The Case of Missing Sparrows

“Una hirundo non facit ver”, that is Latin for “One swallow does not a summer make!”, I am sure you must have read of this maxim somewhere. But in Nilgiris, it is not just one sparrow, there are scores of them here chirping, hopping about like a lark. I wonder if you all have noticed this avian creature in and around your household, in the garden, perched on the trees, lurking about, picking on the worms early mornings. This little bird is almost on the verge of extinction in most of the Northern India. When I spotted them here in Wellington, I was naturally overjoyed, as there are very happy and nostalgic memories associated with these little angels from our childhood. Those were the days, is it sounding clichéd or I am sounding like an old man, may be, but yes it has been quite some time back, when we spotted them everywhere, in fact their nests were very much a part of every household. At times the older generation would clean up the place, the twigs would be removed, and we would get a glimpse of the little nestling young ones with their beaks appearing rather gigantic as compared to their fledgling torso if you can call the rest of it so. Their feathers were treasured and kept hidden within the folds of our books.

The memories are vivid as the grannies would recount stories of the sparrow, in which the female of the species would always turn out to be very naughty and wicked feigning sickness; tricking the poor male into doing the difficult chores related to cooking and she would just simply polish it off for the poor old sod to do the cleaning up act. I often wondered as to why was the female of the species depicted in that manner by the grannies, whereas in actual fact, we grew up watching them always embroiled in the household chores themselves. Was it because they secretly desired to take their “bitter” halves for such a ride, this was their notion of revenge? Or it relates to our collective psyche where we have not yet forgiven Kaikeyi for that scheming act of exiling Lord Rama! Yes it is true even today, the mother-in-law continues to be reviled and sometimes I feel they just have to act the part, even if they do not wish to, just to fulfil the expectations from them, else they would lose relevance.

But I have digressed, today I am writing about the sparrows. Yes, I have another association with them, being a Signal officer; we are referred to as Sparrows, so there is a sort of brotherhood which we share with this “feathered biped”. Since they were inseparable with the urban and rural households alike, I presume, the Signal officer, similarly inseparable from the formation HQ, makes this appointment code quite apt. Not all the appointment codes would satisfy that description though, as rabbits can in no way be associated with the supplies as they consume endlessly rather than supply or for that matter, the eagle for the repair and recovery.

The house sparrow is commonly called “gauraiya” in the vernacular, but its scientific name is “Passer domesticus”. Dr Salim Ali has described them as, “A confirmed hanger-on of man, in hills and plains alike. They are omnivorous; eat grains, insects, fruit buds, flower nectar or kitchen scraps”, so how is it that they decided to do the disappearing act. Without one realising it, slowly they have just faded away from the urban areas and also our memories. We have been too busy catching up with the Joneses (or should I say Gandhis and Patels!) to even notice. There is some semblance of awareness of the extinction of Tigers, Rhinos, Turtles and even Great Indian Bustard, but sparrow being so insignificant that it is gradually fading into oblivion without the Manekas and their ilk even registering it. The litterateurs have also referred to them quite frequently; a few examples need to be quoted just to elucidate their importance. The Greek poet Sappho, in her "Hymn to Aphrodite", pictures the goddess's chariot as drawn by sparrows. The Roman poet Catullus addresses one of his odes to his lover Lesbia's pet sparrow (‘Passer, deliciae meae puellae...’), and writes an elegy on its death (‘Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque...’). In the New Testament, Jesus reassures his followers that not even a sparrow can fall without God's notice, (Luke 12:6; Matthew 10:29). In Hamlet, by William Shakespeare, as Hamlet faces his tragic fate, he says, "There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow", presumably referring to the New Testament quotation shown above. In the Redwall series of fantasy novels, sparrows are portrayed as fierce fighters; the main sparrow character is Warbeak. Wow this was news to me as well!

So what could be the reason for this omnipresent friend of the Homo sapiens ditching us elsewhere, but continuing their association here in the salubrious environs of the “Blue Hills”? I have been wondering, and then it dawned on me, that one of the major differences in our homes here and elsewhere is the absence of a ceiling fan! The ceiling fans have mushroomed over the years, with the mercury zooming in the summer months. Yes, they have become ubiquitous and are as much a necessity as water. But there were times which many of our generation recall rather fondly when places such as Pune, Dehradun, Bangalore and even my native place Indore could boast of houses without provisions for a ceiling fan. In fact I distinctly recall, we purchased our first ceiling fan a small 42’’ Usha in 1974 and it was a luxury to enjoy the privilege of the divine flow of wind on a sweltering hot summer afternoon with temperatures nearing 36 deg Celsius. Amusing, isn’t it, today the mercury zooms past the 40 in early March itself. I wonder, whether this has added to the woes of this bird, as the other common reasons are quite universal in nature, the growing menace of pesticides and the modern architecture not being conducive for their habitat.

So nature lovers behold them; it is just a reminder to register their presence as you would miss them back in the plains. Do make it a point to identify them to the tiny tots and they will treasure this memory forever, may be this would be an incentive for some of them to return to the Nilgiris later in life.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH COIFFEURS

At the outset, I must apologise for plagiarising the title from Stephen Spielberg, the oldies would surely recall his first contact with the aliens in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”, before he introduced “ET”, the Extra terrestrial. Hairdressers or Barbers, as we used to refer to them, back then, also bear a remarkable similarity to the aliens as they had eyes and ears everywhere. Barbers in India were the community endowed with the privilege of having the ears of the Kings themselves and naturally that gave them power purely through their nuisance value if nothing else. They were the matchmakers who would provide the information regarding prospectives brides and grooms in the nearby villages and even go on to to facilitate the ceremony. 

Then of course, having shed our locks the men folk specially so, because of the various religious ceremonies and rituals, we were always in dread of these “creatures with scissors”. The scissors was a very potent weapon which could render a man with his whiskers, suddenly exposed and feeling naked, you know how it is with these moustachioed types. Somehow this hair growth on the upper lip, so despised by women became the symbol of virility and valour for the Adams. The reason why we start to dread the visit to the saloon may be a matter of research, but to me it appears as though the blame lies squarely with our age old samskaras (rituals), ‘mundan' as we all are aware is our first intro with this species and naturally after the ignominy of making a public spectacle of being shorn of one’s precious locks the relations with the barbers were destined to be acrimonious. 

Even Alexander Pope, the author of “Rape of the lock” could not have visualised this torturous deed, else he would have come out with another masterpiece to describe this act of terror on an unsuspecting child, and to top it all, it ends up in a celebration. Obviously with the person concerned totally oblivious of the goings on. I am sure the pain and the anguish of the child when he looks up to you for help to bail him out from the clutches of this inhuman (!) form, armed with his deadly armoury of scissors and razors, would melt many a heart, but the ceremony is sacrosanct and has to be endured, so there goes the lovely mane! Since we have always treated our hair with such disdain, they decide to desert us when we need them most, in your middle ages, when you are desperate for the elixir of youth and the balding pate gives it away immediately, sweet revenge!

I am sure each one of us has had his brushes (pun intended) with the hair force (barbers naturally). The fairer sex of course has christened them in a more dignified manner, the parlours with hair stylists. But the French word for a barber is quite impressive, “coiffure”, not that it gives him some supernatural powers, au contraire, when you see the French men, you pity them for the kind of hair-do that they sport or actually do not sport, ie they prefer to crop them real short, bordering on a crew cut. Now for those of you who are wondering what is so special about this hair style, let me have the privilege of educating you. This hair style is patented by the village barbers, who normally practise it on the men folk with a brick as the throne for the customer and open sky as the roof, sometimes the shade of a Neem tree provides them some respite from the sun. It is referred to as Katora cut, implying a hair cut with a steel bowl on the head for measure for its accuracy. The army was so enamoured by this style, that they immediately adopted it as their own. So all recruits and the cadets under training now proudly (!) sport this. It has a number of advantages, the foremost being the speed with which the customers can be dispensed with and the uniformity being the other.

My encounters with this species would have commenced with the mundan ceremony of course, but since I do not have any recollections of the event, I presume it would have passed of relatively peacefully. The first time that this species caused havoc was on a very solemn occasion when my grandfather passed away, the elders in the family immediately bowed to the barber for a clean shave as is the tradition. The children were exempted, but enamoured by the shining pates, I decided to follow suit, I was all of four then but could take a decision, which, I daresay is not the same today! By the time the men folk returned after the cremation, there was considerable furore in the household, having shed my hair, when I faced my father, he was furious and all hell broke loose with the poor barber running for cover offering excuses that I had actually insisted on having the clean shave. It took the elders in the family to quietly whisk me away from the scene for the tempers to gradually wane. 
Then there were some innocuous ones who did not really leave an impression apart from their imprint on my anatomy shearing off a corner of my ear in a very deft and precise manner. Even a surgeon would have been proud of this incision, only issue is; this piece of surgery was not warranted. In fact this barber was a visiting faculty, he was a clerk but being a barber by caste could not help but practise his art on some guinea pigs like us. Needless to say, he made a quiet getaway leaving a piece of my ear in my hand. It was my mother’s turn this time to throw a fit and my father was at the receiving end having permitted that bloke to actually try his artistry on her precious child.
It was soon time to leave home and head for RIMC, where I was introduced to the crew cut, which you have already been apprised about. There our visits to the barber shop were a weekly affair, rather a weekend affair, as Mondays were inspection days and God also could not be your saviour if you had some growth on the side locks, which was the only part visible from the beret which adorned our heads. We took our chances though as the long winding queues outside the barber shop proved quite a deterrent to some of the adventurous kinds. On one such occasion, we decided to outsmart the barber himself by picking up his zero machine and donning the mantle ourselves. Naturally a disaster awaited us, having made a mess of ourselves; we rushed to his highness the barber himself to bail us out. It took all our persuasive powers and diplomatic skills to weather the storm, not to mention the better part of our princely sum of of 75/-of pocket money. 

We simply maintained the tradition at NDA carrying on with our crew cuts, the saving grace was “Heera” our barber who was really a precious one. In Sanskrit there is a saying, “Yatha naam tatha Gun”  he personified that. In our junior terms we were not permitted to have a hair cut in our rooms, but this man was special, he would find the time and steal a quickie. We were of course very grateful as that saved us from a visit to the barber shop. At NDA such privileges were treasured, as it provided us with some additional moments of sleep, the most precious commodity! He was also the harbinger of all kinds of news of the academy and a soothsayer also predicting accurately the events ahead, including the timings of the dreaded sessions. Forewarned we were forearmed so Heera was tipped handsomely each time he graced us with his weekly visits. On an odd occasion when we had a “Flat” day, (a day when there were no outdoors in the morning hours, a rare occurrence), some of us sacrificed the lion’s share of our breakfast and paid a visit to the salon. The barbers then would give you the hair cut and then provide the head wash also after all, you couldn't go back for a bath. Mind you the potent immunity booster used for these head washes was our very own “Lifebuoy”, (“Tandurasti ki raksha karta hai Lifebuoy”), no shampoos could match that.

Our hair also withstand the horrors of bearing the brunt of terrains as diverse as the glacier, deserts, jungles and mountains and they take their toll too. The balaclava which is a ‘must have’ in high altitudes areas to cover our heads has been christened quite rightly as the ‘baal niklava’ ( hair remover) , as each time it comes off, it takes a chunk of your hair with it. My locks by now had had enough, on an average the life of this part of the anatomy actually far outlives all the others put together, specially for the faujis. An average male visits the barber about twelve times in a year and taking the average life span as 65, about 785 say 800 times in his whole life. We do that 52 times a year and naturally complete this in just about 15-16 years. So balding is a natural consequence! Now a days the tryst with the barbers is primarily for him to find some hair to crop and some to colour and this I am afraid is a lost cause, what with the balding pate glittering already.

BEING A SPORT

BEING A SPORT

Did you just say Table tennis? No that is no game; real men play troop games you know, the hockey football variety and Rimcollians well they box...... In the worst case maybe the officer like tennis or squash, but for heaven's sake don't even think of indulging in this lowly pursuit while you are in the campus here. This was how I was greeted when I joined the school by one of our seniors; don't exactly recall who that was though. Given my wiry frame all of 29 kgs with 144 cms of height, not having been exposed to any real team games, it was TT where I excelled in fact was sub junior district champion, had played state level so naturally I was quite disappointed at not being able to show off my skills. TT table which adorned the Middle Ante room was a mere show piece, what a shame, so I thought, till my cadet guardian, the Late Ranpreet Singh spotted the TT bat in my box while helping me unpack. He was curious and that gave me some hope.... maybe there was  an outside chance....He too was quite good at it and he shared a little secret that TT was played by stealth well past the lights out time. Ajay Kaila was an accomplice in this act of sacrilege. So there was hope after all......

Our midnight trysts with TT continued for a while, there were some others with whom I got to play, KPS Dhillon, Pratapian, a couple of courses senior, he was good, Aggy, Sanjeev Agarwal, my course mate also came out of the closet. But TT remained a game not worthy of being included in the inter section tourneys. The mid night trysts were interesting while they lasted because of the added incentive of the grubs on offer afterwards which Ajay Kaila very kindly shared with us. Sometimes we even broke open the locks of some kit boxes in the junior dorm and stole some, adding some spice to the adventure.

Soon it was time to get onto something more fauji, the incentives were many, extra diet of Bournvita, eggs and glucose naturally made it even more lucrative. I found that the lightness of weight came in handy when it came to sprints and jumps. It was long jump which saw me finish on the podium because in the runs I was an also ran, what with guys who professed to be 12 and already had the first sprouts on their upper lips. Athletics especially long and triple jumps ensured my perennial supply of extra diet during athletics every year. We had some great athletes with us Salam Santosh Kumar Singh or SSK for short was a giant in the track events Shot putt, Discuss, Javelin the last one carried him on to Delhi University winning him a sports quota seat when he did not make the cut for NDA. District athletics was an annual event which we all awaited quite eagerly, more for the march past than any real sporting activity. The Rimcollians would have guessed it by now, but for the benefit of the under privileged, that was an annual ritual when the lasses of Convent of Jesus and Mary, CJM for short immaculately turned out in red skirts, red shoes and red caps marched past, the Rimcollians cheered on lustily and they reciprocated in equal measure as both the contingents took home the march past trophies to their institutions very proudly. Sadly all this cheering did not result in any real progress on befriending them.

The brush with boxing, I think it was class 2A, having been mesmerised in the first Reunion in Mar 79, with the bonhomie and spirit of the oldies acting as a catalyst, I donned the gloves and in all seriousness started the rigorous practice regimen. The runs to Tapkeshwar temple and the pushups, sit ups for stamina building were par for the course. Medicine ball, why is it called that remains a mystery, I mean what is medicinal about such a heavy leather ball which when thrown at unsuspecting young lads only ends up breaking their nose, but that I thought was a small price to pay for what lay in store. As long as the opponent was the punching bag I was like Mohammed Ali, who "floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee", but when my own Course mate Prashant Gupta was pitted against me in a practice bout in the section, a couple of kgs heavier than me but he had not never displayed any inclination towards any sporting activity boosted my confidence no end. I was sure I will knock the poor devil out in no time thus boosting my chances for the most coveted podium finish in RIMC. We sparred around for a while more shadow boxing than actually connecting anything till the coach cum referee Saumitra Biswas hollered Box or I will knock the s*** out of you both. Prashant swung one wildly which connected with my jaw and ended up breaking my teeth. It was the Nirvana moment for Biswas and me that Boxing sadly was not my cup of tea. The idea of being a hero in the Rimcollians during Boxing also vanished into thin air. I obviously was not boxing types. Suresh Yadav was the only one who did actually get to box and if I am not wrong he even went on to win one odd bout.

Arvinder was the sportsperson of the course, tall and endowed with an athletic build, he was a natural. An excellent cricketer, he found his calling post his stint in the army in the IPL, where after Kings Eleven Punjab and Preity Zinta he has now moved onto Gujarat Lions guiding them onto a spectacular debut in last year's edition of IPL. Hailing from Chandigarh, he boasted of having played with Kapil Dev and Yograj Singh, he could swing the ball; actually dive to hold on to the catches. Those days even Indian team cricketers did not soil their Tinopal whites by indulging in such a lowly activity as diving to hold onto these edges off the bat, which are so routine now. He could pole vault, something which he picked up in school itself when he found there were no takers for this event and went on to win. He was also our star Soccer goalkeeper; his dives saved us may a blush both at section and college level against some formidable opponents such as Col Browns and the Doscos.

Although I did try my hand at hockey and with Yash went on to forge a successful left out right out combination, we both could sprint with the stick in hand, not much of dribbling was required for the wingers as long as you could out run the opponent and slam the ball on top of the D, the job was done. I was the left out, no, not out of the team, but I played as a left winger, as I batted with left. Yes I am a right handed person write with the right, play all racket games with right, even bowl with right but bat left handed, maybe because I was a fan of Salim Durrani (as a kid), the famous all rounder who was a left handed batsman and a heartthrob, he even went onto star in a movie opposite no less than Parveen Babi, but before joining I had only played Tennis ball cricket. The real leather ball version was obviously a different ball game. Firstly the bats were heavy, I could hardly lift them forget about swinging, then the gear, there were no gloves for the poor lefties so we had to make do with the right handed ones only, the pads too were oversized, covering not just our shins and knees but went right up to our groins, running with these on was almost like attempting one in a space suit at 3g (not the mobile one, as in gravitational one). The abdomen guards were a mere formality as most did not have any strings attached and were simply slipped in to protect our vitals. So batting was quite a battle but bowling one could manage, after all I could run fast and swing the arm , so found favour as an opening bowler in the junior section team. The match was played in the field behind the pavilion. We emerged victors against Shivajians, and boy I was a hero that day having got a fiver on debut. Alas it was too good to last, the very next match I was hammered away by Pratapians and found myself out of favour. As we grew up and had some more strength in our arms, we got back to batting as that was the heroic thing to do. I was again good enough to represent the section by the seventh eighth term and did go on to represent the college also on a few occasions in the final term. No blues or blazers but then making it to the team itself was quite an achievement. Getting back to hockey, those days hockey ruled the roost, we had won the world cup in 1975 at Kuala Lumpur and the Olympic Gold in Moscow. Cricket in both the World Cups in 75 and 79 we were the wooden spoons finishing even below Srilanka which did not even have a test playing status then. Sunny Gavaskar had the dubious distinction of scoring just 36 not out in 60 overs; yes the first edition of one day internationals was played in the 60 over format. "Cricket by chance and hockey by dance" was the popular saying, the 82 Asiad and 83 World cup win turned the tide for both the sports, we were mauled 7-1 by arch rivals Pak in Asiad finals in Delhi Shivaji stadium in front of a packed crowd. The Indian hockey team is yet to recover from that shock. The magic combination of Zafar Iqbal and Md Shahid failed us on that proverbial day. Cricket in complete contrast, the underdogs Indians did the unthinkable; upset the reigning champions West Indies and Kapil's Devils as they were christened by the British press brought home the Prudential Cup. The picture of Kapil flanked by the man of the match Jimmy Amarnath in the balcony in Lords is permanently etched in every Indian's memory. Cricket and hockey hold a very special place in the Rimcollians hearts too as these are the two events where old boys and cadets get to show off their talents. Old boys shamelessly cheat year after year with masters being the willing accomplices. Who can forget the contribution of Late Mr V G Nene, Mr RC Singhal and later Mr LN Thakur in declaring the perfectly legitimate deliveries as no balls which ended up dislodging the bails of Gen Jat Verma and their ilk. The cadets even today take it in their stride knowing fully well their time shall come.......

As a youngster, GC days and subsequently as a young 2 Lt when we got an opportunity to attend the reunion, we were only permitted to field, running around trying to hold on to some of those catches still nursing the hangover of the 12th evening, and running the cadets out by hook or by crook. Sure enough we won each time. On the last occasion unfortunately the rain god's had their revenge; it poured and thus denied us oldies the opportunity to wield the bat finally. Later on in life I did play cricket in MCTE Mhow and Defence Services Staff College Wellington. On both the occasions it was forced participation, being an instructor and a Rimcollian one couldn't wriggle out but did acquit myself quite well, scoring a few valuable runs and even taking a few wickets. The tips given by our Adm Officer Maj (later Col) Hirak Sen and Mr Nene who was the master in charge Cricket, to keep a straight bat has remained with us, not just in cricket but also in life. A straight bat has blunted many a swingers and googlies in later years. The uneven bounce off those green mats taught us to be on our guard always and helped us weather quite a few storms in our professional lives.

Before I get more philosophical I must share with you my exploits in the racket games, where I did excel in later years. I was all of eleven and a half, fascinated by Tennis, a fan of Mc Enroe the maverick genius, watching the Commandant Lt Col (later Maj Gen) DK Chawla and our RMO Dr JS Bhatti aka Jhatka on the Tennis court which was right next to our class, just before evening preps. The Commandant called me one day and asked me if I was keen to play, I nodded and he called the sports dealer and got me a racket for my size, Hitway, I presume it was some Jallandhar based sports company. I did pick up a decent bit of Tennis while in school but it actually paved the way for my picking up squash later. The squash bug bit me sometime in seventh or eighth term and like the TT midnight escapades, we started playing squash at all odd hours, jumping from the spectators' gallery to open the doors, being from Chandragupta section helped as we were in close proximity. Those wooden Masters rackets and yellow dot Dunlop balls became a permanent accompaniment in the days to come. Both in NDA and IMA I represented the academy and later represented Signals in Triangular Sports meet also. Squash was my saviour especially in NDA second term, as I managed to skip quite a few sessions in the garb of Academy team practices. More often than not we first completed our quota of sleep and then it was Shyamlal, our coach's turn to make us sweat it out. Once in my second term I was playing against AS Shekhawat in inter squadron matches, with a 2-0 lead I thought I had the game in my pocket, little realising the resilience of the wily old horse, in the interlude after the second game he said he was the SCC and losing 3-0 would be terribly embarrassing for him that too against a piddly second termer, he said that I should let him win at least one game as a face saver. Taken in by his sweet talk, I relaxed a bit and then he just hammered away to a 3-2 victory, leaving me in tears and tatters. It was Atul Sahni my squadron squash captain's turn now and boy was he mad............. I think first time in the history of RIMC a Rimcollian took a session of another Rimcollian. I asked for it, so I couldn't even crib. A lesson well learnt never again did I show any mercy towards any opponent ever after.

I hated running, and am quite sure I speak for many of us, shammers that we are, I hated it so much that I would run really fast to get it over with. I had a strange logic that the less number of practice runs I undertake the better my enclosure would be, two practice runs got me into second but nobody let me try that one final run, else I am sure I would have ended up amongst the medallists. Notwithstanding, I had the privilege of participating in the Inaugural Pune International Marathon, not because I was too good, it just goes to show, that the others were even bigger shammers, so it fell upon me to do the honours.

Trekking and mountaineering are amongst the best adventure activities, which we pursued in school, we all are very nostalgic about Kalsi, Chakrata, Dhanaulti, and of course  cycle expedition to Chandigarh, Rishikesh. A course at HMI Darjeeling was keenly sought after for class 4A, and that was one real feather in my cap, I had the unique distinction of  I probably being the first Rimcollian to get the best cadet of the course, and had the privilege of being graduated under the Gods of mountaineering Tenzing Norgay and Nawang Gombu themselves. Incidentally Col DK Khullar, an Everester himself and a Rimcollian was the Principal then. The only sad part was that for the 7-8 events, which I had won prizes for, I was rewarded with; hold your breath,” ladies purses". Imagine my shock, the joy of winning have way to a despondent feeling, girls purses, what will my friends say, I will be the butt of all the jokes. So mustering all my courage I walked up to the Principal with deep indignation at this cruel joke being played on me. He simply smiled and said these are left overs from the previous all girls course. As the next girls’ course was not scheduled in the near future, they were only getting rid of dead stock. Fortunately, at that very moment the All India Radio Kurseong correspondent, who had come to cover our graduation ceremony started to interview me, this restoring my dignity (!)

There were two disciplines which I just couldn't get the hang of, the first one was swimming and second basket ball. I was a stone sinker when I joined and could barely splash my way to the other end of the pool to pass the mandatory test by the time we signed off. The first encounter was quite funny though, jumping from the 3metre board in my very first encounter, God knows why, who was I trying to impress (?) and being rescued by the PT ustaad.

The two and a half step layup was absolutely beyond me and kept me away from the courts in school. But on joining the unit, where basketball is a very popular troop sport, I picked it up. Along with that came the injuries as part of the package. In fact I am so injury prone that I just have to enter the sports arena and end up breaking a bone or two. It all started with my wrist which gave way in NDA wing Ghorpuri itself while attempting to play 7th the string football fully drenched and in mud & slush which was supposed to be a football ground. I was down for six weeks with a plaster. The injured wrist put paid to all my ambitions in other sporting activities. Then I tore my knee ligament playing basketball in the unit and once again it was six weeks of POP.  Even in innocuous sports like squash, my opponents ensured that they slashed the racket wildly to scare me and ended up almost taking my eye with it. In the ground I am like a man possessed I can only see the ball and the basket and naturally end up banging into even very stationary poles.

My very frequent escapades with the limbs have made me half an orthopaedic as it is, knees; shoulder, ankle, wrist, Achilles tendon and what have you. If that was not enough, a bout of appendicitis and Bell's palsy have  made me a well rounded patient, who has  had the privilege of being nursed  by our very own Florences in almost all the stations where I was posted. The sad part was that none of them ever took any interest in my sad stories. The only way to save myself from all these injuries and to maintain my SHAPE1 profile I had to finally say adios to these adrenaline pumping spirited pursuits for a more sedate round of golf. Though I am always on the lookout as the odd golf ball may just end up on some part of the anatomy to keep the record straight.

PASAN PERIPHERY PUS

PASAN PERIPHERY PUS

“Pasan periphery pus”…….the most commonly heard phrase, if you may call it a phrase in the academy, some of you may be wondering what the hell is this? Is it a limerick or a nursery rhyme, with something to follow, well..it is just that and what follows is a take off by the juniors in the academy on a 10 odd kms casual run. This activity is normally carried out immediately after lunch to help our digestive tracts. Frankly in NDA, our digestive systems are totally at rest what with all these activities which follow almost all the meals, food automatically either travels into the intestines or simply finds the other easy way out by throwing up. The throwing up is a rare phenomenon though except when the running gives way to more interesting physical activities like rolling followed by something which the sadists had devised specially for such philanthropic deeds; ‘academy whiskey’, where you went around in circles fully stooped with a finger on the ground. It did deliver a kick but whether it was akin to whiskey which most of us did savour in later years or its more physical version in the derriere is anybody’s guess.

 Well Pasan actually is the Pashan Gate at the entrance to NDA, periphery was  a circuit normally utilised for punishment runs, the Restrictions, ETs and EDs;  the last word ‘pus’ does not have any connection with the medical term which results after a wound is infected and this gooey liquid forms the ‘creamy layer’. It stands for ‘push’. I am sure most of you would probably have guessed by now that the speaker of this phrase was a Bihari, no offence meant. We had two CSMs, cadet sergeant major who belonged to that part of the country. CSMs derive pleasure out of sending the squadron on these healthy pursuits on a regular basis. Apart from the PP, Pashan Periphery for short there were many others which could be an add on package or enjoyed independently depending on the mood of the CSM. The mood of His Majesty the CSM was dependent on a myriad of factors for which no differential equation could be devised for an accurate prediction. Of course the worst nightmares would come true when he was at the receiving end at the Squadron office for any omission or his phase tests results or simply because his cycle had a flat tyre. Well just about anything under the Sun, and then the degree of difficulty of these runs would multiply either by increasing the distance or by increasing the weight to be carried or by …you guessed it.. BOTH(!). So PP will have a 2475 or 3131 added to it or simply Karpa, Khandwa whatever. 2475 and 3131 were geographical features denoted by their height in feet above mean sea level, which had witnessed the cadets in all kinds of interesting positions scaling and descending them over the last 60 odd years. Karpa, not a distant cousin of the Tibetan monk ‘Karamapa’ it was also a feature which did not have a height which took the fancy of the cadets so it got stuck with the crappy name. Khandwa has nothing in common with the Railway junction in MP, where NDA special trains halted and scandalised the locals with the community bathing of cadets on the station using the hose pipes. Nothing unusual you would say , well the cadets stuck to the NDA norms of bathing in the nude even at these stations, so naturally, imagine, a train full of 17-18 year old youngsters indulging in fun and frolic on a railway station in full public view. Alas, these days, such pursuits have had to be shunned, as it would go “viral” and a lot of people will catch a terrible flu. Anyway NDA specials are something unique and have to be experienced…so let us get back to the Khandwa, which is the other gate in NDA. The Khandwa sprints were normally post movie shows from Ashoka pillar and were executed in squads of four or six in perfect harmony, i.e. in step. Needless to say these pre dinner appetisers did wonders to our palate.

We came across a number of landmarks en route while accomplishing these deeds, these landmarks were seemingly innocuous but had interesting nomenclature, so conical geographical features would normally be referred to by that part of female anatomy of the current Bollywood heroines, from Babita to Bipasha. Similarly the Equestrian Lines had an inverted horse shoe, which  too found resemblance with some other interesting anatomical part duly christened with those of the vamps of the day, Helen being the most prominent, and enriched our knowledge of anatomy in general. Without getting into the other aspects of academy general knowledge, suffice to say that colourful description of most of the landmarks in human anatomical terms would have done a budding doctor proud. Whether it was the Ashoka Pillar and its colour to the wind sock in the Air Force Training Team at Glider Dome, the cadets had discovered some unique relationship with human anatomy.

Any way getting back from the periphery to the original theme, the periphery itself, most of us did get to circumvent this stretch more often as it also doubled up as the route for  punishment run. The attire varied with the severity of the crime committed, with minor ones in relatively simple dungarees with ammunition boots and the deadlier ones in Field Service Marching Order, FSMO in short, with packs, water bottle and the 36 contents of the pack which included a change of dress, toilet kit complete and even a snake bite kit, all set to go to the battlefield. This periphery also made strange bedfellows, some were regulars and they generally became friends commonly referred to as ‘pals’ in the academy. The seniority principle was generally put aside for these friendships and were global in nature ie they transcended the squadron boundaries. They shared cigarettes (contraband) and even stood in for each other to bail them out at those odd hour reports. I had my tryst with the periphery too, its genesis is pretty interesting; in second term most of us were entrusted with the task of packing the breakfast for fourth termers as they had to get dressed for the service classes, in  the FSMO; the academy maintained the sanctity of the cadets mess by ensuring no FSMO variety moved anywhere near thus the cadets had to first change into uniform Khaki Drill (KDs) and then post breakfast get into the FSMO. Si here I was, packing breakfast, some toasts and a cutlet or two, tucking them in my handkerchief, blissfully unaware that the Adjt, Maj Daniels was watching me indulge in this activity. The moment I had finished and looked up, I saw him looking pretty amused, enquiring as to what was I up to. To which I very bravely responded that I was doing it for myself as I had to rush and will eat the same later. He was obviously aware of this practise of packing and was annoyed that I was not telling the truth. He immediately awarded me seven days restrictions. The silver lining to this was that the fourth termers in my squadron impressed by my not squealing went on to grant me the status of an ‘honorary pal’.

Getting back to the cross country runs, well, I got to participate in the inaugural Pune marathon, but I think I had had my share of running by the time we slow marched out on the tunes of ‘Auld lang syne’ and generally prefer the other modes of exercise. Though I still get nostalgic at the mention of periphery, Pashan Gate of course is the gateway to all those memories………

TEN LOST CARTRIDGE CASES

After having successfully completed almost 52 weeks of training we the motley group of the Eightieth regular course at Dehradun were about to embark on the toughest challenge which was the culmination of all that our worthy instructors tried to  literally drill it into us, Camp Chindits. The camp is reported to be amongst the toughest in the world for trainee cadets. We were eagerly looking forward to this  challenge, after all we had to prove to ourselves as also the authorities that be that " we have it in us" and the academy had been successful in making men out of the young lads who had ventured on to this glorious path.

Dehradun is nestled amidst the Shivaliks, an idyllic abode for old fogies, the hills and the dry river beds together with the scorching​Sun  in peak summer months are quite a deadly combination . The camp actually is a misnomer as there is very little camping, as the common perception of camp is a leisurely​activity to getaway from the routine monotonous humdrum  of everyday life, instead we indulge in number of route marches and certain other tactical training activities. One of them is firing, during the training we are taught the finer nuances of firing from all kinds of personal weapons, rifles, pistols, machine guns, small mortars and even rocket launchers. One such exercise is called GolaBari literally meaning just " firing" but it is not just ordinary firing, it is the complete armoury at the disposal of an infantry battalion duly supported by artillery and even tanks which opens up, to give the gentlemen cadets a glimpse of the might of a full fledged attack. It is definitely not recommended for the faint hearted, we actually got goose bumps ourselves, when we went through with this experience.

So for this exercise, we were nominated to fire from the light machine gun, a 100 rounds each, while the others had to stay content with the rifles and mere 30 rounds each. We started of by first collecting the ammunition,filled our magazines and then went berserk just poofed up the ammunition. All the guns blazing simultaneously was thrilling, after all this was the first such occasion for all of us. All the scenes from those world war movies that we had seen and imagined ourselves as the heroes, the experience​ was  surreal. After the euphoria, it was the drudgery of collecting the empty  fired cases of ammunition, which had to be ensured and brought us back to the mother earth from Hollywood. Since I had fired a 100 rounds I had to account for 100 fired cases as well, well I could collect just 90 of them. I searched everywhere, the ground sheet which could have hidden  them in its folds, the bushes in the vicinity where they could have flown off, these cartridge cases are not needle sized and the shiny brass  should have given away their location; summoned all the course mates to join me in this mission, but alas there was absolutely no trace . Panic was setting in,  loss of a simple cartridge case invites sever disciplinary action,here I couldn't account for 10 of them, trouble was staring me in the face. I could imagine the look of disbelief on the faces of our Company commander and Directing staff when I would actually report the matter. With prayer on my lips mustering all my courage I reported the loss, suddenly there was a hush, even the birds seemed to have stopped chirping. I was asked to repeat what I had just said, then they took over, firing was ceased, we were asked to form groups and swarm the complete area and search on our haunches, closer to mother earth, less chances of missing them. Three or four DSs meanwhile went down to the ammunition point and carried out a physical count of all the rounds fired and empty cartridge cases deposited. To everyone's relief the figures tallied.

But sure enough I could not be let off so easily, so the DSs descended on me and there was no form of punishment barring corporal, which I was spared from ....... I was literally bleeding from every pore, but I had no cribs and was immensely grateful to the DS body for resolving the issue,or so I thought. There were some more twists in this tale awaiting me.

The next event was the Josh run back to the academy, being the CSM, I was expected to ensure the Company signed off in style. We ran back carrying some additional packs and rifles when some of our comarades were too fatigued. On reporting back I was again summoned, I presumed I would be expected to carry on from where I left off,next round of punishments, but what awaited me shook the earth beneath me. My Company commander, Maj (later Brig) RGK Divekar, a para sapper,asked me to have a seat, I knew then and there, I was in trouble, nobody sits in the Company office except during that perfunctory interview,which itself is a misnomer. That is hardly an interview,it is just a series of dressing downs that are handed down with some expletives thrown in for effect. But this had to be way above all that, he even offered me a glass of water, the suspense was killing me. He was probably trying to soften the blow, so he began by asking me about my family,RIMC,NDA and other issues in the academy, then suddenly he blurted out, "Sometimes it is better not to get what you desire and went on to elaborate that passing out later could be beneficial to me in the long run"  . I tried to ask him about the physical count of the ammunition which was carried out at the camp site, he was evasive. He said a Court of Inquiry had been   ordered    and wished me the best, reassuring me that the Company will stand by me in this ordeal, but could not promise anything at that juncture.

Shell shocked still dazed I walked into the office of Capt (now Lt Gen and Central Army Commander) BS Negi, seeing my state, he asked me to sit, those of us who have had the privilege of being under his tutelage will understand, what I am about to narrate. We all were mortally scared of him, he carried such a reputation of being extremely tough with the Gentlemen cadets, we had been at the receiving end on a number of occasions. But at that moment, he gave  a patient hearing to  all my pleas of innocence and finally assured me that not just the Company even the Battalion commander had decided to take up cudgels on my behalf, should push come to shove. But the situation was grim, that was a  fact. That could not be belied.

The court of Inquiry commenced and my statement was recorded with line of cross questions laying the blame on me for not having been careful in handling ammunition, how could I not notice that there were only 90 rounds issued in place of 100 as authorised. All the evidence pointed that I  had collected 100 and fired them but lost the 10 cartridge cases as alleged. I did not have anything to substantiate my statement. The ammunition NCO too was summoned for his statement, he simply reiterated that I had deposited 10 less cartridge cases. I did not get an opportunity to cross question him, not aware of Army Rule 22, where the accused has the right to cross question the witnesses. The verdict did not appear to be favourable, I was to blame for carelessness, which could not be refuted.

The ordeal had just begun, the Passing out parade was approaching, parents were invited and had got their tickets booked. With situation looking hopeless, I had no option but to write to them, trying to explain the entire episode, with worst case scenario, where I may end up losing a term.....so no POP...There were no telephones, probably a blessing in disguise else it would have simply added to the stress. My parents, though civilians could understand the gravity of the situation, my father had been in the NCC, that helped. I received a very reassuring response, where he asked me not to lose hope and keep my faith in the Almighty. Their plans for the trip to Dehradun were not being altered and naturally they would pray for me. A  valuable lesson for today's parents, of being the support to your kids without adding to the stresses that the youngsters face as it is.

The wait was killing but I had no option, I was told the Court of Inquiry had been put up to the Deputy Commandant, so was dreading the summons for a march up any moment. As the POP day was nearing, hoping against hope that I might just be let off, after all the authorities could not be so heartless, so near yet so far.... Then there were naysayers who would recount stories of last day relegations in previous terms for lesser offences. Keeping my fingers crossed, I put on a brave face but within I was terribly scared, the mere thought of spending six more months training at IMA was anathema. I was a Signals optee and was assured of getting my choice of arm, by virtue of being in the first block and generally perceived to be at the head of the pack amongst the future Jimmies. But in those moments of despair I just hoped to pass out even if I was last in the merit and landed up in any arm or service as long as I passed out on 13 Jun 87.

Well the parents arrived with my siblings in tow, since no summons were received, I presumed that I was forgiven this lapse and all was well, afraid of rekindling the issue, I did not query even the Directing staff of the outcome. Suddenly on 12th Jun, I received a message that the Deputy Commandant was looking for me, I immediately did the disappearing act, reappearing straight for the POP next morning and finally the " antim pag", (which Preeti, my better half rightly says, should be the "Pratham pag",after all that is the beginning of our professional career), was taken and we moved onto the battalion offices to receive our respective posting orders, my Battalion commander Col Padmanabhan, an Air OP pilot, summoned me inside and asked me if I had met the Deputy yesterday, when I replied in the negative. He just added that for all practical purposes i had been awarded 15 days Gatings (punishment!) and a  Battalion Routine Order to that effect had been published, which I may not have been aware of. The sincere prayers of my parents were answered!

I have often wondered as to how did I manage to come out literally unscathed from this imbroglio? Was it due to the fact that I had an exemplary record in discipline or was it because of my performance in the last about an year, which tilted things in my favour, or the Directing staff of the battalion  rose to defend my case, when it mattered, or was it just the ambiguity associated with the role played by the Ammunition NCO or may be all these factors together and some luck ....frankly there is no way to know what actually transpired there. But it drove home the most valuable lifelong lesson for me,  the Almighty will surely come to bail you out if you have been honest in your efforts all through, a bits and pieces work of excellence doesn't help. 

BALKAR THE WATER -MAN

Balkar, the Water-man, was at his usual spot at this time of the day, I always wondered how did he synchronise his arrival with such precision; which always got him here immediately after we finished our lunch on the portico in the mess overlooking the very picturesque Shamshabari Ranges.  A neat yellow turban tied more like the Kashmiri headgear, trimmed beard, a disarming playful smile, upright posture and short quick steps were his characteristic attributes. He carried his spanner as though it was his personal weapon, a rifle, the most prized possession of a soldier.  Yes a soldier he had been in another era perhaps, but he will always a remain a soldier come what may, his retirement cannot take away his right.  It was evident from the deferential treatment he gave to his spanner.  He oiled it and cleaned it on Saturdays, the maintenance day, opening all the nuts and bolts, ensuring it was  serviceable in a manner which would have made any soldier proud of his weapon. 

He had become a part and parcel of this place, the saplings he had planted and guarded had become gigantic trees.  The water point which he looked after, was the same, the water tank was the same and so was the source, the stream he had come to love as though his own mother.  He did not remember when did he come here, nor could he remember his exact age but that did not bother him.  He remembered that in another era, he had been to the Middle East and also to Europe, a soldier, one amongst the many unsung ones.  He considered himself very fortunate as he had participated in the world war as we called it; for him it was just another war, but also that he was one of the first soldiers to have landed in Kashmir to thwart the Pakistani raiders. An injured right shoulder saw him get invalided out of the army but the only bitterness he felt was that he missed the chance to be part of action ever again.

Balkar was born in Jammu district and could hardly recall his childhood, for him the life began when he joined the Army as a raw recruit.  He did not have a home he could call his own, he was the sole survivors of the floods that ravaged his village.  Not knowing what exactly to do, he wandered into Jammu and joined a queue which he later realised was for recruitment.  He never regretted it, in fact he got involved in the Army life so much so that he managed to erase the memories of that flood and its aftermath.  His company commander a British officer once asked him why didn’t he ever go on leave, to which he replied by counter questioning ‘Saab! Where do you go on leave?’ Not used to such a response, he however managed to mutter ‘home obviously’.  ‘This unit is my home Saab’, where do I go Saab.  The officer was nonplussed.

After having seen and observed him for couple of months, I called him over,       ‘Sat Sri Akal Saab’, yellow turbaned, spanner in hand Balkar was in front of me.  I was curious, that he could see, he warmed up and got talking.  I asked him as to how did he come to this god forsaken place, obviously he did not belong here.  He confided in me with a twinkle in his cataracted eyes and the wrinkles almost disappeared as he blushed, crimson all over, he had fallen in love here. A lass had got him hooked, the only time he did get involved in his life.  Obviously he wasn’t lucky but nevertheless, on his discharge, he knew this is the place where he would spend the rest of his life.  Spanner in hand, he once again saluted me and off he went to the water point, with the refrain "Saabji Time Ho Gaya’ Pani Chhodne Ka”.                   

In laws Out laws

In laws out laws!!
I think it was Reader's Digest which used to have this feature where some interesting and amusing anecdotes were recounted bringing a smile on most of our faces. As bachelors, these features only strengthened our resolve to stay the course and not get tied down literally(!). Oh those days and of course nights of gay abandon when we were the lord and masters of our royal abodes. Anyway ... This is not the occasion to lament my loss of bachelorhood but to celebrate .... Yes it is time for Sir Cliff Richard ......"Congratulations and celebrations......." After all it is the Golden Jubilee celebrations of my in laws who actually should be Outlaws because they have not lived up to the stereotyped image of the wily scheming in laws, that we have seen in umpteen number of Bollywood movies. Hence the "sobriquet '' : in laws who have not lived up to the traditional image of in laws.
Actually it all started in a very unconventional manner, the parents decided that we should be a couple, no that was quite routine just that both the set of parents have been friends and colleagues for almost two decades. So uncle and aunt of yesterday transformed into father and mother in law, not the usual strangers assuming this mantle on the nupital night.
The only thing out of the ordinary was I was the odd one out, as the rest of them had been neighbours, friends, colleagues, class mates etc etc...... I was missing in action having been bundled out to Dehradun as a young lad all of eleven.
Getting back to the golden Jubilee couple..... Well we have been blessed and the almighty had been extremely kind to us that the set of parents who are my in laws have been no different from my own parents....... Whether it was affection or support the fountain was always over flowing in fact our misdemeanours were simply ignored for us to realise on our own. Ma in law has been pampering us no end by feeding us with delicacies and always showering her love and affection. A homemaker par excellence she has held the extended family together and has instilled the right values in her daughters who have gone on strive for this perfection in their own ways in their respective families.
There are a number of sterling qualities of Pa in law, an all rounder who has been a career educationist spent his life time teaching zoology not content he went ahead and wrote quite a few text books which were quite popular as there weren't many authors who wrote quality science text books in Hindi. He has been actively involved in working with a NGO EKLAVYA which has been rendering yeoman service in the tribal areas of the state by teaching science in a unique non formal manner utilising the tools and ancillaries which can easily be created by kids on their own. I can go on about his accomplishments in the field of education but he is endowed with a multi dimensional personality so apart from his chosen field he is an ornithologist "bird watcher" for the uninitiated and that explains his phenomenal patience. He is equally adept at outdoor activities having indulged in Tennis and Badminton in his younger days. In the later years he trekked a little attempting the Narmada parikrama too. A naturopathy enthusiast he even converted me getting me to try out the regimen for a week. As a parent, a sibling, a son he has donned each of these roles to perfection.
Always a professor at heart he is most comfortable explaining things in a myriad number of ways till the student has no choice left but to concede the game set and match.......
Together they are a formidable combination the old man is still young at heart and his youthful looks only add to the charm, his better half an ageless beauty..........as a couple they are the epitome of grace and role model for the youngsters.... May these golden years turn to diamond and onto platinum........ Amen!