Boots Belts Berets
Page 3
Mitra lamented the absence of fish in the meal. He couldn’t survive without fish, he confided. ‘It makes my brain cells work better.’ His predilection for the dish reminded me of Bertie Wooster, and I had to bite my tongue to stop a wisecrack.
‘I could do with some butter chicken,’ remarked Rebello. We were to learn that his life depended on chicks of all kinds.
‘And I, with some siesta,’ Randhir and I spoke together.
All wishful thoughts of a siesta after the heavy meal evaporated as soon as we reached the squadron. A senior sporting cauliflower ears arrived importantly, and announced that the afternoon was reserved for issuing bikes. In the NDA, a bike is the only means of commuting for the cadets, and possessing it ensured that we saved our energy as well as time.
‘At least we won’t have to run from place to place like prehistoric creatures,’ opined Bertie.
The bicycles came with the squadron name, and the bike number marked on the rear mudguard. I thumped mine appreciatively. The maintenance of the bike was our responsibility, we were informed by the ustaad.
Nath was the only one who didn’t seem particularly pleased with his bike. After spending some time fingering the contraption, he sighed loudly a couple of times. He looked more and more depressed as he lugged his bike to the squadron.
We had scarcely parked the bikes when a senior informed us that it was time for the ‘Cabin Cupboard’ parade.
‘What’s that?’ we wondered.
‘Couldn’t be a punishment I am sure,’ remarked Mitra.
He couldn’t have been farther from the truth.
In simple terms, ‘Cabin Cupboard’ meant organizing our rooms to a set layout.
We were taken to a room and shown a demo layout.
‘There should be no deviation,’ said the sixth-termer, with a voice like a peacock crying for rain. All that screaming and shouting at the juniors must have done the trick, I concluded. With a rasping voice like that, he couldn’t be ignored.
‘Everything should be placed just as displayed. You don’t have the liberty to exercise your interior decoration talents.’
‘Any doubts?’ The chap with the peacock voice threw us a threatening look. ‘You have twenty minutes to set your rooms,’he ended.
‘By Jove,’ lamented Bertie in an undertone. ‘Twenty minutes for a job that will not take less than an hour!’
‘Put all your junk in the black steel trunk. There should not be a speck of dust anywhere. All items in the cabin must be cleaned and folded.’ More instructions streamed out of the senior’s mouth.
I stared ruefully at my room. It looked as though a clumsy robber had gone through it, with clothes strewn all over the place, shoes flung along the walls their laces knotted; berets, belts and socks occupying a major part of the floor and bed. The Puttie Parade, with its umpteen dress changes in limited time, had turned the cabin into a dumping ground. There was no way I could create a semblance of order. Wistfully, I thought of my mother who had spared the rod and spoilt her child, as I went to work.
‘Stop working and stand outside your room!’ an announcement encroached upon my attention precisely after twenty minutes. I quickly darted out of the room and stood ramrod straight outside my door.
The sergeant began his inspection. He entered the first cabin, and we heard a lot of shouting and banging, and the next instant, all the possessions were flying out of the room and landing into the corridor. Seconds later, a crestfallen cadet emerged from the cabin, looking numb with disbelief. In two minutes, the sergeant had demolished his twenty-minutes’ labour. The same exercise was repeated in all the other rooms.
‘You morons, get your act together! The next inspection will take place in half an hour.’
Was there an award for ruthlessness, the sergeant was sure to bag it.
A hectic thirty minutes later, I took a step back and admired my handiwork. Every object in the room was in the right place, neatly arranged. Even he won’t be able to find any fault now, I thought smugly.
It is amazing how quickly smugness can be wiped off from a face.
The brute entered my room and threw me a blistering glance, after which he went on to pore over shoelaces and mosquito-net poles, and peeped under the bed where I had cramped many assorted belongings, just as I had seen my mother do when we had unexpected guests.
‘The shoelaces are twisted, and look at all this dust.’ The sergeant announced, running his finger on the mosquito-net poles. The temperature in the room had dipped by at least ten degrees, and I shivered. ‘You call this cleaning?’
My right eye flickered ominously as he strutted around hunting for more flaws. When he stood on his toes and ran his index finger along the top of the door, I resisted an urge to jump out of the window. Grinning rather unpleasantly, he displayed his grimy finger and wiped it across my face. ‘Next time, I will make you lick it clean,’ he said. His impersonation of a Bollywood villain was perfect.
With his excellence at nit-picking, the sergeant could have cleaned up the heavily infested scalp of a baboon in five minutes flat. The clothes were not folded properly, the shoes not lined up correctly. The bed, chair, and tables, were not aligned. In short, everything was wrong with the room.
He chucked my possessions around the room mercilessly, and allotted a new deadline for me to tidy up once again. A diabolical smile lit up his face each time he entered the room. Six times I did up the cabin, and six times he emerged triumphantly from it, having found innumerable faults. By then, my head was spinning rather perilously.
Cabin Cupboard continued till tea-time. If I thought tea would be a pleasant affair, I was mistaken.
Each squadron had a tearoom on the first floor corridor. The room was equipped with a huge boiler. Come tea-time, and a waiter from the mess arrived with a huge tray laden with snacks and the tea-making paraphernalia. The cadet quarter master sergeant’s (CQMS) room stood right across the tearoom. It was here that the snacks were brought and counted. The rules set by the seniors were quite simple:
Rule 1: If a senior decided to have more than his share of snacks, it came from a first-termer’s share.
Rule 2: Seniors never went to get their tea; the first-termers brought it to them.
Rule 3: The seniors had their favourite mugs. Breaking them was blasphemous and could take you to the seventh heaven.
Tea-time was the worst time for the first-termers. It was the time when the squadron was in full strength and there was utter chaos. With so many seniors around, we were hard pressed to serve them on time, and more importantly, to their satisfaction.
That evening, I had to carry nine mugs of tea for the seniors. Naturally, I could not remember their names, cabin numbers, faces and terms, and above all, the identity of the mug owners. It was a good exercise for the brain. I could well imagine the plight of the chokra(boy) waiters in small restaurants jam-packed with customers.
The tea was boiling hot, and the mugs scalding. My fingers were almost blistered with the effort of dispensing the brew. All the first-termers were suffering the same plight and many spilled the tea, causing minor accidents. The only positive thing about the exercise was that we were getting trained for an alternative career, should we decide to quit the army prematurely.
To add insult to our injuries, the rascals left no snacks for us.
It was party time in the CQMS’s room where the sixth- termers assembled and pigged on the snacks meant for us. We were issued with enamelled mugs, which could hold almost a litre of tea, and there was no restriction on the amount one could pour down the gullet. After all the slogging, even the terribly concocted tea tasted divine.
‘One of these days I am going to pour boiling tea on the CQMS’s crotch,’ declared Mitra wickedly. For the moment, we satisfied ourselves conjuring up the image of the chap hopping around with burnt genitals.
‘Pay attention Golf squadron! All first-termers to report to the ante-room at 5.00 p.m. sharp!’ I yelled, mimicking the CSM, feeling like a hero. In that instant also dawned the realization of the power one enjoyed while yelling out a command. No wonder the chaps were always on a high.
It was already 4.45 p.m., and we had no clue about the location of the anteroom. When I dared to put forth the collective query before the CSM, I was made to execute a couple of front rolls.
‘That will teach you not to ask questions – that is our prerogative!’ he roared. ‘I want you to have a bath, and then report at the anteroom by 5.00 p.m..’
The information that the anteroom was at the end of the ground floor corridor came to me the hard way. By now, I had resigned myself to the fact that whatever we did would always be wrong, and endless punishments were our ultimate fate. One didn’t question God.
I sprinted back to my room. A bath was something that I really needed after the grime that had accumulated during the hectic schedule and the haircut. It wasn’t just the dirt; the smell of perspiration from my body would have shamed a skunk.
Sometimes in life, we have to satisfy ourselves with small achievements. This was definitely one of those times. I achieved a bath and a change of clothes within record time. My sprinting feet skidded to a throbbing halt near the anteroom just in time to join the last of the first-termers trooping in.
The anteroom was a hub of activity as we settled in and soaked in the ambience. It was tastefully decorated with mementos gifted by each batch of cadets that had passed out from the Academy. With its aquarium, a promising-looking music system, comfortable sofas and luxurious ambience, it was a comforting haven.
Seventeen first-termers were seated on the floor. I joined Mitra and Rebello, and we wondered what lay ahead.
‘Must be another of their crackpot ideas leading to some more punishment,’ Mitra declared resignedly.
‘My fingers are bent with all that climbing I have done to reach heaven,’ said Rebello, examining them thoughtfully. ‘And the front-rolling makes me see stars all the time,’ he added, blinking his eyes to endorse the fact.
‘And you thought training for the army was child’s play?’ Randy’s voice sounded sarcastic.
Natty chuckled timidly. ’It is like a replay of the SS troops and their Jew captives.’
Just as the suspense began to kill us, the fifth-term sergeant arrived. A hush fell over our lot as he briefed us about the schedule for the next day. A moment later, two bigwigs, the SCC (squadron cadet captain), and the CSM, marched into the room. Compared to the pompous CSM, the SCC appeared like an angel who had lost his way into the Academy. The greenhorns we were, we got taken in by his courtesy. He began by asking us if we were comfortable and happy, if the food was good, and if we hadany problems. ‘Happy! He’s got to be joking,’ muttered Rebello under his breath.
All of us were dying to complain about the CSM who kept us on our feet and made us do inhuman things, but we held our tongue. By now, we had learnt not to push our luck too far.
It was time for formal introductions. We parroted details about our family, our academic qualifications, hobbies, the games we enjoyed playing, and other irrelevant things he asked us about. I had no doubt that he wasn’t even listening, but the exercise provided us with an opportunity to learn the names of our course mates, and get to know a little about them.
Manoj Mitra, I learnt, was the son of a bank officer, with a younger sister who was his alter ego. His dream, he said, had been to become a chef in a five-star hotel, but his father wished otherwise. For hobbies, he listed eating fish and appreciating the taste. We wondered how his smart alec act would go down with the seniors, but for the moment, they seemed to tolerate him. The retribution would come later.
That very instant, Rebello granted him a perfect name, Maachh (which means ‘fish’ in Bengali). The moniker would stick to him for the rest of his life.
Albert Rebello (Bertie), the youngest of three sons, belonged to a seafood business family in Goa. This information perked up Mitra’s flagging attention, and he promptly decided to visit Rebello’s folks at the first possible opportunity.
Getting back to Bertie’s kin, his eldest brother helped in the business, while the next one studied medicine. Rebello was the good-for-nothing black sheep, and had been sent to Lovedale School, Ooty, so that he could get disciplined. At school, he proved himself adept with musical instruments and a master of pranks. Obsessed with aircraft, it was his idea to join the NDA because he wanted to be a pilot in the air force.
Randhir Singh (Randy), from the land of valiant Rajputs, belonged to a family of soldiers. His father was a distinguished Sena Medal holder, and all his elder brothers were in the army. With a background like that, he had no option but to join the armed forces.
Amar Nath (Natty) was the midget. Just over five feet three inches, he was the guy with a dimpled smile from the hills of Haldwani. With four sons and two daughters, his parents struggled to make ends meet on the salary his father brought home as a schoolteacher. Joining the NDA was the most affordable option, and so, here he was. Absolutely uncorrupted, the guy was a sucker for all sob stories. He loved movies as much as he loved the hills.
I skipped unsavoury details about myself and shared only the barest information. All I told them was that I was the youngest of three brothers, with two sisters at either end – a large family by all means. I couldn’t tell the gathering that I had joined the NDA against the wishes of my parents. My father, who was a doctor, had threatened to remove my name from the family annals because I had defied him to appear for the selection test. The fact that I had concealed my selection in the Academy till the last date went against me and negated any good deeds performed earlier. My mother had used her most lethal arsenal – copious tears – to deter me from coming to Poona.
Once we had finished the introductions, the SCC asked if we had written to our parents or spoken to them. He reminded us that we should do so immediately unless we wanted our mothers descending upon the Academy. A few forced giggles intended to please the chap poured in from all directions, and the meeting was declared over.
The first person to leave the anteroom was the SCC. All hell broke loose within a moment of his departure. The CSM got after us almost immediately. He ordered us out in the corridor, and made us front-roll all along its length. His reasons were as absurd as Hitler’s reasons for decimating the Jews: we did not sit straight, our backs bent like old hags, we were not officer material, and our posture was totally unfit for a cadet. He looked at us with disgust, as though we were some slugs that had just crawled out from under a boulder.
‘I guess you need to roll some more,’ was his final verdict.
We kept front-rolling while the sixth-termers gathered in the CSM’s room. We could hear loud laughter and banter.
‘Wretched lunatics,’ muttered Maachh. ‘They must have escaped from a sanatorium.’
‘I guess we can take a break,’ said Rebello. ’They are too busy sharing jokes to pay any attention to us.’
We stopped rolling and relaxed. But the CSM was an experienced chap. He peeped out of his room at regular intervals and caught some cadet or the other, and made him climb the seventh heaven. The punishment carried on for an hour till it was dinner-time.
We were a sight as we ran towards the mess for dinner, exhausted, dishevelled and sweaty. The notions I harboured about the lunacy of the seniors from our squadron were dispelled the moment I spotted our counterparts from other squadrons arriving in the same state, if not worse. It took all of Patrick’s broad smiles and the piping hot food to soothe our ruffled feathers and put us in a better frame of mind.
Perhaps it wa
s our fatigue and hunger that made the meal more delicious. Basically, it was quantity and not quality that mattered. Right from the soup to the dessert, we took more than one serving of everything. For once, even Maachh did not crib about the absence of fish from the menu.
His mood improved when a couple of sixth-termers from another squadron came over to our table and spoke to him. These guys were also from Sainik School, Purulia, Maachh’s alma mater. Raghubir, another first-termer, also found some seniors who were from his school.
After dinner we went back to the squadron minus Maachh and Raghubir, who had accompanied the seniors to their squadrons. The moment we reached the squadron and assembled in front of the CSM’s cabin, we were subjected to another lecture from the chap. The guy loved nothing better than his voice, we surmised.
After sermonizing to us for a few minutes, he noticed that Maachh and Raghubir were missing. We thought he would have a fit the way he hopped with anger when he learnt that they had gone with some sixth-termers.
‘Some of you might think it is smart to tag along with a senior,’ he said, almost frothing at the mouth. ‘Let me warn you that those who take lift from the seniors have just had it.’
‘Taking lift’ in this case meant taking advantage of the relationship with seniors from other squadrons. ‘Just you waitand watch. I will make specimens out of those two guys,’ theCSM warned.
Just then, Maachh and Raghubir arrived, grinning from ear to ear. The duo seemed quite pleased with life as they strolled in casually. The CSM subjected them to a deadly stare before announcing icily, ‘Here come the VIPs of our squadron.’
Unsuspecting, the two continued to smile beatifically till they heard the next sentence, ‘The VIPs deserve special treatment, and I am going to give it to them, now.’