irma La Douce we had recently watched in the city. Randy winked at me and I winked back. We were enjoying the narration.
‘And what was the room like?’
‘It was like any other room.’
‘Oh, skip the room, what you did in it is the issue,’ said Maachh. He was getting impatient. He was totally involved inthe story.
Natty cleared his throat thoughtfully and continued. ‘I was nervous because it was my first time, but she was experienced so she guided me all the way.’
‘Arrey yaar, you are a total sadist,’ yelled Maachh. ‘Why don’t you tell us the details?’
His allegation upset Natty. ‘Look, I am telling you everything as best as I can. I can’t help it if you are not satisfied. For more explicit details, you will have to go there yourself,’he said, ending his yarn. Poor chap, it was a test of his imagination and he had already milked it dry.
‘You are in the wrong profession,’ remarked Randy, at the end of the narrative. ’You have just missed your vocation,’ Bertie and I whispered conspiratorially.
Natty took offence. ’ What do you mean by that?’ He directed a murderous scowl at Randy.
‘Just that you would have made a good name for yourself if you had gone to Bombay.’
Before the implication of the statement could sink in, and Natty could react to it, Randy walked away. No one ever asked Natty about his experience again.
While the most of us were spent time dreaming of Budhwar Peth and its offerings, it was two gutsy guys from our term, Sood and Pawar, who became overnight heroes.
Each squadron had four officers who were posted on night duty by turns. One night, Flight Lieutenant Tiwari was on duty. The officer had left his motorcycle in the parking lot while he was sleeping in the Fox squadron. No officer ever locked his vehicle inside the campus. Neither did Tiwari.
Sood and Pawar, two fifth-termers, were in a mood to taste the nightlife of the city. They had managed to lay their hands on the keys of a Jawa motorcyle, which, in those days, was common for all Jawas. They quietly pushed Tiwari’s bike for a distance, and when they were sure that no one could hear them, they started it with a kick and took off.
At about 1.00 in the night, a sudden announcement ordering an immediate fall-in resounded through our squadron. Rubbing our eyes, and clad in our robes, we rushed down the stairs and gathered in the squadron parade ground.
There was a commotion as more officers arrived and conferred amongst themselves. It seemed to be a serious matter. ’Where is the fire?’ whispered Randy.
‘Must be in the deputy’s pants,’ retorted Bertie cheekily.
‘Shucks, man!’cursed Maachh. ‘After a tiring day, they don’t even allow one to grab the eight-hour beauty sleep at night.’
The counting of cadets revealed Sood and Pawar to be missing. Where could they be?
The suspense continued for about an hour. Like zombies we continued to stand in the parade ground, cursing all involved.
At around 3.00 in the morning, Sood and Pawar were brought back to the squadron in a police van, and we were finally allowed to go back to sleep.
It was only the next morning that we got to know of the details. Call it a premonition or whatever, Flight Lieutenant Tiwari had suddenly woken up. He peeped out of his window, and found his bike missing. He immediately rang up the city police and reported that his bike had been stolen.
The police swung into action right away, and rounded up Sood and Pawar, who had just finished their business at Budhwar Peth.
The two were brought before the deputy commandant, the next morning. The seriousness of their offence required grave consideration, so the parents were summoned.
Pawar’s father was a colonel in the artillery, while Sood belonged to a business family. After serious deliberation, Pawar was relegated for a term, while Sood, who already had a few offences to his discredit, was thrown out of the Academy.
For a while after the incident, no cadet dreamt of Budhwar Peth and its inhabitants – at least not for a long while.
Bertie’s romance had reached its peak. Almost every other day, he stole to the Gole Market and rang up Bulldog’s residence. If either of Lizzie’s parents picked up the phone, Bertie quickly hung up. But if Lizzie came on the line, his day would turn brighter. They fixed up meetings at the tennis court or the Gole Market. His visits to the church did not stop either. He was floating on cloud nine.
One Sunday, after his church appointment, he came back morose.
‘What ails you, my friend?’ asked Randy.
‘He looks like a monkey that has swallowed a cobra, and doesn’t know whether to gobble it down or spit it out.’ Maachh tried hard to describe Bertie’s expression with an utterly ridiculous simile.
‘Shut up,’retorted our pal-in-pain.
‘Do you have a toothache, buddy?’ asked the irrepressible Bong.
‘Will you please keep this guy away from me?’ requested Bertie. We complied with his wish and silenced the Fish.
‘Okay, spill,’ordered Randy. When Randy took on that tone, no one defied him.
‘It is Lizzie,’ began Bertie. As if we didn’t know it. ‘She has found someone else.’
‘What?’ The three of us suffered synchronized shocks.
‘What makes you think she has abandoned you for someone else?’ I asked.
‘For the past few days she hadn’t stopped talking about the distant cousin who was coming to visit them. He is a moneyed chap settled in the USA. Then she told me that he had brought a whole lot of gifts for her. Today, at the church she hung on to him like a bougainvillea creeper, and failed to recognize me when I smiled at her.’
‘Maybe she wanted to pull wool over the cousin’s eyes,’suggested Maachh.
‘It is over, I know it. It was there in her eyes. She has even begun speaking in a foreign accent to please the guy.’
‘That doesn’t mean that she has forsaken you. Maybe she’s just trying to impress him.’ We tried to console the guy.
‘Why should she do that if she is not interested in him?’
‘Because she wants more gifts… foreign perfumes, for instance. Girls do a lot of things for such stupid material things. I know it,’ Maachh interposed.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ scolded Randy.
Turning to Bertie he asked, ‘Did you have a tiff with her?’
‘No, I never disagree with her.’
‘Then don’t worry. All this means nothing.’
‘That is not all,’he wailed. ‘When I caught up with her near the car park, she froze me with a cold look and hissed dangerously. "Don’t follow me", she ordered.’
‘Bertie boy, don’t give up hope. She will come around,’ Randy soothed.
She never did. Lizzie opted for Mr Moneybags over our Goan boy. Some things never change... girls’preference for well-heeled chaps, for instance. Bertie was heartbroken. He moved around the squadron like a ghost from another century. The world seemed to have c
ollapsed around his ears although we did our best to distract our pal. Randy’s prescription was, ‘Give it time, buddy, no girl is worth so much trouble.’
In a way, Lizzie’s exit from his life proved to be a boon for Bertie. The failed romance continued to depress him for some time but within a few months, he recovered from the heartbreak and directed all his energies into the training. We heaved a sigh of relief at the fast recovery.
We were now in our fifth term. The fun times were over; it was time to perform. From the fifth term, our training groups for the army, navy and air force got segregated. The office holders for the sixth term were also to be decided at the end of fifth term. The cadets who had been performing well were in the race for the honours. The posts of SCC (squadron cadet captain), three DCCs (divisional cadet captains), CSM and the CQMS were the most coveted ones.
Randy, Bertie, and I, were in the fray, and so was Ravi. We knew that none of us would be appointed as a CSM because that office was reserved for the most ruthless chap, and Ravi was the most befitting chap for the appointment. He had already begun to behave like one. Although he was not good at academics, he was good at outdoor activities. He knew that if he did well at outdoors, he would certainly be the CSM, so he practised hurdles running over easy chairs in the corridor, by night. In a way, his practice paid off as, later, he went on to become the NDA record holder for the 400-m low hurdles.
Natty and Maachh knew very well that they were low down in the merit list, and out of the race, so they continued to have good time. ‘Life is too short to spend slogging,’was their motto.
Life became a lot more serious – especially for the competitive lot. Randy was good both at games and academics, and way ahead of the pack. Although Bertie was a late starter, having turned serious after his romance fizzled out, he did well in the fifth term. His grades improved appreciably after his heartbreak and our pep talk. I had been good at academics throughout the training. The only weak points were the outdoors activities and I had to work hard on these to catch up with the others.
We envied guys like Maachh and Natty, who continued to enjoy themselves. They were least interested in grades, and just wanted to pass out of the Academy without being relegated. Maachh knew his limitations, and didn’t harbour any lofty ambitions. Appointments mattered for those who were from a fauji (army) background, as there was pressure on them from the home front. For Randy, it mattered most. His entire khandaan (family) was in the army, and they knew the ins and outs of the services.
‘You guys are lucky,’he said. ‘I have to bag an appointment. The old man will not accept any excuses.’
So, the poor guy laboured on all fronts.
At the end of our fifth term, when the results were announced and the appointments declared, Randy had bagged the prestigious appointment of SCC. Bertie, Haldar, and I, were designated as DCCs; and Ravi, the toughie, became the CSM, as expected. For Bertie and me it was a pleasant surprise.
Lucky Maachh was now the only odd man out in our group who could continue to lead an irresponsible life. With the appointment came the responsibilities, and Randy, Bertie, and I, had the duty of running the squadron.
‘Our carefree life has come to an end,’ Randy announced with regret, the day after we were awarded the stripes. ‘From now on, life is going to be tough.’ Didn’t we know it!
As the countdown began for the POP, the sixth-termers relinquished their charge, and we found ourselves in the thick of all the action. There were times when our conscience was in a dilemma, and we had to choose duty over friendship. With both Maachh and Natty in a wayward mood, it was a difficult option to exercise.
One day, Natty was caught smoking by Sharma, a sixth-termer. The two had gone through a spat a while back, and were looking for opportunities to score over each other. Sharma immediately reported the matter to the CSM. The CSM, in turn, made Natty go through the indignities of punishments. This was too much of an insult for the fifth-termers. We were almost at the end of our fifth term, and such punishments were generally not warranted. For this occasion, we chose camaraderie over responsibility.
‘That guy needs to be sorted out,’ stated Bertie. ‘It was absolutely underhand of Sharma to sneak.’
‘No one squeals on our gang and gets away,’seconded Maachh.
A collective decision was taken. Sharma was to be taught a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
The opportunity arrived on a Saturday, a movie day, when we got to know that Sharma was not going for the movie. Most of the cadets were away at the theatre. The three of us pretended we were going for the movie, and created a lot of din while moving out of the squadron. We loitered around for a while, and sneaked back after the movie had started. The squadron was almost deserted.
Sharma was having a bath, singing at the top of his voice. We got hold of a blanket each, and crept towards the bathroom. As soon as he emerged from the bathroom, we flung the blankets on him, and began raining blows on his back. Two juniors, who saw us, also joined in. Juniors were always looking for a chance to get their hands on seniors.
When we had taken the wind out of him, we dragged him to the toilet, submerged his head into the commode, and flushed his face. Then we blindfolded him, tied his hands behind his back, dumped him in the bathroom, and vanished.
At dinner-time, after the movie, Sharma arrived adorned with bruises in a wide range of black-and-blue. Bertie asked him innocently, ‘What happened, sir?’
‘I slipped in the bathroom,’was all the poor chap could say.
Then came a time when everyone was down with high fever. I can’t say how high the temperature was, but my guess is that it was close to 105 degrees and still rising. Every six months we suffered from the malady of examination fever, and it could go as high as 110 degrees in case of the chaps who had napped during the study periods. Maachh was, of course, one such person. Never known for his academic brilliance, he developed bouts of high fever during the term-end exams. This time was no different.
I caught him making chits on toilet paper, the night before the chemistry exam. Foxed at his love for the toilet roll, I asked, ‘Why are you writing on toilet paper?’
He shook his head irritably and told me to get lost.
The next morning, as we began answering the chemistry paper, I stole a look at him. The chap extricated the little bits of toilet paper from his pencil box and cast furtive looks all around. The invigilator was standing at the other end of the hall. Maachh got busy copying from the little pieces of toilet paper on which he had painstakingly written down the formulae.
It so happened that the chemistry laboratory assistant, an old foe of Maachh was on invigilation duty. As he paced around the room, he spotted our dear friend copying from the chits.
‘Stop! You there!’the ‘lab ass’screamed, bounding towards Maachh’s desk. ’Raise your hands.’
For a moment Maachh looked cornered. The next minute he had swallowed the toilet paper chits. We stopped writing and waited for the fireworks. It turned out to be a damp squib. Maachh was too smart to be caught.
A thorough search of his person revealed no chits, much to the frustration of the lab ass. ‘I saw you cheating,’he fumed, but failed to find any evidence.
Maachh, however, swore vengeance on the poor fellow. ‘He humiliated me in front of the whole class,’he raged.
‘But you were cheating,’ I sermonized.
‘He couldn’t find any chits on me.’ Maachh’s logic was crazy.
‘You swallowed them!’ I said accusingly.
‘So? Can you imagine how difficult it is to swallow toilet paper? It is hard work, I tell you.’
His chance to settle scores with the lab ass came during the chemistry practicals.
‘I am going to throw some aqua regia on that chap’s face,’ Maachh said, gnashing his teeth viciously. The only thing he had learnt was that
aqua regia was the strongest acid that was capable of dissolving almost all metals, including gold.
He proceeded to create the reagent. ‘One part concentrated hydrochloric acid and three parts concentrated nitric acid,’intoned Maachh as he mixed the acids in a glass beaker. His face took on a wicked look as he stared at the resultant mixture.
Spying the lab assistant’s watch on the table, Maachh stole up to it and pushed it down his pocket. With a victorious smile he plonked it into the reagent and added some more acid for effect. God knows what he had added because a moment later, there was a loud bang and deadly fumes began emanating from the beaker. Dropping the beaker, Maachh quickly scampered to the other side of the laboratory and busied himself with the salt analysis test before the lab ass could reach the accident spot.
‘Who did this?’ he shouted, scanning our faces for evidence.
There was no reply. From the other end of the room, I caught the feigned seriousness on Maachh’s face. He was studying the ongoing reaction in a test tube as though his life depended on it.
‘Who put my watch into the acid?’ the lab ass repeated. ’It is a serious offence. Come clean or I will report the matter,’he threatened us.
No one replied. We knew he wouldn’t report the matter because he would have to answer for his carelessness, too.
Despite all efforts, the poor assistant could never discover the identity of the culprit who had dropped his watch in the acid.
The exams were also a time for settling old scores and fuelled a lot of competitive energy in everyone. Bertie had an ongoing feud with Balakrishnan, the brains in our batch. Bala, a studious, bespectacled chap, spent much of his time poring over books, either in his room or in the library.
‘I hate the guts of that guy,’he announced. ‘Why should he be the one to walk away with all the torches each year? I have a strong desire to wipe that smug smile off his mug.’
‘Look, Bertie, he slogs through the year while you have a ball. Naturally, he walks away with the prizes.’
Boots Belts Berets Page 19
