Then began a series of punishments for the two, while we stood silently and watched. They were subjected to Puttie Parade, seventh heaven, and front-rolling, everything the frustrated CSM could think of. Maachh was made to go down on his hands, and Raghubir was made to lift his legs and push him forward like a wheelbarrow. Then they were told to reverse roles. This continued for quite some time. All this was too much for Raghubir to bear after the heavy dinner, and he began to vomit. That put an end to the punishment and we were finally let off at about 11.00 p.m.. Too tired for anything else, I collapsed into a dreamless slumber moments before my head touched the pillow.
three
p
At 4.30 a.m., we woke up to a loud announcement in a first-termer’s quivering voice, ‘All first-termers double down to the ground floor centre lobby.’
He had been instructed the previous evening to make the announcement at dot 4.30 a.m. Yawning, and rubbing the sleep out of our eyes, we rushed down, pulling our robes on. It was still dark, and the only light reflected anxious and drowsy faces. Finding that none of the seniors had come down, we began to relax and chat with each other.
Decibels rose as the tension ebbed, and soon we were in the backslapping stage of advanced camaraderie. A little later, the CSM emerged, swinging his arms and legs importantly. He glanced at us in a menacing manner and hurled abuses for waking him up at the unearthly hour, conveniently forgetting the fact that it was he who had instructed us to assemble there at 4.30 a.m.
He was as grouchy as a bear with toothache and now that he was up, he was in a mood to settle scores with us. Our Academy haircut provided him with no opportunity to inspect our hair, so he started checking our beards.
‘How many of you shave?’ he asked.
A solitary hand went up. This did not please the CSM, who, in any case, was looking for excuses to pick on us.
Rahul was first in the line. He was probably just sixteen.
‘You idiot, come here! Do you shave?’ he asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Why?’
The CSM searched his face intently, and after much hunting, he pulled out a single hair from his chin and demanded, ‘What is this, you skunk? Go and shave. You have one minute.’
It was my turn next. He peered short-sightedly at my smooth cheeks, in the semi-darkness. Frustrated that the search didn’t yield the desired results, he ordered Sameer to fetch a torch. My heart pounded loudly. I had never shaved. Neither did I own a shaving kit. The torch beam also failed to light up any significant growth on the chin.
Not ready to accept defeat, the CSM concluded, ‘You are now half a man. To become a complete man, you have to shave.’ He roared, ’Half a minute! I want you all back, shaved and clean’.
A melee followed as all the half-men ran around for shaving kits. With hardly a couple of cadets possessing them, there was total chaos. Harjinder Singh, the surd (short for ’sardar’), was the only guy who looked unperturbed. After a frantic search, a couple of razors were located, and all of us tried our best to cope. That was the first time I shaved, and my face was full of nicks and cuts. Half a minute, goddamnit! I nicked some more. In any case, with no facial hair, there was only the skin to scrape. My face was a burning mass of skin that stung with each splash of cold water on it.
Relief came in the form of a sumptuous breakfast. The dining room was the only haven for the first-termers, who sought to bury their frustration in the food-filled platters. Unlike the other hostels, food in the Academy was good and plentiful. It sort of compensated for our suffering.
After breakfast, the washerman arrived with our uniforms that were starched and ironed to perfect stiffness. Raju, the orderly, was a veteran. He was assigned eight first-termers. His job was to keep all the uniforms in the proper places, shoes and belts polished, and the brass fixed on the uniforms, which were to be worn for the drill the next morning. Brass badges with the squadron ‘G’ and our term ‘1’ were fixed on the collar. The uniform also had the insignia and the crest of the NDA, along with a nameplate. All these had to be constantly kept in sparkling state.
Raju warned us not to touch the uniform or wear it till he arrived in the morning. The crease was not to be broken at any cost, he cautioned.
By noon, the NDA special – a special train for cadets from Delhi to Poona – had arrived. The squadron was swarming with cadets from different terms. It was the ultimate test for the first-termers. More seniors meant more trouble. Right from the second- to sixth-termers, everyone was a boss. To add to our problems, we had no way of knowing who was from the second term and who belonged to the sixth.
With the signature haircuts, lean frames, and arrogant stance, they all looked alike. It would take a genius to remember the names, terms, and cabins, and we definitely didn’t belong to that genre.
Being at the bottom of the ladder is terribly injurious to health, we realized, as we transformed into coolies for the next few hours. As each bus arrived with a fresh batch of cadets, and trucks with their baggage, we were kept busy hauling their belongings to their cabins. Utter pandemonium reigned over the squadron. If we were running an errand for a second-termer, a third-termer would hijack us. The only first-termers who couldn’t be touched by the others were the ones who were running an errand for a sixth-termer.
I was running from floor to floor, ordered about by a different set of slave-drivers. Sweat ran down my back as I struggled with the heavy boxes, while my spine threatened to deform itself forever. Then I spotted Harry, another first-termer, lolling by the staircase.
‘Hey, bigwig,’ I called, ‘How come you are enjoying yourself while all of us are running around like monkeys?’
‘Correction, dear friend,’ he ticked me off. ’Running like donkeys. Monkeys have more brains. You guys don’t have any, so you are donkeys.’
‘Cut the joke, Harry,’ I warned. ’It isn’t even funny.’
‘Don’t get angry, buddy. Use your brains,’ he said, and strutted over to me, tapping his turban dramatically. ‘All you have to do is to say that you are running an errand for a sixth-termer, and no one will touch you.’
A few minutes later, I joined him after I had sent some third-termers scurrying by claiming that I was running an errand for a sixthy.
At last it was lunchtime, and we sighed with relief as we ran up to the mess for lunch. Carrying the heavy metal trunks from the box room, cleaning and dusting the seniors’ rooms had turned us into ravenous beasts. Dirty, dishevelled, with sweat running down our backs, we looked more like coolies than cadets.
We got an inkling of the real routine after lunch when the weekly programme was issued, and a timetable was pinned to the notice board.
Hours seemed to rush at a supersonic speed, and before we could catch our breath, it was tea-time. This was the time when the squadron was in full strength. Like in a Kumbh Mela, the cadets from all terms dashed around creating confusion. I spotted Maachh trying to pass off as a second-termer. It wasn’t long before he was caught by an alert fifth-termer and punished for his charade. The next time I saw him, he was standing on his hands with his legs propped against the wall, his fair face ruddy. I shook my head and smiled. That guy never gave up trying.
Most of the cadets turned up in their games dress or robe, and had their tea in cabins or corridors, after which they had a bath, changed, and proceeded to the anteroom for briefing. It was a set schedule, and everyone seemed to know the agenda except the first-termers who looked as confused as pigs in a rooster party.
By the time we returned to our rooms at night, it was almost the witching hour. For a flash of a second I thought of home, and realized that I had not spoken to my parents or written a letter. I pulled out the inland letter form that my mom had given me at the last moment, and began penning a few lines, but before I could finish the first paragraph, I had fallen asleep.
The next morning was more hectic than the previous one, as the training began in real earnest. The flurry of activities had already begun when I got up. We had to line up (fall-in) at the squadron parade ground with our satchels and bikes, and proceed to the drill square.
Dressing up for the drill was a big pain; one could not dress on one’s own. The crease had to remain razor-sharp while the dress was worn, and the shirt had to be absolutely taut over the torso. Any crease in either of the garments was likely toattract stiff punishment. Unlike in regular dressing, we started the process of dressing in drill uniform feet upwards, starting with the drill boots so that we didn’t have to bend later. The khaki shorts and belt went next, and the shirt was the last thing tobe worn.
After I had worn the shirt, Raju arrived. We all lined up, and he put his hands under each one’s shorts and pulled the shirt to stretch it tight over our chests, while we stood ramrod straight. The sight of his hands disappearing under the shorts looked most obscene.
We walked like robots, straight and stiff, so that the crease would not wrinkle. The bikes had to be lugged too. We could not ride them to the parade ground for the same reason. Nath dragged his bike along, as he had a flat tyre. I noticed that he always seemed to have a flat.
‘Bloody cadets,’ the voice of our ustaad greeted us as we neared the venue. ‘Double up.’
He inspected our dress, haircut, and every possible aspect of our appearance. It was agonizing to stand there while the inspection went on, but not a single cadet dared to move savefor a twitch of the muscles. To earn the wrath of the ustaadwas like committing hara-kiri, we had been warned by the experienced ones.
We had been told that the ustaad had enormous powers and he could punish us by allotting extra duties and drills. He checked us for ‘loose belt’ by trying to stick his hand inside the belt and tugging at it. If he succeeded in grabbing the belt, we would be punished for ‘loose belt’. What most of us did was suck in our breaths and tighten the belt as much as possible just before we reached the drill square. In this breathless state we remained till the end of the drill, after which we promptly loosened the belt and let our lungs expand with the oxygen we breathed in greedily.
The ustaads were the best jawans the Indian army had produced, and they were very capable. The only sore point was their inadequate grasp over the Queen’s language. Those who could speak a smattering of English were assigned the job of teaching the foreign cadets, and it was a big high for them. This made them perfect targets for our jokes.
The charges the ustaads framed against the cadets were hilarious. A second-term cadet was once charged with ‘dirty face’ as he had not shaved properly. Another one was similarly charged for not brushing his teeth well.
We were horrified when we heard the story of the third-termer who had been charged for being ‘naked on parade’ by an ustaad. How could the imbecile have turned up naked for a parade? The shocked look on our faces was enough to send the narrator into peals of laughter.
‘Don’t let your imagination go haywire; the chap didn’t really turn up naked. He just had a hobnail missing from his boots.’ He chuckled. ‘There are thirteen hobnails on the drill boots, and even a single one missing could lead to the charge of being "naked on parade".’
There was another one about a cadet who in a hurry to report for the drill, had not only forgotten the rifle but also forgotten to button up his fly. The missing rifle went unnoticed and the cadet got away with a light punishment for the open fly buttons. All those jokes came flooding back to my mind as I stood ramrod straight, but dared not let even a hint of a smile cross my features. I didn’t want to be charged for being a ‘funny face’.
Once the inspection was over, the drill began in real earnest. It was nothing but banging the feet with full force on the ground, the objective being to generate the maximum din one could manage. Each time we banged the foot down hard on the concrete, our brains seemed to wobble within the confines of our skulls. Pleasing the ustaad was mandatory if we had to escape punishment.
‘I will catch you for B,’ was his threat. The ‘B’ in this instance could be anything that began with the alphabet ‘B’ – beret, belt, buckle, brass, boot or even ‘baal’ (hair).
It was sheer blackmail, and there was no choice in the matter. The enormous leather boots we had to wear were very heavy with their thirteen hobnails, and the horseshoe fitted on the sole. Not just the head but also the body ached with the effort of banging our feet on the concrete.
It was a relief when the drill was over. It meant that we could ride the bicycle back to the mess although it also meant that we couldn’t use the same dress set again till it was washed, starched and ironed. The drill always left us perspiring even in the severest of winter mornings.
‘Boy, how would I love to put those guys through drills all day long,’ wished Maachh, cycling along solemnly. ‘My bloody brain seems to have been shaken out of its position.’
‘No wonder my father always maintains that army men are all brawn and no brains,’ I commented wryly.
‘I love brawn, man. Brains, anyone can possess, but brawn requires a lot of stomping around on a drill ground,’ Rebello added another of his funny lines. His funny one-liners were the only motivational force that saw us through all the suffering.
‘What ails you my friend? You seem to have gone to hell and back twice over,’ he ribbed Natty, who, as usual, was running with his bike. None of us had ever seen him riding it. ‘Why don’t you get your bike fixed?’
Ever since the bikes were issued, Natty had been displaying a morose expression, which varied just about a degree from the last one. His otherwise cheerful disposition seemed to have sunk into the depths of gloom for whatever reason. We presumed that he was missing his family. All the ragging and slogging must have got him down. Not once had he been spotted astride his bike.
‘Is there something we can do?’ I asked sympathetically.
‘No, it’s my funeral,’ he replied tersely.
‘Don’t speak of funerals, dear chap. They remind me of my dead aunt,’ Bertie thumped his back. ‘Things can’t be so dismal.’
‘I guess it is his bike, the mother of all troubles,’ Maachh said confidently. ‘Look buddy, let us take it for repairs. I’ll come with you,’ he offered.
The sympathy showered on him from all sides touched a cord, and Nath broke down. ‘It’s not the bike,’ he cried. ‘It is just that I don’t know how to ride one.’
His confession came like a bolt from the sky. Can anyone not know how to ride a bike? We were incredulous. Now we realized why his bike always had a flat. It was intentional.
Over the next three days, we took turns to teach Natty how to ride his bike. At the end of those three days, he just about managed to remain precariously poised on it. At the first hint of traffic, he lost his nerve and dismounted.
Each morning we woke up dreading the drill. If it was not drill, it would be PT, and PT meant sprinting, climbing ropes, doing pull ups on beams, jumping over wooden horses, and medicine ball – all kinds of gadgets invented to inflict torture on humankind. At times it was ‘double outdoor’ which was the mother of all pains. Double outdoor meant both drill and PT before breakfast. It was an infernal nuisance because we had to wear one dress while carrying the other.
For me, the gadgets were a novelty. Lucky to have escaped them until then, I was at total unease with the thingumajigs while the Sainik School products could work miracles on them. Even the lazy Maachh had an expertise that I openly envied. He could do obstacles, jumps, and function with absolute control while I tumbled over them continuously. My clumsiness manifested itself as vivid black and blue marks all over my body.
The ever-watchful eyes of the ustaads lighted up with a demonic gleam whenever they found a ‘bakra’ (scapegoat) like me. The slightest of errors drew severe punishments.
I got a taste of th
eir sadistic tendency one morning when I could not climb the vertical rope the proper way (according to the ustaad’s stipulation). In a flash, he was by my side. ‘Nonsense, cadet!’ he yelled. ‘Up chadho, up chadho, jaldi, jaldi (Climb up, climb up, fast).’
When his ‘up’ was not achieved and I kept sliding down, it got too much for the guy. ‘Theek hai,’ he gritted his teeth. ‘Up nahin ja sakta, to tham. Wahin theher (All right, if you can’t climb up, halt, and remain stationary).’
Only a guy who has tried to remain static on a vertical rope knows that it is an impossible, gravity-defying exercise. There I was, hanging like an incapacitated baboon halfway up the rope, with the fiend lurking below. I kept sliding down and he whacked me each time I slid a few inches. To evade his thwack, I would move up a few inches and then slip down promptly. My hands and feet, scraped with the effort, had begun blistering. No doubt my feat appeared extremely hilarious to the onlookers, and I heard a few muffled chortles.
In the meantime, the grounds had witnessed a couple of casualties. I wasn’t the only one who had injured his person as well as pride. As the hour drew to a close, there was a collection of cadets who wanted to report sick at the Medical Inspection (MI) Room; not just the injured ones.
It was all Natty’s fault. He had been to the MI Room the previous day and come back raving about the young lady doctor who had attended to his wounds.
‘She is too beautiful, yaar. Simply great. What a figure!’ His eyes went berserk tracing the path of orbs.
‘What is her name?’ we enquired in one voice.
‘Manisha Das.’
Based on Natty’s information, the cadets began filtering into the MI Room, looking for the compassionate angel who would not only apply some balm to their wounds but also to their lacerated souls. The number of sick cadets swelled overnight, as though the Academy was in the grip of an unknown scourge. The slightest scratch was used as an excuse to land up at the MI Room.
Boots Belts Berets Page 4