False Icons

We need to get out of our cosy cocoons more often and connect with the holloi polloi of the heartland. Sitting in Delhi and other metros we are no longer connected to the masses. The India Bharat divide comes to the fore almost immediately. We happened to visit Lalitpur a small town in BUNDELKHAND in MP although culturally and socially the town bears affinity to UP. Time seems to have stood still over the last seventy odd years or actually may be even a couple of decades earlier. The overgrown village is very much one even today, with cattle tied in the courtyards of practically every other household, cow dung cakes plastered on the walls of the huts, the flowing open filthy drains, mounds of plastic adorning every street corner making a mockery of the Swachh Bharat initiative, the narrow lanes where the odd kid is still openly defecating with dogs and piglets for company. All in all quite a dismal state of affairs.

It is not just the place but also it's people who too are steeped in archaic traditions in this age that one wonders whether the development train has simply bypassed this hamlet. In this day and age the crematorium is still divided along caste lines. One always thought that at least in death there can be no discrimination, but even that privilege is denied. Interestingly at the crematorium also there are plaques displayed for the philanthropic deeds, we are an obsessed race, obsessed about seeing our names anywhere and everywhere. So we even spotted the usual graffiti which is again the last thing you would expect to find here.
The silver lining in this morass are the people themselves. The town itself is a family, where irrespective of your relationship with the neighbours, they are all together in times of distress. An old lady, a widow whose kids and grandkids are all in different parts of the country, feels so much at home that she spends her last days right here, even at the cost of poor medical facilities, which is a mandatory requirement in old age. She relates to the love and affection, the sense of belonging and the camaraderie and of course the fact that this is the ancestral dwelling make it literally impossible to even think about any other place as a home.
Some days ago  on our way to Lalitpur we passed through Jhansi, its mere mention  brings alive the Rani of Jhansi Laxmibai.We  need icons, as a society, in religion, in politics, sports and more so in spirituality. Once we understand this the controversy associated with Padmavati will be crystal clear.  She and her valour have been part of the folklore since 1857. While the existence of Rani of Jhansi is beyond doubt so are the stories of her valour, courage and indomitable spirit, the ballads composed and sung by the Bundelkhandis will obviously be exaggerated to some extent. History  always  represents the victor's version, but since the saga is of relatively recent origin, it is still fresh in people's memory. Moreover there are written records available, hence the chances are that her gatha would live on.

Unfortunately that is not the case with Padmavati, she may or may not have existed, but majority of Indians have been brought up believing in this character. So does it really matter whether she actually was a person, she is an icon and every society needs their icons. Since we are a relatively young nation with an ancient civilization, the need for icons real or fictional is all the more essential. These icons are also not permanent, some fade away with changing socio-political milieu and new ones get invented/created. Dr Ambedkar is a case in point, he had his place in the history as the man behind the constitution, but today he is the messiah of the Dalit and backward community. In the days to come he shall rival the father of the nation himself. Mahatma Gandhi's efforts towards eradication of untouchability already stand negated. The achievements of Nehru and Indira Gandhi are similarly fading away from people's memory, their failures are being highlighted thus reducing their stature.

 Getting back to this Padmavati controversy, icon she is, that is something which no amount of propaganda can diminish. However, it by no means implies that any motley group of people can hold the state to ransom. After all every account of historical events will be open to interpretations, as long as the main theme is retained, the minor issues such as exposure of mid-riff by the queen being unbecoming or her reflection being shown in the mirror to the villainous Sultan have to be left to the storyteller. It is his or her version, which we are at liberty to accept or reject. The "banning democracy" is not a healthy one and all right thinking citizens must join hands to address this issue. Mind you the political parties pander to such blackmail out of electoral consideration only, which itself is doubtful at best. The goons are a minority and the majority will never support the irrational and illogical act of bans and rioting over such acts. As was evident by the success of the movie itself at the hustings. So much so that the Karni Sena itself did an unashamed volte face supporting the movie. The Rajputs have been glorified, their sense of ethical war waging has been eulogised, although at times they seem to have been depicted as rather naive thus easily led up the garden path. The facts of course aren't as shown, it is movie after all and not an authentic historical account, which can be quoted in research. The flip side though is the masses do not read history nor do they undertake any serious research, their beliefs get strengthened or negated by such fictional accounts. It stays on in the memory long after they walk out of the movie hall. The story of Anarkali owes its origin and life to Mughal e Azam. Once again there were no historical records confirming existence of such a courtesan in the Mughal Darbar of Akbar the great forget about her being buried alive in the walls of the fortress. But majority of Indians believe such an event occured. Obviously it is the impact of the movie itself.

Should the movie makers then not be more careful embarking on these  fictional accounts loosely based on historical characters? After all it is tremendous responsibility to shoulder, where they can play with the faith and beliefs of not just one generation but many ensuing ones as well. Anyway the controversy surrounding Padmavat has faded into oblivion, it has served its purpose, the film maker is a hero, espousing the cause of freedom of expression and taking in the moolah as well, having his cake and eating it too. The political ends have also been met, the polarization along community lines did serve its purpose and the Karni Sena, which no one had heard of before this episode, has had its moment of glory. People have already moved on...so has the media. Sridevi, Nirav Modi........false icons!!!!!

The Embrace

"Alingan" is the Hindi synonym for hugging, which our PM Narendra Modi ji had made his personal trademark while he embraced the heads of states over the last four years. This "ashwamedh" of embracement was exclusively reserved for the dignitaries and executed with warmth and camaraderie overflowing between the two most powerful people of their respective nations. This form of welcome or greeting is normally reserved for personnel who have been  great friends over the years. It conveys a lot without the need for any verbal communication, although at first some of them  ( the dignitaries) appeared surprised but gradually it became a measure of the warmth exuded thus revealing the nature of relationship between the heads of state and naturally their respective nations.

Every society and culture has its unique method of greeting specially the formal one, in India it has been the folding of hands for 'namaste'  which is the accepted norm internationally . The western method is the hand shake, which too has been adopted by the Orientals and is customary. Some hand shakes have reserved their place in the annals of history, some of you may recall the  Yasser Arafat  Shimon Peres hand shake at Camp David of 2001 with President Clinton looking on. Similarly some hugs too have history written allover them, one such was the famous Bear hug of PM Indira Gandhi  by Fidel Castro in the NAM summit in New Delhi in 1983. The charismatic tall and impressive persona of Castro and the diminutive petite  very poised Mrs Gandhi made a memorable picture which defined the relationship between Cuba and India and also the Prima Donna that India was in the NAM then.

So with such a history behind the 'alingan' as an embrace is called in Hindi, no wonder PM Modi ji decided to make it his signature style of charm offensive in diplomacy. It has a huge advantage against the hand shake because while the former is more personal and friendly the latter remains highly formal and at times even curt. Today the intensity of the hug is the measure of depth of relations, the recent visit of the Canadian PM was one such occasions, where the embrace was  quite cold and not spontaneous.
It was however the famous 'jadu ki jhappi' of Munna Bhai  which took this to a different almost spiritual level,  jhappi is how Punjabis do it.  A loud guffaw followed by a very spirited slapping of the backs....... usually followed by more spirits flowing with the tandoori chicken.Greetings are a socio-cultural thing and there are many  peculiar greetings which go onto depict an intimacy beyond the mere formality. I recall that in during my stint in the UN peacekeeping in Co'te d' Ivoire Akwaba was the greeting but more interestingly the embrace was replaced by joining the two heads together.

 As Modi ji had embraced almost half the world leaders, our very own Rahul baba was naturally feeling left out so  he really can't be blamed for this episode. After all Modi ji has been very choosy about his "hugmates" if you can call them that...very few Indians have been blessed with this embrace. Rahul baba wanted to be counted amongst the haves.....all his life he has got what he wanted except this unique greeting, so how could he be denied that, what he doesn't get in the routine he has to snatch it......snatched it he did.
Incidentally the word embrace traces its origin to the French verb "embrasser" which is what Rahul Baba finally ended up doing ....but only the English version........ embarassed.

Kar "natak"

Could the Karnataka drama have had a different climax than the one that we have just witnessed? Well may be yes maybe no depending on what are your expectations and sensibilities or maybe which side of the political divide you are on, the secular/communal or the pseudo secular variety. Is our election process akin to cricket what with the glorious uncertainties bit and match fixing and "winner takes all"? You could be excused for this comparison ...yes cricket today with IPL BCCI etc is quite tainted and so is the political system.
Well the drama unfolded rather uncharacteristically this time around with the pre poll pundits and the exit polls all generally predicting a hung assembly with Congress as the single largest party. Namo was the party pooper as usual, came down at the last minute and almost turned the tables.  All the eyes and ears were at the Raj Bhavan, although it was anybody's guess that he would invite the single largest party to try and explore the govt formation, then why this speculation, why the hype! Governors are appointed by the ruling dispensation and they shall obey their masters has been the unwritten postulate. I don't recall a single instance where they have gone against the interests of the party in power, be it Buta Singh in Bihar or Mr Rizvi in Jharkhand or Romesh Bhandari in UP not to forget Mr Krishna Pal Singh who was instrumental in dismissing the Gujarat govt when Vaju bhai Vala, the current governor in Karnataka was a minister in the BJP govt then. So, please don't expect that things will be different the next time around, it will just be an action replay with the players exchanging places. Of course the talks of this morality is hog wash because even the ones who profess are not convinced and argue without any semblance of conviction in their facile indignation, they are all play acting and well their prowess in the field of dramatics too is rather pathetic.
Who had the last laugh though, JD(S) getting the crown, well they, the father-son duo have made it a habit, after all Mr Devegowda was the PM with just 46 MPs, so with 38 MLAs being the CM is par for the course. Will this govt last it's term, the odds are stacked heavily against them, Mr Kumaraswamy himself has been highly unreliable on the last two occasions that he donned the mantle, once ditching Congress and then the BJP; Congress, though deriving some satisfaction in paying BJP in it's own coin, after all they were the aggrieved party in Goa, Manipur and Meghalaya. They are also happy that they have successfully stalled the BJP juggernaut for the moment, but will they learn their lessons, is the moot question!
Where does this leave the people of Karnataka, for whom this dance of democracy was played to perfection? I have always wondered, the plausibility of  theory of people's mandate, do you really think that people of a constituency leave alone a state actually decide they will choose a particular person or a party and vote accordingly? Well if this theory is disproved the complete edifice of our caste based politics will crumble. The media has played a major role in playing up these divisions in the garb of reporting facts, which we are aware is far from truth, after all they too have  their masters to serve. Yes people are influenced by the charisma of leaders, sometimes certain communities may even vote strategically, but this phenomena too has been played up by the fourth estate to the hilt so that where it could be an isolated incident, now it has become the norm. As if this divide was not adequate, the caste conundrum muddied the waters further thereby giving objectivity a quiet unceremonious burial. The fatwas,  and diktats of khaps became gospels, so elections became more about management of the caste, religions based equations rather than the merits of the candidates and their parties. Governance is last of the concerns or so it seemed, till the so called anti incumbency theory was paid to rest by state after state where the govts returned to power starting from Gujarat to Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Orissa, Tripura and so on. The bottom line was that the people were convinced that the govt of the day had made an honest attempt at governance, obviously name and f these states produced any miracles, but our people were used to the Lalu Yadavs and Digvijay Singh whose govts were the worst possible govts in the history of the country, where only corruption ruled the roost and development was simply not even on the agenda. Parroting platitudes of secularism, they just ruined the economy of the state and did not have any qualms about it either.
Anyway, could the script this time around have been altered, what if the governor had invited the JD(S) Congress coalition to form the govt, would the BJP have emerged a moral victor, with its vote bank in tact, just the ideal state for the Lok Sabha elections next year. Also the party leaders in the next three states to go for elections in December this year, Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh would have had their task cut out, no half measures. A clear unambiguous majority what with the opposition ganging up to challenge the onslaught of BJP. They do not have any other choice either, it is a do or die battle for them, because if BJP roms home in 2019, many of the present crop of leaders will have to seek political sanyas. Congress without power at the centre will be totally splintered; obviously a scary situation where there is no opposition worth the name. To that extent, the joining of forces by the opposition is a welcome step. However, in the same breath, we must not forget their past history with respect to honouring the 'coalition dharma' as Atal Behari Vajpayee called it.
Hoping against hope that this govt survives till 2019, it might be a ray of hope for the health of democracy in this country.

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………