Simply Fly

by Capt G R Gopinath

  Sikkimese women are extraordinarily pretty. It was not uncommon to find the women doing all the work while the men sat drinking thumba, home-brewed alcohol made from millets. From Sikkim we moved to Bhutan. The king had suddenly passed away and the seventeen-year-old crown prince was to be crowned. The army sent me with my unit on two missions. One was a reconnaissance of the China–Bhutan border, the other to attend the coronation. Bhutan was a Shangri La, an unexposed virgin land of sorts, hidden from the rest of the world, its people and culture pure in their ethnicity. There were no newspapers or any communication channel with the outside world, the people wore their traditional national attire and practised their own customs. They had a benign king and loved him much more than they feared him. The more I saw of Bhutan the more I was convinced that it deserved to be called a Buddhist haven. I spent a wonderful month and a half in Bhutan, took part in the coronation, and witnessed the gun salute. I also travelled and explored the interior regions of Bhutan.

  After the war, a strange restlessness gnawed within me. My father had introduced me to Gandhi, and at the time I saw everything through Gandhi’s eyes. I poured over all his writings and wondered what Gandhi would have done had he been in my position. I was undergoing the turmoil of an emotional–spiritual crisis and transition. I wrote to my father to say that the army and its mission had ceased to be my driving force. In fact, they meant nothing to me. In the letter, I expressed the desire to do something with a social–spiritual orientation, and didn’t believe I could achieve that in the army. However, if I left the army to work for the poor, I would end up being a burden on society because I would have no job to pay for my living. My father wrote long letters advising me to continue with my chosen path. He said I had become a coward. He sent me quotations from the Gita: ‘Do thou thy allotted task; for action is superior to inaction; with inaction even life’s normal course is not possible.’ He reminded me that the fruits of one’s actions would inexorably visit me in later life.

  Army life had been wonderful. It was secular, comfortable, and it taught me many things but was too regimented and predictable for my liking. I engaged in a long dialogue on these lines with my father. He said with some finality: ‘Gopi, your karma and your dharma are in your actions.’ Not being able to offer an alternative viewpoint at the time, I stayed on. It was in this state of ferment that I went on a posting to Kashmir. There I had a very definitive experience. On one of my climbing expeditions, I lost my balance and hurtled twelve metres down to a glacier. This was a miraculous escape from almost certain death and my men carried me a distance of 25 kilometres from the Machui Glacier into which I fell to our base camp in Sonamarg. My arm had been crushed in the fall, and I was unsure whether I would ever be able to use it again. As those four men carried me on their backs, I realized and I remembered Einstein’s words that our lives depended on the labour of others—past and living, in significant measure. Our lives and actions are mutually dependant, as in a symbiotic web.

  I faced a dilemma as I no longer wished to remain in the army but was uncertain what I should do instead? I wanted to cut loose all bonds and set myself free to become a monk, but that would be expecting the world to feed me and add to its existing burdens. I expected a solution to evolve through my work and experience. The pain was virtually unbearable. I had been given morphine and I lay helpless and supine on the stretcher, gazing up at the vacant sky above, seeking an answer to my spiritual quest. The accident, the pain, and the terrifying prospect of losing a limb calmed me. The trauma helped me resolve my dilemma. From Sonamarg I was taken to the base hospital in Srinagar. The treatment took four months and included an operation. I eventually recovered, and when I felt physically better, I headed out on a voyage of self-discovery.

  I stayed for a year in Bengaluru on medical posting. I was medically unfit because my arm was severely damaged. Then an interesting thing happened. After I had recuperated, I was posted in Thiruvananthapuram as commandant of a small unit under a brigade headed by Brigadier N.S.I. Narahari (he later became a general and much later, chairman of Deccan Aviation). He was my commander, an outstanding soldier, engineer, paratrooper, deep-sea diver and sportsman. He had also taught at the infantry school. I got an insight into his philosophy of life when he made a speech at the officers’ brigade on the day he took over and concluded with these remarks: ‘I work very hard. I play harder than I work. I party harder than I play. On work and play there will be no compromise.’

  I looked up to the brigadier for sound advice. He went a notch up in my esteem after a few memorable incidents. I was mess secretary in Thiruvananthapuram. Emotionally I often swayed between extremes. An army dinner had been arranged, which a general was supposed to attend. I was told in private that the general drank only Scotch. It was a tradition in the army that if a general drank Scotch, the mess secretary was bound to make a special effort to provide it while the rest of the officers at the station would pay for it. According to army traditions, a general is never presented a food and beverages bill.

  Being the kind of person I was, I decided against carrying out this ‘unfair’ tradition. If the general wanted to have Scotch, he could have it but he must be given a bill. I went to Brig. Narahari and told him of the message from the general’s ADC. Brig. Narahari said, ‘Nothing doing. We will not give him a bill but we will serve him what we have.’ He then inquired, ‘What do we have?’ ‘We have Indian whisky and rum,’ I replied. ‘Serve him what we have,’ Brig. Narahari commanded.

  The general arrived in due course but we were very tense. Departing from army traditions and the set pattern of dealing with the top brass would certainly irritate the general and one could expect a bad report. By evening the officers’ mess was abuzz with the tinkle of glasses and the hushed conversation of officers, marked by an occasional guffaw. The general strode in and took his seat. Whisky was brought in and the general raised his glass. He was an accomplished Scotch drinker and connoisseurs like him can tell in millionth of a second whether the drink is genuine Scotch or not! The general swirled the liquid in his glass and got a whiff not of Scotch but Indian whisky. He spoke in a booming voice and made no effort to conceal his displeasure, saying he would have soup instead. By this time one tradition had already been broken. Another was in the pipeline. Traditionally, if the general did not drink, nobody drank. Brig. Narahari however ordered his drink and said in a measured tone, ‘I’ll have my rum’. The general left in a huff.

  Brig. Narahari drank hard but remained straight. Although a very senior officer, he played all the outdoor and indoor games, partied hard, and occasionally danced in the officers’ mess till the wee hours of the morning. It was great fun to have him as your commandant. Very pleasant in demeanour, fair in his dealings, and balanced, he was also very firm and outspoken. In the IAS, promotions are time-bound. Narayana Murthy of Infosys once commented that an IAS officer takes an exam only once during his administrative career: when he joins the service. The army officer, on the other hand, is tested at every critical stage of his career. One in a hundred servicemen is promoted to the rank of a colonel. The ratio for the brigadier’s post is even higher. A general is selected from among thousands. It is generally believed that in many organizations, and especially the army, if one is outspoken one doesn’t make it to the top. Brig. Narahari was however a singular example of an officer who was both upright and forthright, and whom nothing could stop from reaching the top.

  My unresolved dilemmas did not prevent me from seeking new adventures. I went trekking and swimming. I headed out to nowhere land on my motorcycle, inspired by Gandhi who had spent a year touring the country before involving himself seriously with the freedom movement, I had long cherished the idea of travelling the length and breadth of India. I, therefore, headed for Rajasthan on my Java bike, armed with my tent, sleeping bag, and other personal effects. I started from Bikaner and travelled 4000 km in three months. I wanted to acquaint myself with my land and its people, and form my own idea of real India. I avo
ided hotels and spent the nights at ashrams or by a riverside. In exchange for a small sum of money, I stayed at the homes of farmers or in one corner of their paddy-fields or in an empty cottage. For Rs 15–20, farmers cooked khichdi for my dinner and let me spend the night in their homes. From Bikaner I travelled to Jaipur, Jaisalmer, Ajmer, Delhi, Lucknow, Kanpur, Khajuraho, Sanchi, Bhopal, Ujjain, Mandu and Ahmedabad. I saw temples, palaces, forts, and encountered different kinds of people. The glimpses of India in its vibrant palette of colours were hugely fascinating.

  While on the road, riding past the rich countryside, I decided I had to leave the army. I had discussed my plans to leave the army with Brig. Narahari. ‘Perhaps you should,’ he had said. ‘I see that your heart is not in this job. It’s also better for the army that you leave. But what will you do?’ It was indeed a conundrum. I only had a soldier’s skills and knew no other. I, therefore, said I would venture out and discover my calling. In the meantime, I planned to do some farming. I also had romantic notions of going abroad and working as an apprentice at the National Geographical Society for a couple of years to travel the world. I would travel to Egypt, Greece, and Italy. Perhaps I would gradually learn the ropes and be able to apply and qualify for a correspondent’s job at the National Geographic. I was clear in my mind, however, that I did not want to continue in the army and nor wanted a government job.

  I had not considered the prospect of being financially insecure, having thus far led a very sheltered life. My first salary as an officer in the army was Rs 400 plus Rs 223 as allowances. I sent home Rs 200 every month to assist my father in bringing up my siblings. My monthly mess bill would amount to Rs 100. There were very few other expenses, so I saved some money and enjoyed a good life. I however felt the need to go ‘beyond the woods and beyond borders’; longed for adventure. The safest place for a ship is in the harbour, but ships are built for sailing. I, therefore, decided to cut my ropes, abandon the sheltered life, and set sail to discover myself and my true passion. It was indeed a crazy idea; but it had taken hold of me. It was at this uncertain juncture that I met a certain girl and had a strange experience.

  We were a bunch of youngsters in Thiruvananthapuram. She stayed in a hostel and we became good friends. I used to take her out on my bike. She had two friends who two of mine, Capt. E.J. Kochekan (now major general) and Capt. Suresh Rao, were seeing. Her parents lived abroad. Although we were very good friends, the intensity of our feelings towards each other differed. She was in love with me; I did not entirely reciprocate. I had however made this quite clear right at the outset. My only aim in life at that time was to get out of the army, and therefore had no wish at that juncture to embark on a serious relationship or marry. We often went out together. Somehow her parents learnt that she was seeing me. I was cool and almost clinical about this aspect of my life. In no time her parents flew down from the Middle East. They had found a boy for her and she would have to marry him.

  She called me one day while I was playing tennis with Brig. Narahari. Sobbing hysterically, she said her wedding was to take place in fifteen days. Her parents had locked her up and she asked me to help her. I had been honest all the while and not made false promises. She knew perfectly well that I was reluctant to settle down but wanted me to free her and send her away from her parents with some money till she found a job. ‘I’m not in a condition to get married. So please, can you help me?’ she pleaded. I thought the matter over and agreed to rescue her from her first-floor bedroom at midnight and send her off to Bengaluru. I felt it was only fair to help her. I asked her once again not to be under the illusion of any promise of marriage as I planned to resign from the army. Asking her to dress light and pack bare necessities, I also reminded her to wear canvas shoes.

  My NDA training had helped me to organize such a raid. I called Kochekan, who was dating the other girl, and shared the plan with him. We arranged a second motorcycle with the help of another friend. I had planned to ‘rescue’ her, drive her in an army jeep to Quilon, from where Kochekan would take her to Cochin and put her on a train to Bengaluru where my friends would receive her and provide her shelter for a few days till she found a job. Meanwhile, I would return to camp.

  The rescue was planned like a typical army raid. We did a daytime survey and figured out the approach pathways. On reaching her house around 10 p.m., we stole up to the wall. Kochekan stood with his back to the wall, facing me. I placed one foot on his arm, climbed up the pipe, and finally the fire escape ladder. She was packed and ready to leave. I led her out and helped her climb down, put her on the second bike and we rode straight to my friend’s house.

  I happened to be the commandant of military police, responsible for the discipline of the brigade. I was aware that my act was wrong but, curiously, succumbed to uncontrollable emotions as I had little control over my personal life and had lost my sense of direction at that point of time. I paid for the military vehicle and drove her all the way to Quilon. From there Kochekan took her to Cochin and put her on a train to Bengaluru as planned.

  On the following day I reported for duty as usual. My girlfriend’s parents had discovered her absence and the needle of suspicion pointed in my direction. There was a call from the police but I denied everything. Later, Brig. Narahari summoned me and informed me that the chief minister and the local MLA had called him and threatened to raise the issue in the assembly. It would be a major embarrassment for the army. Brig. Narahari looked me in the eye and asked curtly, ‘Do you know something about it? If you tell me the truth I’ll defend you.’

  Brig. Narahari was also a father of two daughters of the same age. I decided it was time to speak the truth and told him how and why I had done it. ‘I’ve given her Rs 5000. She is looking for a job. There is nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘But her parents will worry,’ the Brigadier reminded me. I was instrumental in getting her back home later, promising her that her parents would not force her to get married. A fortnight later Brig. Narahari called me home and said with a smile, ‘Fellow, have your cake and eat it too. The girl’s parents have sent the 5000 bucks you gave her, along with a “thank you” note.’

  I took the money and saluted. Any other commander could have seen it in very poor light, had me arrested and court-martialled. Brig. Narahari had however taught me an important lesson in life in the process: of looking beyond the obvious ‘black’ and ‘white’ of life and judge people and situations in the fair light of reason and tolerance. I was somewhat ruthless in punishing corrupt people but this incident helped me realize that one need not always punish an erring person in order to drive home a message. It helped me see the need to give people a second chance.

  After reading Travels with Charlie by John Steinbeck, where the author decides to travel within his country in a custom-built caravan with dog Charlie for two years in a bid to properly acquaint himself with America, I decided to visit my elder sister Bhagya and my brother-in-law for a few days in Washington DC. My brother-in-law worked for the World Bank. I had begun to settle down to a routine of listless ambles when someone asked me, ‘Gopi, have you come all the way from India to meet Ramaswamy and Kuppuswamy and eat idli and sambhar in the USA?’ That shook me up. I went straight to a shop selling camping gear, bought myself a pair of jeans, a tent, a sleeping bag, assorted camping gear, and a Grey Hound bus pass and set out on a 10,000 km hitch-hiking trip. I started from Washington DC, the trip taking me to upstate New York. I had $500 in my pocket. My journey took me to Ohio, Illinois, South Dakota, North Dakota, Montana, Utah, across the Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park, Sequoia National Park, Colorado, Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Nevada, Nebraska, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and back. I hoped to get deep into interior America. I followed one basic economy travel rule: of spending less and seeing more. I could not afford to stay in hotels and hitched rides wherever I could. I made friends on the way, shared meals, exchanged life stories with total strangers, and also keepsakes, before moving on. I had my camping gear: a stove, cooking
pots, and a tent. I met a Danish army major who travelled in a custom-made bunk caravan equipped with a microwave oven, a TV, and a dining table. We were fellow-travellers for a few days before we parted.

  I usually set up camp outside a city. In New York I met a man I thought was Indian. I spoke to him in Hindi. He replied in Hindi and Punjabi. I was pleasantly surprised to discover he was from Pakistan and learnt that he was a veterinary doctor now working as a waiter in a restaurant while he searched for a more appropriate job and the proverbial green card. When he realized that I was hitch-hiking he said he would show me around New York and invited me to share his one-room tenement in Brooklyn. He treated me to dinner and took me out after that. His large-hearted legendary Punjabi hospitality overwhelmed me. He gave me a guided tour of Big Apple’s nightlife, taking me to the 42nd Street, the centre of New York’s night life in the 1970s. There we encountered middle-aged Indian couples, officials of the Indian government, and people from various walks of life. We saw proselytizers of the Hare Krishna movement, volunteers of the Save Jesus movement, pimps, blue bars and sex shops. Some movie halls continually screened one-dollar porn movies. There was live sex on stage. It was much more than a culture shock for me.