Boots Belts Berets

by Tanushree Podder

  ‘Imagine, coming so close to Harish’s place and not being able to meet him,’lamented Natty.

  ‘If I were you I would have hiked up to Maruni and met him,’ said Randy.

  ‘Are you crazy? We have already walked hundreds of kilometres, and Maruni is another fourteen kilometres away. The guy will collapse,’I vetoed the idea.

  ‘Correction, Pessi! We have not walked hundreds of kilometres. We are not Alexander’s soldiers,’ reminded Randy. ‘Besides, what is the use of all the training if he can’t trudge up another fourteen?’

  Both Maachh and Bertie seemed to agree with the idea.

  ‘You could get us some sweets, while you are at it,’ said Maachh, who had no remorse about sending the guy on Mission Impossible just so that he could indulge his sweet tooth.

  Natty looked doubtful. ‘Even if I walked all the way, it would take me a long time, and I wouldn’t be able to return before morning.’

  ‘Of course you could. Just keep running like the character in the movie The Longest Day or was it The Longest Night?’ asked Maachh.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ said Natty, annoyed. ‘That way you will get to eat the sweets, and I will have company.’ That wiped the smirk off Maachh’s face.

  ‘Look, tomorrow we have a virtually free day.’ Randy was thoughtful. ‘There are no marches on the agenda. Only the preparations for the campfire are on the schedule. I think you can make it.’

  He was trying his best to motivate the guy. Although Natty was reluctant because the route involved going over a hillock, and wooded area with only a footpath marked on the map, the thought of meeting his brother and sister-in-law, tempted him to consider the idea.

  Finally, it was decided that he would leave the camp at about 3.00 in the morning, so that he would be there by 6.00, and after breakfast with his brother, he could start again. We would hold the fort in his absence.

  Natty had a harrowing experience. After the gruelling journey through the hillocks and wooded area, he managed to reach the village when the sun was peeping out of its hideout. His dress was in an awful state, torn by brambles at some places. His hair looked unkempt, and he had not shaved either. The shoes and trousers were stained with mud and muck. He looked like a miserable tramp. He washed himself at the public tube well, smartened himself up as best as he could, and went around asking about his brother.

  At last he found the house and pressed the doorbell. A lady opened the door, and Natty recognized her immediately. She was his sister-in-law. Before he could utter a word, she vanished, leaving him at the door. Natty thought she had gone to call his brother. Nothing of the sort happened. His sister-in-law returned, alone, with a chapatti and a couple of coins.

  Natty could not understand what hit him. He quietly put forth his hand, and accepted the alms that his sister-in-law offered, mistaking him to be a beggar. It was an anti-climax to his fourteen-kilometre-long rough hike through hard terrain.

  Stunned, he turned back, and headed for the camp. He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he approached us.

  twenty-one

  p

  The days flew, and the term seemed to pass too soon for our liking. One of the activities that became frequent in the sixth term was firing. We had to cycle down to the firing range with our rifles, and fire the whole day.

  The firing range was totally barren and devoid of any kind of vegetation. The nearest tree, with sparse foliage, was about a 100 metres away. With the noon sun shining mercilessly overhead, the ustaads scrambled for cover under the nearest tree, while the officer read books in the shade of his tent, which had been pitched at a vantage spot overlooking the firing range.

  For the cadets, there was no respite. Dust, heat, and the loud, deafening pounding was our lot.

  One noon, we were firing on four feet x four feet targets placed at a distance of 100 metres. As we continued firing, an unusually heavy cloud of dust covered one side of the range.

  Captain Sabharwal, who was reading his favourite author’s novel The Prodigal Daughter, noticed from a distance that a cadet was firing grossly off the mark. As the rounds landed far and wide, the impact of their fall raised dust. Not willing to relinquish the book, which had reached an interesting turn, he rushed with the novel to the range where the cadets were firing. To Sabby’s misfortune, the Führer had decided on an inspection of the firing range, that noon.

  The deputy headed straight for Sabharwal and ordered an immediate halt of the firing. Then he proceeded towards the target area with Sabby by his side. Tension mounted as the Führer inspected the targets. Suddenly, the deputy stopped before a target. Shock clouded his features as he stared at the virgin target unmarked by a single bullet hole. While all the other targets had quite a number of hits, this one was shining clean. He snorted angrily and barked, ’Whose target is this?’

  It was Maachh’s target. The poor guy began trembling and tried to hide behind Captain Sabharwal.

  The Führer looked at Sabharwal squarely, and in a voice dripping with acid, said, ‘Captain, you are an asset to the enemy, and with the guys you are training, especially the one trying to hide behind you,’ pointing at Maachh, he continued, ’we’ll definitely win the next war.’

  Ferreira was never benign when confronted with such situations.

  Sabharwal had no comments to offer. He gnashed his teeth, and threw deadly looks at Maachh, who was squirming with discomfort under the severe scrutiny.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour, and if I don’t see a marked improvement in that cadet’s firing (hinting at Maachh), off you go, back to your regiment,’ pronounced the deputy.

  Before he sat in his car, he cautioned Sabharwal, ‘And Captain, stop reading books on sons and daughters. Read military history, it will do you a lot more good.’ He drove off, pumping a lot of dust into Sabharwal’s stunned face.

  Sabharwal stomped back to Maachh, who was waiting for something terrible to happen. The captain was furious. He had been threatened and insulted by the deputy within the earshot of his cadets. He called Ustaad Bahadur Thapa, who was in charge of ammunition that day.

  Thapa had won a silver medal at the Commonwealth Games in shooting. He was a professional trainer, and had a sharp eye for detail, a quality required by an instructor.

  ‘Ustaad, charge sambhaal (Ustaad, take charge),’ roared Sabharwal, pointing at Maachh.

  Bahadur Thapa hollered at Maachh for a couple of minutes, then spent the next half an hour making him execute front-rolls, and an assortment of punishments. Sabharwal, who was watching all this, was getting restless as the deadline set up by the deputy was fast approaching. He kept gazing at his watch, while the ustaad continued punishing Maachh instead of getting down to business and making him fire.

  Sabharwal was quite worried. There was just half an hour before the Führer returned, and Maachh had not yet commenced firing. ‘Theek hai, ustaad, ab aap isko practise karayen (That’s enough, ustaad. Now get this chap to practise),’he commanded the ustaad, his patience finally giving way.

  With hardly fifteen minutes to go before the Führer returned, the ustaad pushed Maachh, who was panting and sweating by now, to the firing point.

  Maachh assumed the firing position, and just as he was about to fire, the ustaad gave him a tight shove, ‘Is this the way you take aim?’ he yelled, ‘Where is your back-sight?’

  Maachh had forgotten to lift the back-sight of the rifle, without which one cannot take aim. It was a technical fault and the canny eyes of Bahadur Thapa had detected the flaw right from the beginning. No wonder he had sadistically subjected Maachh to all sorts of punishment for almost forty-five minutes, while Sabharwal sweated.

  The deputy arrived exactly after an hour, confident that Maachh would still be shooting off the target, and he would get an opportunity to holler at Sabby. But Maachh, now with the back-sight of his SLR up
, fired with cool confidence. All rounds hit the target, and the Führer was amazed at the tight grouping Maachh had achieved.

  Flummoxed at the sudden improvement in Maachh’s firing, he went around the target twice. ‘Amazing!’he finally declared, unable to find any faults. ‘What did you do in just an hour to turn an ass into a horse?’ he asked.

  Sabharwal, who was in a state of shock himself, had no answer. It was all Thapa’s doing, anyway.

  ‘Excellent work, Captain,’proclaimed the deputy. ‘I take back my words.’

  He went on to reward Sabby by announcing , ‘I confer on you the responsibility of training the NDA firing team.’

  The Führer was still shaking his head in disbelief as he walked back to his car.

  Elated at the honour, Sabharwal did not know whether to thank or curse Maachh.

  Trouble followed Maachh like Samson trailed Delilah.

  Three days after the firing range incident, he fell off his horse while riding. Kabutar, normally a well-behaved horse, suddenly decided to buck while Maachh was trying to coax it into a faster trot. The Tragedy King had a bad fall and dislocated a bone in his left arm.

  He was rushed to the hospital where, much to Maachh’s consternation, Manisha took charge of him. ‘What have I done to deserve Madame Cruella’s prescription?’ he wailed pathetically.

  Our pal was admitted in the hospital for a couple of days to keep him from further mishaps.

  ‘It is great to be admitted in the hospital,’ he grinned when we visited him in the evening. ’ No fear of the deputy or any punishment. It is cool here, man. I am enjoying myself.’

  ‘Hasn’t Cruella been at her job?’ we asked.

  ‘On the contrary, she’s been a ministering angel.’

  ‘I think I will fall off a horse during my next riding class,’ declared Bertie. ‘Then you will have company.’

  ‘NO! Don’t you dare!’threatened Maachh. ‘I don’t want any disturbance here. Besides, I have fallen in love.’

  ‘Not with Cruella DeVille again,’ we exclaimed in unison.

  ‘She will ensure that all your bones are broken and you remain bedridden for your entire life,’ warned Randy.

  ‘That battleship! No, yaar, it is not Manisha this time. I am not an idiot although I may look like one,’he assured us. ‘You should meet Leena. She looks like Rekha, walks like Zeenat Aman, and talks like Sharmila Tagore.’

  ‘Oh my! A living museum, you mean. What a confusing combo,’groaned Bertie. ‘Who is this cocktail?’

  ‘She is a nurse here.’ We caught Maachh blushing.

  ‘Does she give you a bath?’ asked Randy.

  ‘Only medicine.’

  ‘What about an injection on your gluteus maximus?’ I couldn’t resist the wisecrack.

  ‘Gluteee... What’s that?’ our friend was baffled.

  ‘Never mind, it is just the biological name for buttocks,’ explained Randy with a straight face.

  ‘No jokes, I am serious, guys,’ Maachh admonished us. ‘Can’t you people ever take me seriously? Bertie fell in love, didn’t he? You didn’t make fun of him then. If I fall in love, it is fun time for you chaps.’

  He looked genuinely hurt, so we cheered him up with the latest news about the squadron.

  The week-long stay at the hospital did Maachh plenty of good. He looked relaxed and cheerful. We asked him about the nurse the moment he got back.

  ‘Did you get the green signal?’

  ‘No yaar, she went red when I asked if I could meet her some time. She has a boyfriend already.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Bertie.

  ‘And I believed myself to be irresistible,’ sighed our man. Maachh managed to stay cool about the entire affair. ‘There will be other girls at other times. Life is too short to moon about,’he ended philosophically, and we all agreed whole-heartedly.

  twenty-two

  p

  The DLTGH (days left to go home) were steadily decreasing, from triple digits to two digits, and then there were just ten days remaining before the term ended. All our tests were over, and preparations for the POP were set in motion. The mood was relaxed. Parents of all sixth-termers received invitations to the POP, and my parents made their train reservations to attend the function.

  ‘The only thing I am scared about is the squadron social after which we will get our share of thrashing from the juniors,’ remarked Bertie, letting out a spiral ring of smoke from his fag.

  We had assembled inside the battle tank after a hearty dinner. At teatime, the discussions invariably swung to the topic of thrashing. All the sixth-termers were going through severe stress in anticipation of the event.

  Ravi was sure to get a sound thrashing. All CSMs did, and he was no exception. He had resigned himself to his fate. Unlike us, who had given up punishing the juniors a long time back, he continued doling out punishments as if there was no tomorrow. He couldn’t be blamed. As a CSM, it was his job to ensure discipline, but this spurred some of the youngsters to give him broad hints about his fate after the impending social.

  The CSM and the CQMS were always the prime targets for the juniors. The CSM this time, was in for severe punishment because he was generally the harshest of disciplinarians, and the CQMS because he and his friends pigged on the juniors’share of evening snacks. He had put on a lot of weight during his sixth term, and the reason was quite obvious.

  The CQMS was scared of the thrashing, so he turned a new leaf. He began restricting the sixth-termers from taking more than their share of the snacks during tea-time, but his attempts at atonement came a little too late.

  My parents arrived two days before the POP. As usual, my father feigned indifference, but he couldn’t help being impressed as he went around the Academy. My mother was gushing with enthusiasm. She was proud of my achievements.

  The Echo squadron had been vacated for the parents of cadets who were to pass out. The freshly distempered and painted squadron was done up with flowers and new linen, and looked like a five-star hotel.

  The schedule worked out for the parents was a hectic one. The day prior to the POP, they were shown a film on the Academy. Then there was a horse show, a polo match, and a PT display thrown in for good measure. Like everything else at the Academy, the events arranged for the parents also moved with clockwork precision. So packed was their schedule that it was only after dinner that I got to meet my parents.

  On the morning of the POP, I went to meet my parents before heading for the parade. I sought their blessings, as this was an important day for me. I explained to my mother where I would be standing, so that she could locate me during the parade in the sea of cadets.

  ‘I am a divisional cadet captain, so I will be carrying a cane. You can spot me easily as I will be standing separate from the other cadets.’

  ‘Outstanding, you mean,’ she joked, and I could see pride well up in her eyes.

  My parents had never seen me in uniform before. My mom hugged me, and my dad patted me on my shoulders. It was his way of conveying that he was proud of me. I discerned a mistiness in my mom’s eyes as she looked at me.

  Right through the parade, my eyes wandered all over the visitors’gallery, hunting for my parents. Finally, I located them. I saw my father pointing at me, while my mom waved excitedly. They were a witness to the world their son was entering. I felt intoxicated with happiness.

  A sense of exultation flooded through my body as I stood there in the parade ground, ramrod straight, as if a hot iron had been rolled over my starched body. It was my last parade at the Academy.

  The same parade, which had been a pain in our earlier terms, now brought tears to our eyes. The crowds clapped and cheered as we marched past them in a magnificent formation. As we climbed the stairs of the Quarterdeck for the Final Step, twelve fighter aircrafts, piloted by officers w
ho had passed out from the Academy, thundered past, flying low over our heads. A befitting send off.

  After the parade was over, we walked over to our parents. A grand tea had been arranged for the parents of sixth-termers, who had come to witness the parade. Bertie’s, Maachh’s, Randy’s... everyone’s parents were there to see their sons climb an important step towards becoming officers. Our parents met each other and there was a jubilant air in the Academy.

  I took my parents to the G squadron to show them the cabin I had occupied. The soulful tune of a song floated over the squadron creating a melodramatic moment.

  ‘Oh jaane waale, ho sake to lautke aana... (Oh departing one, if possible, come back again).’

  The song never failed to draw tears in the eyes of the sixth-termers who were leaving the Academy.

  Maachh, and Vittal sat crying on the staircase of the squadron. Dhillon, the deadly sikh, was also in tears. No one could imagine him crying. Ravi was sobbing loudly. This was one day when no one was ashamed of crying. We had suffered severe physical punishments, pain and humiliation, but had not allowed a drop of tears to fall through the past three years. Now, it was the day we had to leave the Academy, and no one cared to camouflage the tears.

  The tight bond of three years had come to an end. I blinked back the tears manfully as I escorted my parents into the anteroom. There would be enough time to cry when they were not watching, I promised myself.

  My turn came that night after everyone had gone to sleep. I sat alone on the staircase, and gave vent to the emotions that had been threatening to overflow through the day. I could suppress my tears no more.

  As a small boy, I had wondered what I would do in life. While others of my age group had wanted to become teachers, bus conductors, traffic policemen, or pilots, I had known that these vocations were not for me. It came to me out of the blue when I was just seven. Some of my classmates from Loyala High School were the children of officers posted at NDA. They lived inside the campus, and I attended their birthday parties at the National Defence Academy. Even then it did not strike me that I wanted to join the Academy. And then I attended a POP. Once was not enough. I attended it again and again, year after year, convinced that one day I would be marching to the same tune. My mind was made up. I would join the Academy.