Manisha, however, was a smart one. She had passed out from the Armed Forces Medical College (AFMC), Poona, and knew how to deal with greenhorns. She lined up the cadets who reported sick, and segregated the genuinely sick ones from the pretenders.
After that, she began doling out punishments instead of pills. The malingerers were given punishments like front-rolling and haunching. For additional effect, she threatened them with injections and enemas. After half an hour of punishments, they were asked how many wanted to report sick. Most of the cadets were happy to run back to their squadrons. A few brave ones who persisted, were made to strip and given enemas by the medical assistants. Word soon spread around and that was the end of sickness in the Academy. Everyone seemed to be blooming with good health, thereafter. Cadets with slight fever or small ailments resorted to self-treatment rather than report sick.
As luck would have it, during the very next PT period, I hurt my knee while vaulting over the wooden horse. The pain was terrible, and I limped into the MI Room. Since the injury was internal, Manisha could not spot any external signs and assumed that I was one of the malingerers.
‘So, you have wounded your knee. That’s bad,’ she sized me up. ‘I think you will be all right if you stood on your hands for a few hours.’
She wrote ‘Excused legs’, as the prescription for my ailment.
I was ordered to stand on my hands, head down and legs up against the wall. It was excruciatingly painful, but I could do little else than groan.
After about ten minutes, I told her that my knee didn’t pain any more.
‘That’s very good,’ she smiled. ‘See, how easy it is to cure an injured knee?’
I cursed her. She had a stone inside the rib cage, a cold one at that. She was in the wrong profession, she should have been a butcher instead of a doc. I wondered if all army doctors were like her. It was better to attend drill and games, I decided, as I limped back to the squadron, than to be subjected to her sadistic ways.
four
p
The rush back to the squadron after the outdoor activities, for a bath and change, would have set some kind of an Olympic record. Even the habitually slow cadets learnt to race with the rats. It wasn’t just the cheese but the skin they were saving. We, the rats, raced on bikes on smooth roads instead of velodromes, at breakneck speed, heading for our respective squadrons. The problem was that we first-termers, being not so equal rats, had to ride in a formation or squad with ten, twelve or fourteen bikes in two rows, with one cadet in the front and one at the rear, the pace being set by the leader of the pack. As our rat contingent moved on the road, ustaads and sixth-term office holders lined up on both sides to ensure that no one broke the rules. The objective was to pick out the errant rat.
It was one of those days reserved for ‘double outdoors’ when life got spinning at double speed. As I explained earlier, double outdoors meant successive periods of drill and PT.
Time was at a premium, and rushing back towards the squadron, we rode our bikes at a super speed. As we were coming down the slope in front of the Sudan Block, Natty’s brakes suddenly failed. The rubber brake shoes had come off, and the wheel rims emitted sparks when he braked hard. Confused at the unexpected fireworks, he looked down at the wheels, and in doing so, he broke the ranks. The ustaad began blowing his whistle frantically. Despite his best effort to bring the cycle to a halt, Natty lost control and banged it against a divider. He executed a neat front-roll with his bike and crashed into the bushes, which was a damn lucky thing, as the bushes cushioned his fall and he stood up without any injury.
The front-roll and the subsequent performance would have been impressive enough to extract a standing ovation elsewhere, but there, on the road, it managed to have us doubling up with laughter. It also spelt double trouble for poor Natty.
The ustaad yelled furiously, ‘Nonsense cadet! Tu air force cadet hai kya? Cycle chalata hai ki jet? (Nonsense, cadet! Are you an air force cadet? Are you riding a cycle or a jet?).’
‘Nonsense’ was an oft-repeated prefix for the first-term cadets. The ustaads had a particular penchant for the word, I noticed. Poor Natty had to lift his bike above his head and double back to the squadron.
The double outdoors whipped up our appetite, and we rushed to the squadron for a bath, and then to the mess for breakfast. The two feats needed to be accomplished within an impossible deadline before we went for our theory classes.
A slow cadet had to skip his bath or breakfast. Missing either was impossible, so the only way out was to speed up one’s life. At the rate our lives were spinning, I thought we could soon compete with the meteors.
Like a pack of hungry wolves, we attacked the fare Patrick put before us for breakfast. Most first-term cadets tucked in no less than two dozen toasts. But, like all other good things, the butter came in limited quantities. The toasts, of course, were unlimited, and so we acquired the art of eating six to ten toasts with 25 grams of butter, and an additional four to six toasts with a double-egg omelette. All of us were gluttons of the first order, but Maachh was an exceptional case. He ate like a starving python. It was amazing the amount of food he could put into his cavernous inside, and yet have nothing to show for it. His famished, Somalia-returned look remained intact.
Not all seniors were heartless. There were some who passed down their share of butter to the first-termers. There couldn’t have been a better way to earn respect from the hungry lot of first-term cadets.
With our stomachs sated, it was time to exercise our brain cells. Reluctantly, we moved on to the Sudan Block and the Science Block for classes. The Sudan Block was for non-science subjects, and the Science Block for the sciences.
The syllabus was as tough as in any other school, and we slogged through the lessons unenthusiastically. By the time the third period began, almost everyone was sluggish. It was the maths period. Not our favourite subject.
‘It’s not fair. They expect us to study after all that drill and breakfast. Come on, guys, give us a break! I feel ready to hit the sack,’ Maachh yawned.
‘Rightly said, brother,’ Bertie replied, and stretched his limbs. I glanced at his notebook, which was full of doodles.
Mr Kuldip Singh, our mathematics instructor, never carried any book. He was grey and had over thirty years of teaching experience at the Academy.
‘Open page seventy-four of your book,’ he instructed. ‘I shall do sum numbers six, nine, and fifteen of exercise no. twelve, and thereafter, you guys can complete the exercise,’ he announced, proceeding to solve the stated sums.
The point here is that the guy knew each page of the book and what was on it. That was the kind of memory I would have liked to attain.
‘I’ll take a nap while you copy the sums,’ Maachh said, stretching his legs under the table.
Dutifully, I copied the sums, while Bertie continued to draw females with extra large mammaries, in his rough notebook.
The much-awaited siren finally announced the end of our classes.
‘Boy, I could do with some nice lunch,’ declared Randy pedalling furiously towards the mess.
‘Do you guys ever think of anything but food?’ I asked, irritated with their obsession with the subject.
‘Of course, we do.’ It was Bertie. ‘We think of girls. Don’t you?’
‘Get serious,’ I reprimanded. The science test announced in the class had dampened my sense of humour.
‘Why the grouchy behaviour, buddy?’ Bertie persisted.
‘I know, it is the test that disturbs our studious pal,’ Randy smirked.
We literally threw our bikes into the stand, dropped the satchels and books in the nearest cabin of our course mate, and scampered down for lunch to the mess, in squads.
I had heard of depressed people taking solace in food, but we were a suppressed lot resorting to food therapy. With satis
fied sighs, we buried our snouts in the nosebags, and did full justice to the cook’s creations. The dessert arrived, and we waited with our spoons in hand, ready to attack the delicious-looking pudding. We goaded Patrick to hasten his serving.
Just then arrived the pale-face, a fifth-term senior. He sauntered to our table and snarled, ‘Halt! Numbskulls, you can’t touch the dessert till you tell me its name.’
It was one of those exotic French puddings that had a mile-long string of unpronounceable syllables, enough to baffle the most brilliant minds. I stared at the dish thoughtfully, willing it to speak for itself. Across me, Natty’s Adam’s apple was dancing dangerously, as he exercised his grey cells. Seated by his side, Maachh looked dolefully at the sunshine yellow and cream concoction and gulped. His salivary glands were activated already.
A victorious gleam in his eyes, the tormentor strutted towards Bertie’s end. Taking the opportunity, like Aladdin’s genie in waiter’s garb, Patrick quietly slid to my side and muttered under his breath, ‘Clafoutis aux abricots.’
I could barely pronounce the dish but made a valiant attempt at it, startling everyone around me. The senior stared wordlessly at me, his jaw half an inch below its normal location, while we attacked the dessert with gusto.
‘You were great pal,’ praised Bertie, on our way back to the squadron.
‘What beats me is how you discovered the tongue-twisting, nose stuffing French name.’
‘There should be some law against using foreign names in the dining hall,’ protested Maachh. ‘It is unpatriotic. I bet the French will not be able to pronounce rosogolla, to save their lives.’ A loud burp cut off the rest of his opinion.
‘I will settle for good old custard any day. It is simple, both for eating and pronouncing,’ laughed Randy.
The rest of the run back to the squadron was silent. We wondered whether we would be allowed to grab some rest before the extra classes and games. That was not to be as we were sent packing on some errands by the sixth-termers.
The only person who seemed quite pleased with running errands was Bertie. He had been asked by a sixthy to buy some fags from the Gole Market. Although smoking was banned, the sixth-termers smoked freely in their rooms and corridors. When their stock of fags finished, they sent one of the first-termers to the Gole Market to replenish their supplies.
The Gole Market, the only shopping place within the Academy, was so named because of its round shape. Hardly a market, it had a couple of shops that catered to almost all the needs of the cadets. An errand to the Gole Market was always welcome, as this was the only place where one could loiter around for some time without any fear of ragging. Besides, it was the only place where one could spot a female.
That evening, all first-termers were shown a film on table manners. I guess someone must have observed our unfettered pigging style in the mess and thought it appropriate to educate us about the subject. We were, after all, expected to graduate as officers and gentlemen.
Later, I learnt that it was part of the training. Several instructive films on etiquette, customs, hygiene, sexually transmitted diseases, and similar subjects were a part of the curriculum.
Maachh’s snoring all through the documentary was a terrible distraction. He was not the only one. The darkened auditorium resonated with snores, effectively altering the acoustics of the place.
‘A great place to catch forty winks,’ Harry announced, slumping down in his seat.
‘Pessi,’ commanded Bertie. ‘Tell me what the film was all about on our way back to the squadron.’
I cursed the lot. No wonder they exhibited no manners at the dining table. I was also piqued by the moniker they had coined for me. It was Bertie’s idea. Overnight, from decent Nick, I became Pessi, short for ‘pessimist’.
Refreshed after the snooze, Maachh seemed to be in a good mood, while mine had worsened as we moved to the parade ground for games. It got darker by the minute as I kicked the football around. I felt more like a blind mouse than a rat. At least a rat knew where he was heading. Our hours had been crammed with so much activity that I hadn’t had time to pause and take stock. Now it seemed as though I had been running from one task to the other without any respite, and the added tension of a test looming in the horizon cast a shadow on my mood. When would I study? What if I couldn’t get good grades? I could visualize my father sneering as he mouthed his favourite expression in front of Mom, ‘I told you so. The army needs brains, and your son doesn’t have any.’
‘Hey numbskull, where is your attention?’ yelled a sixthy, as the ball flew across my line of vision. ‘Can’t you see the ball coming, or don’t you have the balls to play a straight game?’
I was thrown out of the field and told to run around the entire field, twice. I passed Maachh at another end of the field, playing hockey. He gave me a thumbs-down indication, and I wanted nothing better than to squeeze his giraffe-neck.
The mood didn’t improve with dinner, either. It must have been infectious because I found both Bertie and Maachh looking sullen as we walked back from the mess.
‘Bloody sadists,’ cursed Bertie. ‘Can’t leave a guy alone.’
No one bothered to respond.
‘I am not going back to the squadron.’
Everyone knew that returning to the squadron would mean another round of tasks from the seniors. It wasn’t the errands that bothered us, but the fact that we could never please them. Each task invariably ended up with punishments, most of us landing up at the seventh heaven. In any case, it was Sunday night, and no one liked to run errands on a Sunday night.
‘I feel like having a fag,’ declared Randy.
‘Are you crazy?’ I hissed.
‘Don’t worry, Pessi, I won’t get you in trouble,’ he assured me confidently.
Just because I didn’t display a reckless streak, I was a pessimist, according to them.
‘And how do you intend smoking?’ I countered.
‘Don’t strain the wee brain, pal.’
‘Hey, that was a good line.’ Bertie butted in. ‘Rhyming strain and brain, a good touch, really. You are in the wrong profession, Randy; you could try your hand at becoming a poet.’
‘I know just the place for a quiet fag,’ said Randy, as he led us to a derelict battle tank with a missing hatch, placed right in front of the Sudan Block. He jumped inside the contraption with the aplomb of a victor.
‘This was captured by our forces from the Pakis during the war,’ he informed the three of us. ‘Today, it shall have the honour of housing four first-term cadets who wish to smoke in secret,’ he ended.
‘Hear, hear,’ cheered Bertie, struggling with the rusted nails of the broken seat.
We took a few puffs each from the cigarette Randy conjured up from his pocket. Even I relented by taking a couple of drags. The idea of smoking inside a captured battle tank had a special appeal, and soon we began to relax.
‘This is a good hiding place, yaar,’ Maachh chanted while trying to blow smoke rings. All he managed was a splutter and cough as the smoke rushed from his nostrils in an unmanageable wave.
It was a full moon night, and we felt like war heroes in the captured tank. Unexpectedly, our mood turned upbeat. Life began to look rosy. The future seemed promising as we looked beyond ragging. Through a haze of smoke, Bertie admired the Sudan block, contrasted magnificently against the ink-blue sky.
‘What do you think would happen if one was to place a riding hat on top of the mast on Sudan Block?’ he asked.
I threw him a horrified look.
‘I didn’t ask you, Pessi,’ he rebuked me gently. Turning to the others, he asked, ‘Say, what do you guys think of the idea?’
Maachh was seriously contemplating the steering rods of the tank jutting out near him.
‘I wish I could drive this ruddy thing out on the Academy road,’ h
e mused.
‘Wouldn’t it shock the chaps out of their wits?’
‘You guys are lunatics. Raving madcaps,’ I ranted.
‘So, as I was saying,’ continued Bertie, ignoring my outburst. ‘What do you think would happen if I were to place my riding hat there?’ he pointed at the top of the mast.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ challenged Randy.
‘Oh yes, I would.’
‘Challenge?’ Both Maachh and Randy goaded him on.
My intervention had no effect on the chaps. They were discussing the quantum of the wager as I walked back to the squadron, leaving them to their fate.
On Monday morning, as we cycled towards the Sudan Block, we saw a group of cadets staring and pointing towards the top of the building. The crowd began swelling. Looking up to see the reason for the traffic jam, I noticed the damn thing. There it was – a riding hat poised proudly on the flag mast. I threw a shocked look at Rebello who was coolly cruising along. His nonchalance made me burst into laughter.
‘You bloody fool,’ I addressed the hero. ‘You did it!’
‘A challenge is a challenge, and the Rebellos are not known to shy away from accepting one,’ he remarked, his face creased in a sublime smile.
The guy had stirred up not one but a series of hornet nests. Like angry wasps the sixth-term office holders and ustaads buzzed around in their efforts to pin down the culprit. When the manhunt failed to yield results, the entire lot of cadets paid for the mischief by going up to the glider-drome and back, wearing their bicycles around the neck, a distance of almost seven kilometres. For most cadets, it was worth it.
For the three of us, Bertie was a hero. Maachh and Randy lost a hundred rupees each, payable in installments since none of them possessed that amount. Rebello’s chest swelled to double its size, and he strutted around importantly for the rest of the week.
Every evening, the first-termers turned into an entertaining troupe in the anteroom. We were supposed to enter the anteroom before the others, and entertain the second-termers with dance, songs or mimicry, till the sixth-termers arrived. Bertie was much in demand during the entertainment hour as he was one of the few who could sing a decent note, while the others competed with the donkeys from the dhobi ghat.
Boots Belts Berets Page 5