7 DAYS CARRY ON

"Seven days carry on !"

These words, no, it is actually a 'sentence' literally, and is awarded with all the fan fare you would associate a court, sentencing a criminal...or may be a lot more. The judges especially the lower courts' ones rarely have such prim and proper marching in of the accused, or the pin drop silence in which the solemn proceedings are conducted. The army obviously believes in doing things ceremonially. So that was how it went almost three and a half decades ago, No 16306 Cadet Suyash Sharma, the accused is charged under Army Act Section 63, "An act prejudicial to good order and military discipline in that while at cadets mess on xx Feb 1984 at xxxx hours was "Found packing breakfast" by the Adjutant Maj Daniels".

 It was just another ordinary day in the life of a second termer, tasked to pack breakfast for a fourth termer, who was going for his service subjects and was thus short of time. It was a routine task, but as luck would have, oblivious that the Adjutant was in the Cadets Mess, I was merrily putting toasts in the handkerchief very neatly, then went on to put two cutlets and just as I was attempting to shove it in my Khaki Drill shorts pocket, Maj Daniels, who was observing me rather curiously from very close quarters, suddenly interrupted me and enquired as to what was I upto, had I not had my fill that I was carrying some more. My wiry frame did not justify my apetite either. I thought,being caught by the adjutant himself, even Almighty Lord  may not be able to save me! I was not even aware of the Gods that Jews worshipped, else I would have appealed to him directly. Maj Daniels happened to be a Jew. Not that it mattered anyway! Although the punishment was decreed then and there, "Seven days restrictions" but the formal procedure for marching up to the Squadron commander had to be followed. 

 So lo and behold, the next day Cadet Suyash Sharma attired in his inspection type starched KD shorts with the shirt having been pulled by the orderly to remove any creases whatsoever and garter flashes measured with the L stick, was the sacrificial lamb ready for the slaughter. After the over study, corporal, sergeant and the CSM had done the needful in terms of expletives and threats , the drill instructor Sub Ramgopal from the Rajput Regiment arrived for leading me to the altar. The proceedings appeared to be as though I was being led to the gallows. I was not aware then, that Sub Ramgopal was very amenable and could have got me off the hook for just a few note books, pens and some samosas. Even later I didn't have the courage to exploit this trait, which very many others did. The squadron commander was Maj Sudarshan Singh Rathee, a paratrooper, who was unruffled even when squadron came last in cross country. He looked up at me and asked if I had anything to say in my defence. I was prebriefed not to utter a word lest he send me to the battalion commander Wg Cdr Parulkar, VM, whose attempted escape from the PW camp in 71 war was part of the folklore! It has recently been immortalized by the Bollywood also in a movie "The Great Indian Escape". So "seven days restrictions" ....March him off...!!!!The punishment saga had begun..

In the scales of punishments Restrictions was on top of the heap, with ETs, EDs being the third and second rung, poor cousins as their cumulative account doesn't account for anything dreadful except the daily buggery associated with the runs and reports. While ET was run in the dungarees, ED was in KDs, restrictions being the prima donna required a full FSMO(more about that later). Although cumulatively only the restrictions matter, with 42 of them leading to the dreaded sounding of the bugle, i.e. being relegated by six months. Two such relegations led to withdrawal of the cadet on disciplinary grounds.

There were other formal punishments too, such as a run to Sinhgad and back. Sinhgad was the formidable fortress of Shivaji Maharaj on a hill about 20 kms from Khadakwasla. It made a come back as a punishment after a number of years in our final term and the other one was a run to 'Lal Makaan', the seven mile run, where a prominent red hut was the forest check post, I think. For the uninitiated, all these are in full battle gear and not those joy runs.

Getting back to Restrictions, which are not just 'run and done', it comprises, reporting to the drill sergeant two more times once in the evening at dusk and second at night. These reports are also in full battle gear and the contents of the haversack are checked by the strict sergeants or duty officers. The FSMO or Field Service Marching Order, is a colonial army legacy, I am not too sure of the exact numbers of contents, but to name a few, a pair of undergarments, mess tin set, enamelled mug, line bedding, blanco, complete toiletries set (tooth brush,tooth paste, shaving brush, razor, soap) towel, socks, anti snake bit kit adorned on the jap cap (a blade, a piece of thread and a pencil), torch and 'hussif' commonly pronounced as housewife, another unique item which essentially was a small pouch with needle, threads and buttons. In other words everything which you needed to survive formed part of the contents. Every item added weight so Cadets avoided carrying the heavy stuff, (in fact miniature version of each of these was available at Gole market), which could be a permanent content. Did I forget the water bottle, the most inefficient part of the FSMO was the water bottle, which leaked perpetually and left its mark on the derriere of the cadets, during the run. These bottles though inefficient but we're life savers and thus were duly refilled at every possible water point, as we learnt the hard way during Camp Rovers. The fourth term camp was supposed to be amongst the toughest camps for 16 year olds in the world. Summer months, Sahyadris, the mountain range on the Western Ghats are rocky with sparse vegetation, quite a deadly combination! In our josh and exuberance, during the run back to the academy from the camp site, we the fourth termers decided to empty the water bottles to reduce weight and the inconvenience caused by its profuse leakage. We weren't even across half way home, when totally dehydrated, we were searching for water rather than our check point where we were to report. Lesson learnt, never ever be without water, come what may...

Punishments are awarded to discipline the cadets, I am not too sure if this aim is ever achieved, but there is a positive side effect of the punishment which is a blessing in disguise! The punishment types develop a rare bon- homie cutting across the rather strict seniority boundaries. This camaraderie is engendered over the runs which they jogged together or when they helped each other through those reports, a proxy here and there or even slipping the FSMO contents across to bail the other out. More often than not, they would also be smoke type pals, smoking though, is officially prohibited in the academy and invites another 7 days restrictions, but then forbidden fruits are sweeter!

This 7 days restrictions became my hallmark for each term thereafter, thankfully, it remained at 7 only. In the fourth term we were again on the wrong side of the Adjutant, after a reverse outdoor of ET followed by swimming, we were rushing on the third battalion road. For the uninitiated, this was the rather secluded stretch of road, where normally there weren't any drill instructors to keep tabs on us. So seven of us were in a tearing hurry to hit the mess for the sumptuous breakfast which awaited us. Seven cadets can't form one squad, a squad comprises either four or six cadets on cycles. None of us was prepared to sacrifice and wait...little did we realise that Maj Daniels was waiting for us and sure enough we literally cycled into his trap. Since we were not carrying our identity slips, our names were noted down by a drill instructor who emerged from nowhere, the moment Adjutant caught us.Since the drill instructor was not from our squadron, one of us had a "brain dead" moment and gave false names. Thrilled at the prospect of having fooled him, he confided in the rest of us. Some of us realised that we could get into a real mess here. But then, the deed was done. 

By afternoon the news spread like wildfire that seven fourth termers from Juliet squadron had given false names to the Adjutant and he had sworn that he would get all of them relegated. We rushed to our CSM and SCC, who realised the gravity of the situation and said, they will inform the Squadron commander the next day. it was a Sunday and the squadron was scheduled to go for the customary cross country run. After the run, the SCC SK Mohlah mustered up the courage to report the matter to Maj Rathee. He was cool as cucumber and just said,"That was a real stupid thing to do! Let me see how can I salavage the situation" On Monday, he managed to convince the Adjutant, his coursemate from NDA, that he would do the needful and sort us out in the squadron itself. Thereafter, the seven days award ....we really got away rather lightly. We marched off heaving a sigh of relief, till the battalion commander heard of this, sure enough next day our marching orders to the battalion commander were prominently displayed. We ran to the squadron office,where our saviour Maj Rathee assured us that he is headed to the battalion office himself. We could overhear the conversation, Maj Rathee stood his ground that we couldn't be punished twice for the same offence! Finally we were marched in; the Battalion commander admonished us and put us all on relegation warning,which too was published in the battalion routine orders but 7 days it remained!!! A very important lesson learnt that day, hold your own when you are convinced even against odds.

I am sure there were a few OLQ (officer like qualities) champs in every course who had never had the privilege of running those afternoon periphery runs, I am convinced they have missed something. I think it should be mandatory for every cadet to do the 7 days stint at least once in the six terms. Then there were the 40 restrictions variety, who were used to living on the edge, 2 more and the bugler came calling accompanied by loss of six months! So what... the thrill of living dangerously was well worth the effort. You err, own up, take it on the chin like a man and face the music but emerge with your head held high, that is the mantra for life.

WE DON'T NEED NO EDUCATION

                                                  

"We don't need no education, we don't need no thought control.... Teachers leave them kids alone!" That was the Pink Floyd anthem. At RIMC however the things were different, here we had venerable masters who were Demi gods and there were masters who were just masters. The masters were not just teachers, they were a lot more...a foster parent, a guide, a life coach and a friend. Adolescence is a difficult period in a person's life with hormones creating quite a ruckus in the young minds, we had just started to become aware of our physical strength and mind you an all boys school...quite a deadly combination! We all could have ended up quite confused and lost, but the fact is that we survived to tell the tales today; naturally a lot of credit for shaping our character goes to these very gurus.

All of eleven, from a Hindi medium school in Dhar, a tribal area in Madhya Pradesh, this young lad entered the Thimayya Gate with dreams of a haven where princes of yore including the Maharaja of Dhar himself had studied. English obviously was going to be my Waterloo. In the first monthly tests, I recall, I did quite well in most of the subjects except English and Maths. Sadly Maths, my favourite subject failed me, there were two questions one for 4 marks and the other for 6 marks, I knew the 4 marks one but couldn't understand the 6 marks one, the culprit "English". I knew the mathematical part but couldn't decipher it. Lt SM Johar was the Maths teacher and those of us who have had the privilege of having been his students would bear me out. It was common refrain that he was himself taught by his wife and then he came and taught us the same stuff. Not very inspiring. Anyway I knew I had to focus on English and that was going to be my key to success. Fortunately we had Mr GM Khan, who was obviously not a terrorist(!), who turned out to be my Messiah,  and  the two books, "Living English Structure" by W Standard Allen and "English Grammar" by Niesfield, (hope I have spelt it correctly) not just bailed me out but actually launched me with adequate escape velocity to get into this  English orbit, with due apologies to Shri Rahul Gandhi (poverty and escape velocity of Jupiter analogy !). I wonder whether these books are still the prescribed text books for the freshers, if not, the college authorities may consider it. So under his tutelage, I grasped the nuances of the language, the phonetics in the Language lab and by the end of the term, I was among the toppers of my class not only in my favourite Maths but also in English. He was a hard task master, did not suffer fools and my ears still start to ring by the mere mention of his name, he would twist our ears with such a vengeance that we would dare not commit such a sacrilege ever again. Unfortunately for us, he left school in our second term, alas, else some of us may have put many a Shashi Tharoors to shame! While the grammatical aspects were addressed, the interest in literature was kindled by another master, this time a Malayali, who had to seek refuge in the gospel, Mr ON Chacko. He came to the college from Agra where he was teaching undergraduate students. I still recall his treatise on "The Solitary Reaper" by William Wordsworth. 

"Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary highland lass,

Reaping and singing by herself, stop here or gently pass!"

Having got us hooked to good literature, he moved on and I believe became a priest. Maybe that was to atone for our sins or  when someone spelt Reaper as Raper(!), He could bear it no more. The third English master was Mr UN Singh, he too did not stay too long but left an indelible mark on some of our faces,(in lighter vein). His characteristic

 "O Listen listen ladies gay, no haughty feat of arms I tell

Soft is the note and sad the lay, That mourns the Rosabelle",

is part of the folklore of our generation in school. Mr UN's diction was typical,  but the depth of knowledge unfathomable. No wonder I was hooked and gradually shifted my loyalties from Hindi to the Queen's English, inspiring me to read Milton, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, Charles Lamb, Alexander Pope, Shelley and carried on to Orwell, Somerset Maugham with the occasional Harold Robbins or Ludlum thrown in. In fact I was so enamoured by the language that I actually took a post graduate course in English literature, but since this was from a civil University, the exams were postponed, leave   could not be, so couldn't appear in the exam. In the interim I also got engaged and then the literature was more of "letterature!" in the letters to the fiancee, trying to impress her with my impeccable English. The battle of perception is won, as one comes out well read, bred and led.It never fails, always works guys, so  English literature is the key to success. Enough of this colonial hangover, must return to our roots, lest we fall foul of the powers that be.

Hindi was my forte, after all it was my mother tongue, had studied in a Hindi medium school, so Mr K Kumar our Section Master and Mr GS Bisht together harnessed our skills and encouraged us to participate in debates and declamations where we earned our spurs. Mr Kumar himself was an author, so was Mr Bisht, his "Anokha Milan" was an essential acquisition for the weak in Hindi types, I am not sure whether it fetched them any additional grace marks or not, but I don't recall, anyone failing in Hindi. He would often boast that Manoj Kumar, the actor director of yore had shown interest in acquiring the copyright of his novel for converting it into a Bollywood blockbuster. It had all the basic ingredients of a masala film, I am sure it would have done well. 

I recall Mr Kumar  bringing a small transistor to the class sometimes, when one of his stories was being broadcast on All India Radio. The access to college library provided me with an opportunity to read Premchand, Nirala "Woh Todti Pathhar", probably our very own Solitary Reaper, Mahadevi Verma, "Sona Hirni", Subhadra Kumari Chauhan," Jhansi ki Rani" Makhan Lal Chaturvedi and his immortal "Pushp ki Abhilasha" and countless other such classics. Premchand's "Mansarovar", collection of short stories comprises eight volumes and reading them provided me with a deep insight into the rural India of the early 20th century. Stories such as Idgah have been permanently etched in our memories. Similarly, "Chhota Jadugar" by Jaishankar Prasad or "Hingwala" by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan have moulded our personalities inculcating real secular values and empathy. Hindi was not a favourite with most Cadets, the convent school types, few of us from the heartland however did keep the language alive and vibrant by participating in debates, dramas and even contributing to the chronicles and magazines. Alas today even I find it difficult to express myself in my mother tongue, English comes more naturally. 

Literature makes a man a dreamer, but Social sciences equip you for the day to day life. History was interesting as a subject also because of the colourful Capt SW Peoples, the self styled shikari and his Salavador Dali style moustaches.  The only shikar he could indulge in while in school was of stray dogs, which was permitted in the pre PETA days, hope Maneka Gandhi doesn't lay her hands on this else, even Jesus Christ may not be able to save our shikari.In the senior terms another representative from the God's own country, Kerela, replaced him, who went on to become the Vice Principal,Mr CA Joseph. Apart from history he got us initiated into quizzing, which came in very handy during the NDA entrance exam preparations. We even won a few prizes in some of these quizzes that we participated in. Once he nominated me to attend a Wild Life quiz being conducted at the Welham Girls school. Naturally we went ahead hoping to conquer a few hearts at least, since we really had no clue about wild life questions posed. No such luck, we of course blamed it on their traditional Dosco affiliation, the CJM RIMC and Doon-Welhams affiliations were well known in the schools in Dehradun those days. Maybe that was his way of rewarding the "Medhavis" , after all we were supposedly burning the midnight oil. But the best reward came in 1982 Delhi Asiad, when the Adm Officer Maj Hirak Sen decided to take a group of 'Medhavis' (the class toppers), to Delhi to witness the Opening ceremony and a few events. We were the cynosure of all eyes, and boy, that was definitely a reward worth its weight in gold. We stayed at DPS Mathura Road, where Col Varraich, our ex Commandant was the Principal. A similar visit to Delhi Trade fair was organised under Mr Dwivedi, our Chemistry teacher. The aim was to get some ideas for the Science exhibition for the Diamond Jubilee in 1982. That was a great exposure, getting to visit all those pavilions, we were literally wonder struck.

 Anyway I am digressing, we need to get back to Social Sciences. Mr RC Sharma the quintessential gentleman, very polished and suave, he was an FRGS, and with almost three decades in the school, he was reverred by the Shivajians as the lord and master. A great sportsman himself, even at that ripe age, he would make us dance to his tune in the squash court. "Geography is what is where, why and so what", this was a rather unique definition, given to us By Capt Manmohan Singh. He was quite a live wire and he also was the master who cycled with us  all the way from Dehradun to Chandigarh. Oh another great experience. The night stay at Paonta Sahib Gurudwara and the Parathas that we gobbled up at a  road side dhaba at Narayangarh are still vivid in the memory. The poor dhabawala ran out of his supplies, but the pack of 40 hungry wolves were not done. Geography may not have been very popular, but Capt SP Davray, was among the most popular teachers; cadets would recall his stories with nostalgia, "Tora Tora Tora", the 70s US-Japanese film attack on Pearl Harbour, much before the Hollywood Pearl Harbour came on the scene, which today's generation would be more familiar with. Capt Davray incidentally was also at NDA wing, where we were again his students. Capt and later Maj SM Johar was there at NDA and even at CME Pune, when we went for our degree course, I will let the readers guess how did we fare mathematically!

Maths and Mr Singhal are synonymous for most Rimcollians, but he was not just a teacher par excellence, he was an institution, as the Vice Principal; I still recall his motivational talks while we were preparing for our SSB. Very fair and forthright he was above the routine mundane matters where other masters would dwell. His devotion to the school was unmatched and that was life long and not just while he was at the school. Mr LN Thakur was the other Maths teacher, but our association with him was more because of the Kalsi-Mussorie hike of Class 2A. This was our first trek apart from the first term walk to Mussorie from Rajpur Road. I am sure our course mates would agree with me when I say it was among the best mid term hikes. His involvement was not restricted to interaction in the class room. He would invite you over for a glass of 'milak'. The atmosphere there was rather informal, with Thakur family joining in the conversation, which was quite unique as most of the others did not really encourage such bonding. 

With science, the bonding was different,more genetic, I presume, my father being a Professor of Chemistry, it was not just my favourite subject but I actually developed great interest in alchemy.  Capt BN Das introduced us to Chemistry as a subject in class 3, but it was Mr SK Dwivedi who was at the receiving end as loose electrons like us didn't let him be a stable benzene like compound. He tried his best to be inert like the gases but to no avail. His lab assistant, Mr Khanna was knighted during the practical exams, thereafter down-gradation of his stature resulted in volcanic eruptions of expletives. It wasn't among the popular subjects by any stretch of imagination. In junior classes we were introduced to the "Principles of Physics", a real thick book by Subramaniam Brij Lal. The POP treatment was awarded whenever Class 3 seniors were at the receiving end either from Mr Nene, Mr Mustaquim or by anyone in general. A classic dose of the book took us defaulters for a space trip with stars for company for the next couple of minutes. Laws of motion, gravitation and all other laws were outlawed as there  was absolutely no reaction to this rather violent action! Ideally the POP should have bounced off but just one shot was adequate for our supposed misdemeanour and believe you me, this was foolproof. One dared not venture anywhere near the senior forget about crossing his path for the rest of the term at least. Apart from Physics, Mr Nene was always the cricket umpire during reunions and he was always complicit in all the antics of old boys getting them to win year after year. Mr Mustaquim did not stay too long but he too left a lifelong imprint on us, he would dutifully render the bhajan, "Koi bole Ram koi bole Shyam " in the temple with his eyes shut as though he was in communion with the Almighty himself. With such teachers setting the example, there was absolutely no scope for any bigotry for us cadets in those very impressionable years. " Sarv Dharm Sambhav" was inculcated and has its roots running very deep indeed. We are eternally grateful for this gift, specially in today's vitiated environment.

The most intriguing part of this anecdote is the subject of Biology, where unlike Physics and Chemistry, there are living objects available for experimentation. Study of biology somehow was always on the backburner, although the GK2 paper in NDA entrance exam those days comprised only Science subjects with almost 30% marks allotted to this poor cousin. We had tomake do with Mr Nene attempting to teach us the basics of life sciences, which was quite a travesty, to be honest. Fortunately his daughter Vinita who was herself a postgraduate student then was entrusted this onerous responsibility by the Commandant. For about two months she tried her level best, but the incorrigible lot that we were, did nothing much except gape at her trying to look intelligent and impress her. Finally it was the good old army which came to our rescue just prior to the SSE 10th final exam, when an AEC Hav was deputed to cover the essentials so that we don't end up with eggs on our collective faces. He did a decent job, no wonder we passed with some of us even managing a distinction in Science, couldn't have been with only 66% i.e. Physics and Chemistry.

The story of our masters is incomplete without Mr Bhatia and Mr Chaturvedi, I am sure most of the readers are familiar with them and they need no introduction. These two gentlemen have been a permanent fixture in school, ageing seems to have passed them by. In fact very many of us would look distinctly older than them today. The best part of these classes was the stress free environment where our artistic fervour was nurtured. Occasionally we had some culprits, who would go on to draw a Tulsidas who resembled his simian ancestor rather strikingly and end up failing in the subject and receiving a warning from the Vice Principal to show improvement(!). Barring these hiccups, these subjects provided us with that extra bit for holistic grooming, the ability to use the saw to cut the dead wood and file the edges to smoothen the artefact; that is how life actually has been and I dare say we have effectively exploited these nuggets and each one of us has turned out to be a winner in his own right !

CARRY ON DOCTORS

CARRY ON DOCTORS

“Carry on Doctor”, as the old timers would recall quite vividly, was one of the hilarious “Carry On” series of light-hearted comedy films of 60s and 70s. The bumbling doctors and the buxom nurses prancing about in their smart skirts and heels kept us in splits. Although medical profession is amongst the noblest and the doctors are accorded a God-like stature if the patient recovers. But God forbid if the patient succumbs then even God himself cannot save the poor unfortunate medical practitioners.  No wonder some hospitals have asked their doctors to undergo self defence training (taek-won-do, karate (!)) to address these lumpen elements, while some hospitals have resorted to hiring bouncers. 

Our brush with doctors commences even before we are actually born, so to say. It is the doctors who actually announce and confirm our existence in the womb and they are the last ones to certify our last breaths on this planet. In between, too they have a major role to play with vaccinations, sicknesses and injuries over the years. In the Armed Forces, of course, even if we are seemingly fit as a fiddle, we need the annual visit to the doctors' to confirm, if things are really as they appear or we need to rein in our binges.

In the last half a century of my existence on this planet, I have had my share of brushes with these medical professionals, may be a little more than the average for my age group personnel because, firstly  I am very injury prone and secondly I also have a knack of getting afflicted with strange sounding uncommon maladies, Bell's Palsy, Herpes, Gastro Oesophageal Reflux `Disorder(GERD)… the names themselves sound very impressive like the unforgettable  “Lympho sarcoma of the intestine” which ailed super star Rajesh Khanna in “Anand”, a popular movie of the 70s. Of course these are the peculiar ones but the usual bouts of chicken pox, measles, appendicitis and fevers, allergies have turned me into quite a veteran. As if these weren't all, my sports injuries have made me conversant with the 206 bones of the body and the cartilages and acquainted me with the different ways in which these can be hurt.

In RIMC, our RMO was Dr Bhatti, christened Dr Jhatka, after the comic character of “Lotpot”, a popular Hindi comic strip. A good Tennis player, he handled the cadets quite well, having seen through our malingering acts through the years. Naturally he wasn’t very popular amongst the cadets. Although some of us still managed to hoodwink him; one such occasion was the outbreak of conjunctivitis epidemic, when half the cadets scooted home merely by applying some balm on the eyelids. He didn’t want to come near and would from a distance just take a glance and send them away…. Hospitalisation in school was like a well deserved break , no PT, games or punishments hot meals relished dressed in gowns. The nursing assistants were really old men from a different era, one of them used to smoke bidis and was constantly coughing so he was called  "khaon khaon", the other one was called Shivratri don't really know why. 

 In NDA, we had many doctors in the MH, however, two of them remain vivid in our memory, the first was Maj (Mrs) Siddiqui, who was quite a terror known for handing out M&D or Att “A”, which was basically meant to send the lambs ( second termers) to the butcher (Cadet Sergeant Major, CSM for short). An Att “A” implied the cadet was fit and was actually feigning illness, so he had it coming and was sorted   out nice and proper. After this session the cadet would not dare to sham. The other lady was Sqn Ldr Anita Singh, who was blessed by all the cadets for her benevolence, as, when she was the Duty Medical Officer, most of the cadets reporting sick would return triumphant with an Att “C”, which in simple terms was “Sick in quarter” or a whole days bed rest.

My spate of accidents and injuries started at NDA, where I broke my left wrist while trying to play soccer practically in slush, though it was the battleground for the seventh string inter squadron match, in pouring rain. The lower strings matches were "free for all" i.e. the sport didn't matter, it was the opponent who was the target. Having seen Pele's scissor kick in "Escape to Victory", (the 80s movie, where allied Prisoners of War escaped during a soccer game), I was convinced this acrobatic move would cement my place straight away in the academy team. As you would have guessed seventh stringer naturally landed on the wrist missing the ball altogether, the wrist dangling away from the rest of the hand, hung loosely by the skin and whatever connectivity was left with the bone. Quite a mess actually! The Physical Training Ustaad, who was present cast a disinterested look and asked me to sit outside till the game was over. 
An ambulance then carted me to the Command Hospital, where I was examined by a team of doctors. Feeling like a battle wounded VIP I started to enjoy despite the severe pain that I was suffering from. But with their line of questions I realised to my horror that these were AFMC interns and suddenly from a VIP I was reduced to the status of a guinea pig. Thankfully the surgeon walked in at that very moment and saved me from further ordeal. By now I was extremely thirsty and also hungry, but was curtly told "You have to be under “reduction”", God knows what it meant except that I was not to be fed till my wrist was put in place surgically under anaesthesia. Sometime around midnight I was woken up and wheeled into the Operation theatre and the needful was done, so I thought. Next morning when I woke up still groggy from the effects of anaesthesia, I was still in pain and the cast on the hand felt a little too tight. The surgeon asked for the plaster cast to be removed and a fresh cast was applied.  

Now that the pain had subsided, I was ready to enjoy the fruits of this blessing in disguise....

I thought I would enjoy the hospitality of the Command Hospital Officers ward for a few days. I had heard stories how; the cadets would just stroll of to the MG road every now and then. Not to forget the pretty MNS nurses, but alas, that was not to be; apparently the officers’ ward did not have any spare beds, so I was discharged unceremoniously.  I was to be in this cast for six weeks, which of course was terrible news for me….no sports, squash, tennis, cross country, athletics...I was really looking forward to most of these events to display my prowess. The silver lining of course was the exemption from PT and Drill. Some consolation (!)

Barring the odd cellulites on the knees, I stayed healthy, avoided any more misadventures while at NDA, and even survived the desperate attempts by my mount in the equestrian arena to throw me off. The trips to MH were limited to some vaccinations, except when there was an epidemic of chicken pox and fortunately for some of us, one of our flank second termer caught the pox. We were immediately quarantined in our very own squadron ante room. Having been afflicted with the pox earlier , I was immune, so a  fortnight of paid holiday with no classes, PT, Drill and all the meals served right there. For a cadet this was heavenly, pure bliss. We were obviously blessed.

The next encounter with the medical fraternity was after commissioning with a severe knee injury sustained during an Inter Company Basket ball match. When you score one too many baskets, you are a marked man and in the hard fought inter-company battles it is the man who is targeted. Just too bad.... so with a swollen knee I was carried away with lot of josh (Our company had won (!)) with the youngsters giving me company to keep me in high spirits literally. There were no Orthopaedic Surgeons in the hospital, the General Surgeon, a Bengali gentleman was too busy with his surgeries, and so could not find time to look me up for next almost 36 hours. I was kept on a diet of pain killers, probably waiting for the swelling to subside. Moreover the only pretty nurse was already hooked to a dashing Capt from the Mech Inf a couple of courses senior. Finally the surgeon did take out time for this lowly creature and put the knee in a six weeks cast with sick leave. While leave was welcome, the highly restricted mobility was quite a dampener. The prospect of a travel by train to Bhopal and then by the State Road Transport Bus on the pothole ridden roads to a town called Rajgarh (back of the beyond...straight from some old Bollywood movie) was not quite encouraging. Anyway, in keeping with the tradition of removal and re plastering which I had set for myself the last time, here again, I had to have it removed and the needful done in the local City Hospital as the nearest MH was at Bhopal, 200 kms away. The end result was a category for next six months, which put paid to my ambition of donning the maroon beret, as I was planning to volunteer for Para Brigade Signals. 

The category could not prevent me from indulging in the occasional sporting encounters less Basket ball and gallivanting around on my new LML Vespa scooter. One such trip after a Dining out party, decked up in 6B, the summer ceremonials, I crashed into a cycle rickshaw blinded by the headlights of a car coming from the opposite direction. I did the Superman act took off from the scooter but landed rather unceremoniously with a thud, lost consciousness and was evacuated to the MH, with a concussion on the head, contusion in the shoulder and a broken nose. The last one getting me into the elite category of people as even Mrs Indira Gandhi also had a broken nose (!). This injury, though helped me get upgraded as the doctors forgot about the knee injury and within three months was declared SHAPE1 (medically fit for the uninitiated, SHAPE standing for Psychology, Hearing, Appendages, Physiology, Eyes) raring to go.
Thereafter I was doubly careful. firstly as I was to get married shortly and secondly was due to proceed on the dream engineering degree course for three years. We the RIMC, NDA variety miss out on the "college life" which everyone reminisces  about very fondly. This is the closest we get to a college life in a military institution; some lucky ones move on for pursuing M Tech in Indian Institutes of Technology which is college life alright although almost a decade too late. But the exotic maladies commenced with Herpes Simplex striking at the most inopportune moment, in the middle of final semester exam. I was immediately advised hospitalisation, but my previous experiences made me wiser, I refused and asked to be quarantined at home instead. Sure enough I staged a remarkable recovery; a detention  on medical grounds loomed large, and ended up missing just one/two exams, which I could comfortable reappear and clear. 
The age old adage "An apple a day keeps the doctor away" seemed to work when I was in Kashmir, with plenty of apples and a medical incident free two and a half years ensued. May be the sporting activities too were  on a low key, being in highly active insurgency effected area as well. The next bout manifested in the salubrious climes of Wellington during the coveted Staff Course at Defence Services Staff College. Suddenly, one fine day I started coughing like crazy, couidn't even breathe and had to be evacuated to the Military Hospital. I was diagnosed with Severe Allergic Bronchitis, as to what triggered this allergy, nobody had a clue. I was nebulised  and was ready to go back till the Duty Medical Officer politely conveyed that I was to be admitted and kept under observation. I tried reasoning with him, the fact that I was ok, I had the miracle "inhaler" with me, I could manage. I didn't want to miss the classes, scared a long period of detention may result in me being returned to unit (RTU). The prospect of going through the agony again was dreadful, little did I realise then, that I was cursed to do it twice more as a Directing Staff(!).

 The MH at Wellington obviously had other ideas, they put me through a battery of tests, all kinds of pathological ones and ECG etc, disappointed that all of them turned out to be "NAD" (no abnormality detected). I, on my part took permission to attend the classes, even while staying admitted. So after three days of incarceration I was released. It was only later that I realised that the aim of the hospital was not a genuine care for my well being, but improving their statistical record in the officers ward. After all there were hardly any admissions there, so some one had to be the fall guy ;). But MH Wellington was not going to let go so easily, more about that later.

It was during OP PARAKRAM when we were deployed in Rajasthan after the staff course, during a routine annual medical examination, the surgeon after stripping me and feeling the family jewels, announced his verdict that I needed to be operated for Hernia. I said the Hernia could wait, we are in the middle of a war/ warlike situation, and I have no intention of being confined to the bed or being sent on sick leave. Fortunately, the doctor, an Air Force bloke in Jodhpur, let me off with the rejoinder that the moment this mobilisation ended, I should go under the scalpel, and avoid lifting heavy objests or stressful physical activity. A promise which I had no intention of keeping, I simply scooted back to the unit, not disclosing this to anyone, lest I be forced into it. The best part of this episode was that I dutifully got myself examined once we got back to civilisation but this time under a civil doctor, who pronounced me absolutely fit, so apparently I had miraculously recovered, and have steered clear of Hernia at least.
From one desert to another, the next destination was Ladakh, our very own Shangrila, posted in the staff in Divisional HQ. Adhering to the laid down norms of  strict acclimitisation schedule, I was sure that this should be a healthy period with no pollution, even less Oxygen. But fate had ordained that Leh Base Hospital too had its place in the sun in my life. One Sunday morning turned out to be quite a miserable one when I woke up with a terrible stomach ache, throwing up, convinced the officers mess food was the culprit, I dutifully reported the MI room, where equally promptly they despatched me back with the panacea for stomach related ailments "baralgan". Unfortunately the discomfort only multiplied exponentially, this time a senior doctor decided to examine me and detained me in the MI room itself keeping me under close observation. The psychological effect of a senior dcotor's presence did precious little to soothe my suffering,writhing in pain, but under observation I stayed till it was almost midnight, when the senior doctor took the call of evacuating me to Leh, about 35 kms away in the 1 ton ambulance which were invented to primarily frighten the patients into immediate recovery rather than transporting them anywhere. I had no option, my colleague and senior Rimcollian  Col Mukul Singhal accompanied. By then the senior doctor had more or less made up his mind that mine was  case of acute appendicitis and needed immediate surgery. Better late than never, so I moved hoping to be wheeled into the OT straight from the ambulance, with the proverbial red bulb outside depicting a major surgery, with relations of the patient pacing worriedly in the corridors, so I imagined. No such luck, you are too lowly a creature, the Duty medical Officer took one look at me, announced that I was to be admitted in the Officers Ward, the venerable surgeon would be informed the next morning. That was one terrible night, I was wondering if the pain which our lasses had to endure was similar or worse... it was actually killing. 

Next morning the surgeon arrived and asked for an ultrasound to be conducted, while actually even the nursing assistant was convinced that the surgery was already over delayed. Sure enough, in the middle of the ultrasound, he got so scared that he wheeled me into the OT and straightaway wielded the scalpel to remove the vestigial organ called Appendix. When he enquired whether I wanted a general or a local anesthesia I said whichever is earlier and so I observed the surgery could hear them chat and finally when they did sever it and held it, the damned thing was red bulging to the extremes and ready to burst any minute. No the ordeal did not end here, the poor hygiene in the hospital resulted in pus formation in the sutures thus prolonging my stay in the hospital. Our families`are great and adapt themselves amazingly to any of these unforeseen eventualities with exceptional ease. So my son. whose final exams were on would give me company after the exam as his mother, my better half would have come along with my soup and the meal which she carried all the way from Karu. Incidentally even my birthday was celebrated in the confines of officers ward at Leh BH. The sutures refused to heal prolonging my agony, all this while I had maintained silence with my sister who is a Neurosurgeon in Delhi. But a prolonged stay of more than two weeks was too much for her to accept. She finally got round to me spilling the beans. Her first question was whether the culture test had been conducted on the oozing pus, when I expressed my ignorance, she immediately asked  me to give a piece of her mind to the surgeon  and that finally got me out.

Bell's Palsy has nothing whatsoever to do with a bell, it is a nerve disorder of the seventh cranial nerve; the cause could be idiopathic. (cause unknown).... impressed(!)Well I really had no option, but to read up on all the info available on the net when one evening I suddenly felt a little unease while having dinner in the Officers Mess at Wellington. Yes I was back in Wellington, the symptoms were ominous with a little slurring of speech and water running down from the corner of the mouth. I asked my friend Anjan Datta to take me to the MI room, where the DMO was a Sikh by the name of "Capt Judge", with a name like that he was obviously in the wrong profession. He examined me carefully and announced an alprax (a sleeping pill, for the uninitiated) should cure me of the discomfort...I would be fighting fit in the new morn. I was relieved the doctor said since I had travelled fro Bangalore that very day, I may have been a little stressed, which may have caused it. The next morning, my buddy let out a little shriek at seeing my contorted face, the mirror did not lie, my face had really twisted to the left with no sensations on that side. I knew now that it was time to call sis dear, she once again hauled me up for not calling her at  night itself, as the damage could have been restricted and so also the resultant deformity of the face .  Friends and family were horrified to see me in this situation. We were not sure if a total recovery was possible, but luckily the earnest prayers were answered and I did recover and regained the same dashing looks (!) It left me wondering whether the students in staff College practised some sort of voo doo to avenge the assault which we dutifully conducted on their written assignments by painting it in red graffiti.
The GERD or "gastro oesophageal reflux disorder"  takes the credit for being most deceptive, the symptoms were typical bronchial ... incessant cough but neither allopathy nor home remedies brought any relief. Luckily our landlady Mrs Iyengar, a Vyjayanthimala look alike, suggested a civil Pulmonologist, who after conducting a battery of tests, announced his verdict that my lungs were perfectly healthy and I needed to consult a gastroenterologist. He conducted an endoscopy and confirmed that GERD it was, "hyperacidity"...thankfully no scalpel ...no deformities .. just managed with medicines, thankfully the biopsy was negative.
There is a saying in Urdu           " Tandurasti hazaar niyamat" or the more common version "heath is wealth"! Now that I am half a century plus.....doctors have to be befriended. So just walks, yoga, keep fit!
By the way ours is a family of doctors apart from my sister aunts uncles cousins nephews nieces and the latest entrant to this club is the apple of my eye Ananya, my daughter. How I wish having doctors in the family  provided some insurance. Anyway let me end with  "Sarve santu nirayamah"
Let everyone be healthy as goes to AMC motto !!! 

DON'T CALL ME SIR

“Don’t call me sir!”

These words are like magic for an NDA cadet, which are uttered by a senior who is pleased to anoint his junior the coveted status of “pal”. Pal is actually a slang for a friend and is part of the lexicon these days, but in NDA, a pal is granted special privileges which is the key (pun intended!) to many a door locks.

For the uninitiated, NDA has a very strict semester based hierarchy with six months seniority bestowing privileges galore, for example, a simple ritual like the visit to the wash room has to be observed as per  a strict dress code. The best part is the striptease associated with these privileges. So the second termers, the lowest in the food chain, are to be dressed in a pyjama with a kurta and a dressing gown; mind you the undergarments for the upper and the lower torso too are mandatory. Third  termer gets to shed his kurta under the gown, however the vest underneath is a must, the fourth termer does away with the vest too and in addition can replace his pyjama with a lungi. Well, the fifth termer sheds all but the dressing gown…where does that leave the lord and masters, the final termers, well well… they do not have to follow any such rules can be in the state of dress or undress as they wish to.

The second termers are always short of sleep running from Asoka pillar to posts or rather avoiding the posts with sergeants, all errands are entrusted on the dukkis (second termers’  derogatory but endearing nom de guerre (!)), from fetching tea/ coffee snacks from Gole market to managing a freshly ironed KD uniform or simply for entertaining the senior. The poor chap thus avoids his own cabin and is always on the lookout to seek refuge in one of the senior’s cabin where he can’t be touched. More the pals, more number of cabins to seek asylum, the odds of being saved from the errands and the countless sessions naturally increase exponentially.

Getting back to the “palship” in NDA, when a senior grants this status, the junior is indebted to him forever and of course makes the most of this friendship. The largesse which comes along is unrestricted access to the senior’s cabin, his uniforms and of course his eats and cold coffee, which is the ultimate elixir for an ex NDA. Palship is of many flavours, the first and foremost is the school type pals, where one’s school type is a de jure pal, with no questions asked, then there are place type, ie belonging to same state/ city, which is not a right, like the “school type”, but largely depends on the magnanimity of the senior. Then there are the special bonds type, for example “punishment type”, when the senior and junior cadets are a regular at the periphery running restrictions, the senior finds in the junior his mirror image and out of sheer brotherhood and camaraderie goes the pal route to convey this feeling of affection. There are “CH or MH” types when the cadets happen to be admitted in the Command or Military hospital together and spend many a days ogling at the very same petite nurses and devising ways and means to extend their stay in the hospital rather than returning to the grind of the academy, naturally those bonds are for keeps and the palship merely formalizes it.

“Train types” are the ones who travel together during term breaks, so generally South of Vindhyas, or to the North East, cadets travelling by train to their respective hometowns used to spend forty eight to seventy two hours in the same train compartment which could result in the senior granting the junior this favour out of pity. The more bizarre variety comprised the “GCI” ( Cumulative Grade Improvement) types, where the cadets with compartment in the final exam had to return early to take the exam; the regular amongst these GCI types could empathise with each others’ plight and palship was a natural corollary. There were sports types when you played as part of the same team or you shared the same name or for no reason at all, not to forget the smokers, theirs was a bond where “fire” itself was the witness.

As everything else in the world has two sides, technology and anti technology, so “palling” also had a “de-palling”, ie unceremoniously throwing the junior back to the grind. This ignominy normally the junior brought it upon himself by indulging in any activity which was anathema for the senior or not par for the course in the academy. Even a court martial probably may not be that as humiliating as de-palling by a senior. Borrowing from the Bard, “Hell hath no fury like a de-palled senior”. He would set out to even all his grudges and settle scores by pushing you to the extreme limits of physical and mental stress. Thankfully this was a rare phenomena.

An interesting anecdote of palship came about, when my over study, Sherry Peter, an alumni  of Sainik School Kazhkottam, the terrors in the academy normally. He was raring to go having graduated to the third term, his understudy, a Rimcollian, had it coming. But as luck would have, he discovered that we shared the same "date of birth", 21st of March. Boy, he was so disappointed, now he had to make me his pal, but he did not let emotions get the better of him and bashed on regardless.......Finally in the fourth term he did grant me this exalted status, and we have been pals ever since.

During my second term, an incident changed the rest of my NDA tenure and left a lasting impression on me for life. Second termers were usually tasked with packing breakfasts for fourth termers who embark on the much awaited service subjects where the Army cadets were expected to be dressed in FSMO( Field Service Marching Order) with packs, water bottle and duly camouflage painted trying to be soldierly. Obviously all this make up and dressing was time consuming so the second termers were sent packing to pack the breakfast, which was packed in the handkerchief and it comprised couple of slices of bread with dollops of butter and jam and some cutlets, which was tucked in the pocket of the Khaki Drill shorts, which literally had deep pockets. Anyway, to cut the story short, while I was busy packing for Cadet Gandhi an Air Force cadet ( why did he need to get this packed??, God only knows.... Air Force cadets attended the service classes in the same attire, they didn't need to adorn all that camouflage etc), blissfully unaware that the Adjutant , (Maj Daniels , a short stocky gorkha officer who was a terror like all adjutants are supposed to be for the cadets) was keenly observing my activity , rather amused, assuming that I was packing it for myself. Looking at my lean wiry frame, he must have thought I was hell of a hog that I needed to carry additional breakfast apart from having my fill there itself. So he caught me red handed and asked what was I upto, shocked at having been discovered, I just confirmed his suspicion by taking the blame on myself rather than name the senior. As a reward, the Adjutant  awarded me seven days restrictions immediately. The fourth termers on the dining table who observed this act of bravery of mine were so impressed that I was accorded the status of "pal" for the fourth termers of the squadron. Naturally this made my life a lot more comfortable with a fifth of the squadron was on your side apart from another fifth which were your own course-mates. Any case fifth and sixth termers were hardly interested in second termers, too piddly for their taste(!).

Pal or not. the bonds of the academy are unique, anywhere in the world your squadron types are your best friends, who go out of their way to help you. The same senior who was a terror in the academy turns out to be your benefactor later in life. May our tribe prosper and grow….. today Wg Cdr Abhinandan has been declared a universal pal by the whole country and not just by service personnel.

What's in a Name?

What’s in a Name

    “What's in a name”, the Bard put it across so innocuously; a lot , I hope most would agree. It wasn't always so, history is replete with examples where they took pride in simply anointing the names of their parents, ancestors on the new born. Wonder if they were really short of names(!) This practice is prevalent in the West, with just a suffix of junior is considered adequate to distinguish the two individuals. The senior George Bush and the junior one, both were proud occupants of the Oval office of the White House, the only case of father and son occupying the same office in US.

In India we name our kids with lot of pride after Gods and Goddesses, film and Cricket stars and or going with the latest fads of being different, highly Sanskritised tongue twisters, which the poor child takes a couple of years to pronounce correctly. Others of course twist the name to suit their vocabulary or acquired skills in pronouncing. Even numerologists tinker with the spellings of the name to seemingly assuage the Gods into showering their bounty on these poor souls. So Ayushman Khurana becomes Ayushmaan Khurranna, the name essentially remaining the same with just the spellings being stretched to the limit for pleasing the Lords...

Pre-independence and immediately after that historic event, the flavour of names was obviously quite patriotic, with kids being named after Subhash Bose, Azad, Bhagat and even Jawahar were quite common. Girls were Kamla (Nehru's not so famous spouse) and Laxmi (after Rani of Jhansi) if not Saraswati, Gauri or any other goddess. They took care to avoid naming these girls “Seeta”, having read about the tribulations that she had to endure in Ramayana. But gradually the Film industry and cricketers stars/ starlets dominated the firmament and Dileep, Dev, Raj, Amitabh, Sunil, Sachin, Kapil were dime a dozen. Similarly there were only Hemas, Rekhas, Meenas and Sadhnas amongst girls.

 Our idol worship has been taken to a different level altogether by some Tamilians, who have taken  ownership of many a foreign dignitaries' names, the most famous being Stalin, supposedly named after Comrade Stalin in the hey days of communism. Can you imagine any Russian naming his kid Stalin? But our DMK patriarch apparently felt that naming his progeny after the Russian dictator was a testimony to Indo-Russian friendship. Or maybe he wanted to prove his communist credentials and did not want to leave anything to chance. The prodigal son today is the undisputed leader of DMK at least if not of TamilNadu, his allegiance to the ideals of Marx and Lenin are at best restricted to lip service. Similarly Kennedy, no not JFK, but our very own indigenous Tamil anna, my driver in Wellington, is another on with a famous name. But why single out the Tamilians, Punjabis are no less with their penchant for abbreviating the names to suit their happy go lucky lifestyle. So every second or third child is “Happy”, the first one is “Lucky”, of course ,and mind you they are gender neutral, so “Navjot” Singh is married to “Navjot” Kaur, both are “newly illuminated” literally and metaphorically. A friend of my son is “Marshall Goldsmith”, a strange and peculiar name in the land of Happys and Luckys…. So out of curiosity when I asked the kid, he said his father is a cricket aficionado and a fan of Caribbean Cricketers; Malcom Marshall was amongst the most deadly pacers in the world in the 80s. Since he named him Marshall, he thought a Singh as the surname would be out of place and Goldsmith sounded power packed.

I have had my share of brush with names; when my parents decided to name me Suyash more than half a century ago, I wish they had patented it, as it was not just unique and different, I think I was probably the only homo sapien with such a name. Yash was quite common but a mere prefix of “Su” went on to qualify the fame associated with this innocuous sounding name. Little did they realise then that I will probably be called by similar sounding names all my life, the bane of having an uncommon name…… right from early childhood, the first name one was mistaken with was “Suresh” which of course could be pardoned after all it sounded alike and was much more common, except that more often than not, the person at the other end refused to understand the subtle difference the “re” made to my name and my very persona. After all with such a unique name I had to be special! Then the modified version of my own name spelt with an “e” rather than the “a”, ie Suyesh in place of Suyash. The name took a different twist with the Yesh sounding as though one was the spoilt brat indulging in the vices, as “Aish” in Hindi is synonymous with pursuit of hedonistic pleasures. This tryst with twisted names continues till date….

My first Commanding officer  Late Brig (then Col) Subhash Datta was a hard core Punjabi who could never get my name right and addressed me as "Piyush", "Siyush", "Sayush" everything except Suyash. My senior subaltern Capt ( later Col) Kulkarni  started calling me “Soyuz” as at least that my CO would get  right. So Soyuz I was in the unit. This ordeal of name calling (pun intended) has gone on ever since, I am not one to give up, so dutifully correct everyone who goes about mispronouncing my name. This has taken alarming proportions specially with the Information revolution suddenly empowering the masses with the ubiquitous smart phones. The mere possession of smart phones does not in any way make them smart is obvious as they leave no doubt in my mind when they address me by the myriad versions of my name and I have to get them to spell out the name and correct the pronunciation, even if he/she is a tele-caller.  

I have always believed that names play a very important part in the shaping the personality of an individual. A unique different name bestows on the individual an egalitarian persona, motivating him/her to strive for excellence in order to stand out of the ordinary in every sphere. I am obviously extremely proud of my name, for which the credit squarely goes to my parents. Sure enough, I went ahead and named my kids also with unique names, son being christened Abhijat, different from the common Abhijit, the "a" making him quite "original" . The daughter is "Ananya", which means unique, as she goes about explaining very proudly to everyone. I have not made their life easy…they have to endure their share of name distorters…..

Extra Judicial Encounters

The honourable Apex court has been on an over drive for the last couple of months. One is always circumspect when it concerns the judiciary, after all who wants to be slapped with a 'contempt of court'. The mere mention is enough to scare the s*** out of most of us who generally steer clear of these temples of justice. After all we are law abiding citizens barring of course the occasional traffic violation, which in any case is hardly considered a crime, with the traffic policemen as willing accomplices for their chai-pani or rozi-roti.

I had a brush with the judiciary once very early in life, just commissioned young army officer, I was asked to mark my attendance for some MACT case, motor accident for the ignoramuses. I of course had no clue about the case or the procedure at the court. The briefing by the venerable Adjutant of the regiment, a tall Punjabi whose claim to fame was basketball and keeping us youngsters on our toes literally, comprised just couple of syllables...... Go to the court, the dealing clerk was to explain the issue to me. Unfortunately he was summoned by the second in command just then, so I embarked on this adventure rudderless. I was attempting to glance at the file briefly on my way to the court in the proverbial one ton Nissan, which of course did add it's two penny worth by breaking down mid way, and the driver dutifully opened the bonnet and started the famous chapati drill, assuring me that he will have it on road soon. The drill went on for a while and not wanting to get late for the duty, I decided to take the first available cycle rickshaw which passed by, mind you I was in uniform and was naturally quite self conscious travelling in a cycle rickshaw in the market place. We in the uniform normally avoided such means of transport, which were used by the commoners, snobbish, may be, but the decorum of the uniform had to be maintained. Anyway, this cycle rickshaw did serve the purpose as I did manage to make it in time to the court.

Now the next task was to find the lawyer, as those of you who are familiar with the legal fraternity will understand, was a herculean task, obviously he was not in his chamber, because there are no chambers really, just a chair with a small table and a typewriter under a tree was the office, where he was supposed to have been, but alas, he was missing. The enquiries with neighbouring "offices", yielded no clues as they were either keenly involved with their clients or feigned ignorance, envious of our lawyer, having netted a case which with least bit of effort gets him a decent packet. Finally I located him at the tea shop, actually it was he who spotted me and put two and two together, my uniform again  coming to my rescue. He said we were getting late and hence must hurry to the court of the honourable judge.

We made our way to the court, but not as you would imagine, but with frequent stops for gossip with his colleagues and some chit chat with the judges and their staff. Finally we reached a room, yes to my utter shock, this couldn't have been a court, it did not look like any of those that we saw in umpteen Bollywood movies. Just a room with a couple of benches and a table and chair at the head, with crowd milling around, some policemen with presumably a convict in handcuffs, lawyers in black robes and in general a scene straight from any Street side tea shop barring the tea vendor. The lawyer asked me to find a place and make myself comfortable, while he got busy. On my enquiry about actions at my end , he said he was being paid to take care of this very issue, so just relax. 

For sometime I just stood in a corner not wanting to attract attention, which of course couldn't be avoided, standing out in uniform, the odd one out, who just did not belong there. Then the wait got longer for the judge to appear, so decided to find a place to park my rear. Having waited for close to an hour suddenly there was some commotion and then the honourable judge made his appearance at the head of the table. He looked around and saw me seated in the corner, ignored me thereafter and one after the other the cases were being disposed of with most postponed for next hearing on another day. This went on for almost two hours and I waited patiently waiting for our turn. Finally I spoke to the lawyer as to why our case was not being heard, to which he just responded by asking me to be patient.

Soon it was lunch time and the judge again disappeared . Now I got hold of the lawyer as to what exactly was going on, as he had promised me that it was a five minute job.  He said there appeared to be some issue and he would check with the judge and get back. He went into the judge's chamber and returned immediately, asking me to meet the judge, apparently he had asked for me. Not too sure of the goings on, I told the lawyer I really had no clue about the case, then what was it that the judge wanted to talk about. Anyway I ventured inside the chamber with trepidation, without the lawyer, blissfully ignorant of the case at hand, cursing the Adjutant for detailing me for this stupidity without any briefing, cursing the driver of the 1ton for breaking down.

 The judge who resembled the Jolly LLB magistrate, Saurabh Shukla, with a similar balding pate and a rather obscene tummy, his white shirt doing its utmost preventing it from taking a peep but failing nevertheless. In fact the button finally gave in and was martyred, the ponch  made its presence felt. The judge was taking a bite from his tiffin, rajma rice was on the platter, with a grain of rice reluctant to become part of the meal and sticking to a corner of his mouth. He took another spoonful and without even bothering to look at me, asked me, " What's your name Lieutenant?" I gave him my name and waited, while he took another spoonful and then finaly looked up  from his plate and asked me, " Why didn't you rise when I entered the court?" I was nonplussed, not knowing if that was the norm and moreover no one in the court rose, so that appeared to be a decent defence and was immediately offered. He would have none of it. He mentioned that being a military officer I was expected to follow the norms and protocols.  He said I could be charged with contempt of court for this offence. I immediately apologized in all sincerity, just wanting to get out of this mess at the earliest. Having finally obtained permission to leave, I rushed back to the lawyer and asked him as to why didn't he brief me earlier on this issue. His defence was that this was a rather unusual feature for him as well. Anyway, having been chastised by the judiciary I vowed never again to get into these judicial quagmires.

I have a confession to make here, judiciary has a very old connection with me, my maternal grandfather was himself a judge. Some judicial blood obviously runs through my blood too.As luck would have, we found a dwelling in Luyten's Delhi right next to the Delhi High Court in Bapa Nagar, this tenure in Delhi. Nestled amidst all the monuments and greenery  the kala coat fraternity takes pride in the fact that they have usurped the complete road space in Bapa Nagar with residents at their mercy even to get their own vehicle out. No wonder we got this dwelling, unoccupied for almost six months, no takers obviously. Who in his right frame of mind would get into a hassle with the legal eagles. Mind you, the neighbourhood is teeming with the who's who of the bureaucracy, but even they choose to ignore this menace. The lure of Luyten's is too strong and so even we took the plunge and studiously avoided any interaction with these attorneys lest we invite a contempt being flung at us. It was not just us the residents, even our pets abided by diktats meekly. What was astonishing was that even the normally indisciplined strays too took the matter very seriously. It was a pleasant surprise the day article 377 of the constitution was given a burial, suddenly, the strays became very friendly with the pets, without any gender biases. Buddy our 10 year old lab was the object of affection by the neighbourhood stray  who until the previous day was perpetually growling at him, itching for a fight. How the tides have turned ever since that day, this guy starts to follow him prostrating before him in surrender, leaving no doubt about his amorous intentions. Buddy of course continues to ignore him.......class conscious.....may be.

UXORIOUS

Perusing the lexicon I came across a very interesting word 'Uxorious', which literally means 'one who is excessively fond of one's wife or submissive to his wife'. Although not a very frequently used  word, I presumed there has to be similar  word which would describe a wife who is similarly excessively fond of her husband. To my surprise there was no such word in any language leave alone English. The conclusion you would naturally arrive at is since  such a species doesn't exist there is no  such word either. The uxoroius variety  of course find myriad ways of expressing their love to their objects of affection, but the age old method of the written word had its own charm. A letter from the beloved would set may a hearts aflutter. Today's generation would find the whole idea quite bewildering....in the world of instant gratification the snail mail is obviously a relic of the past.....an anathema. 

It wasn't always so, we in the armed forces or old fogies know their true worth, more so hostellers like us  Rimcollians and our country cousins from other lesser privileged public schools as  in all other things about "catching us young", even here we were literally caught young. The battle of letter writing was learnt in the dormitories and classes of RIMC ( with due apologies to the Duke of Wellington, "Battle of Waterloo was won on the playgrounds of Eton") and subsequently honed over the years, when we stayed away from our loved ones. Writing of letters was almost a ritual for us, every Sunday dutifully all of us wrote home, the letters were collected section wise with one of the dormitory commanders designated to check which he promptly delegated to one of the junior cadets for counting and subsequently posting it in the letter box behind the Cadets Mess near Pratap Section dormitories. In junior terms invariably we would be writing more than our quota and hence would be in demand to hand over the surplus letters to seniors who had been too busy in other pressing activities.....leave out, movies and girl friends (at least they claimed so) etc. These borrowed letters were prized commodities as they saved the skins of many a bullies, in return we benefitted from their largesse on some other occasions or just a swap of the dessert on the same evening. In senior terms one learned some more techniques of avoiding getting caught on the wrong foot, one such was the blank inland letter with just the address which met the requirement of the Section commanders, which was smartly recovered in an ambush of the cadet posting the letters, before he could reach the letter box itself. 

The contents of the letter initially ranged from home sickness to later days description of various activities in the college. Since ours is a quasi joint family with the uncles and aunts being close knit though not living under the same roof, every one expected a personal letter. When I was being bid farewell at Indore Railway station for joining RIMC, there were almost a hundred people on the platform to see me off ... The onlookers were perplexed at seeing a young lad in knickers being garlanded by so many and many ladies teary eyed. One of them even asked me if I was going on to be a monk or something, which was quite a common phenomenon or may be I was headed abroad. I was oblivious to all the emotions and sentiments... Just overjoyed at the prospect of going to Dehradun to study in a school where the princes were supposed to be studying before independence. So all these uncles and aunts ensured that I was receiving maximum number of letters and in reciprocatiion received as many letters as well. I probably would have been the most prolific letter writer of my class with at times upto seven to eight letters on a single Sunday or a holiday being despatched. These letters contained vivid details of the college routine, an account of my studies, the friends I had made, the desserts that we ate, the games we played and the movies we watched apart from the weather and of course the beautiful Mussoorie lights which were visible each evening and so on. I tried to include a few of these things in each so that when they met each other they too had something to share.

 Letters as the vital means of communication have historically played a major role. If it was Kalidas and his "Meghdootam" where the Yaksh had utilised the services of clouds to convey his love lorn state to his beloved, it was Pandit Nehru while exchanging letters with his darling daughter Indira, used these to impart lessons in history and culture of India, fulfilling his duty as a doting father even though he was incarcerated. There have been many great men whose letters have assumed epic proportions...have gone on to become collector's items, Gandhiji being the most prominent among them. My father also made it a point to educate me on all kinds of issues, sometimes spiritual, on other occasions, it was life lessons, at times we would even exchange thoughts on current events. There were no telephones those days, forget about mobiles, so this mode of communication was the only one and we made the most of it.  There were times when my father would leave hardly any space in the inland letter and my mother would use the sides of the inland to just convey her blessings. I dare say these letters were extremely valuable, actually priceless in shaping my personality in these impressionable years. My vivid descriptions of the events, sports , cultural, adventure, hikes and the Rimcollians reunions over the years helped my parents and siblings live these events through me and my letters. After all, those days my father was posted at Dhar in MP with no TV or even English newspapers, the place was sort of back of the beyond. My letters contained a brief on my academic achievements also which my father very proudly shared with his friends and colleagues. All in all this system worked and worked quite adequately provided both the sides were active. Although more often than not the cadets as they came into senior terms avoided letter writing as far as possible and that resulted in confusion and misunderstanding at times leading to further grave consequences. The hierarchy was conscious of this fact and thus tried to ensure no lapses on this account. After all they were responsible for the well being of the cadets. All this letter writing was very stressful for my younger brother Sujay, an outdoor person who did not believe in this elaborate exercise, the parents would invariably coax him to pen down , which he dutifully did, filling up the page in just two or three sentences conveying his well being and wishing me good health and cheer. On the odd occasion when he did try to go about describing his adventures, it was so laboured that he simply gave up, relying on his old format instead.

Oh for the sheer beauty of the  calligraphic handwritngs that were inscribed in the letters as also the covers. In fact handwriting provided a very important psychological clue about the personality of the writer. A neat beautiful hand depicted a  systematic methodical dependable person, where  as the barely legible variety were supposed to be confused and unreliable. Those of us blessed  with a decent hand would naturally show off and try and impress the reader with the artistic touch this trait provided us. The  graffiti on the envelopes and inland letters was interesting too, "fly letter fly bring a quick/ sweet reply" depending on who the letter was addressed to. Stickers would be affixed on the covers to make them more colourful, and yes postcards were a strict no-no, firstly it was considered un-officerlike and yes the contents were all too visible. Occasionally there would be telegrams enquiring about the welfare  of the ward addressed to the Commandant himself, God save the cadet when such a telegram arrived apart from immediate response in the form of a letter, it sometimes led to impositions of writing 10 or 15 letters just to discipline the cadet. It sure acted as a deterrent.Obviously the postman was eagerly awaited as he was the harbinger of news from home and relatives and sometimes even goodies in the parcels which too were quite a regular feature for may of us. Apart from the usual letters, greeting cards and Rakhis were the other articles which were received by the cadets. Birthday, Diwali and Holi greeting cards were exchanged regularly. Rakhi time was also another occasion when the sisters' love and affection overflowed with envelopes bulging with beautiful exquisite Rakhis. Some of us had our forearms gleaming with Rakhis of all hues and colours, naturally envy of those not so lucky ones.

Letter writing continued in NDA,IMA and later on in service as even then telephones were a luxury, so one had to rely on good old field area inland letters which were provided free and had to be censored by the unit Adjutant. NDA and IMA did not lay down any strictures in terms of weekly letter writing as they presumed you were a grown up man. Of course that was an exception else every other place we were literally spoon fed.  The highlights in NDA letters were the Queen's parade when Queen of England Her Highness Elizabeth ll visited NDA, or when India's first cosmonaut Wg Cdr Rakesh Sharma came calling on the Alma mater, these events were described in great detail for the folks back at home till we could go home and wax eloquent on these grand events. Our camps Greenhorn, Rovers and Trishul, inaugural Pune marathon where I participated, junior National Squash championship held at NDA, our riding escapades, my breaking my wrist and subsequent hospitalisation....all found a mention in the correspondence. All this while my younger siblings were growing up and also joined the bandwagon, expecting individual responses to their letters, so the number of letters also multiplied. One event in IMA, where in the third term final camp, I had got caught up in an incident of loss of fired cases leading to a court of inquiry's, tested my letter writing skills, as I had to convey this issue to my parents without sounding very alarming, though the outcome of the court of inquiry could have been disastrous. I must grant it to my parents and our connect and mutual understanding that despite such a grave incident the letters we exchanged together helped us overcome this crisis.In fact my father himself was a prolific letter writer, his letters were so motivating that in the most ardous times in life one just needed his letters and I would be ready to take on the world again.

The next round of letter writing commenced during the period of courtship, as is typical in all such cases, this period brings out the poet in most of us and the verses flow in letter after letter, the responses were stamped with different fragrances and sealed with kisses. On one such occasion l even compared the ordeal of that of Yaksha of Meghdootam with mine and claiming that the poor Megh (Mr cloud) would not have been able to bear my plight and would have ended up as a torrential rain instead being the messanger.

Fd Marshall Erwin Rommel was reported to be a very prolific letter writer himself, he apparently wrote letters to his wife  almost daily from the battle zone. Trying to emulate him even l promised my better half while I was in Kashmir  that I would do the same. The valley did provide me with enough material to keep her engaged for a couple of weeks, the pristine beauty of the place, the enchanting hills and forests and the swirling and swooning Jhelum  did help me in keeping up with the Rommels , obviously I couldn't have matched up to the blitzkrieg....so soon fizzled out. Then it became the mundane and soon even the weekly dates were missed out on some excuse or the other. Once I found some birch trees in the Kashmir valley, I promptly peeled out the bark and set about writing letters on these to provide some novelty, after all that bark of the birch tree precisely was used for all kinds of writings in the days gone by, many a manuscript would still probably on these barks of birch trees themselves. All this while she responded in her own way keeping me motivated letting me focus on the task at hand never ever mentioning anything negative, always cheering me up with the progress of my son and his antics. It was through her letters that I saw him growing up. This of course is the story of all men in uniform, of losing out on seeing their their kids growing up.

I am reminded of an interesting anecdote, I became a father at a rather young age, one month short of 25. My wife, Preeti was at her parents place as is the custom for better care at home under the love and care of her mother. On 28 Feb 92, a week prior to the delivery date, my son Abhijat entered our world, with both sets of grandparents and the complete extended family to cheer them up  and celebrate the grand occasion except the proud father and his younger brother. Both me and my younger sibling were in Pune waiting for the D day to arrive. My father in law dutifully called up the duty officer at College of Military Engineering Pune, whose number I had shared with them for precisely such an event. My course mate, a brother Rimcollian was the duty officer who was probably too sozzled to have registered received the call and slept off. Two days later on the next Sunday morning, I called up from the STD booth (an era when there were no mobile phones) and got to know of the birth on the 28th itself. My immediate reaction was to enquire as to why was I not informed about it, to my utter surprise the accused was my own Coursemate, who mumbled something incomprehensible when confronted. How I wish my father in law had replied on the post and telegraph department and sent me a telegram instead, I would have not been at the mercy of a drunk forgetful coursemate. 

Soon it was the turn of our kids to start emulating us, in their unique inimitable style they scribbled, drew pictures and posted them along with Preeti's letters. I would wait for those priceless pieces of art, some of them are still treasured by me. When I went to the UN as part of the Peace keeping force, the snail mail have way to e mail. I would send these mails, which would be opened in the cyber cafe and print outs taken these would be carried home to read at leisure. Once again my letters were full of description of the place, the people, the culture, peace keeping and so on, in response I would be rewarded by the activities of both the kids, Ananya too had joined the family a couple of years ago and the gala time they were having being spoilt by the grandparents. Alas Skype was launched too late, so we missed out on video chats which became the norm soon.

The memory of those letters is still alive , quite of a few are still being preserved, for sentimental reasons, like looking at old photographs bringing back the memories of days gone by......don't have the heart to destroy these....after all those were labours of our love. May be some day, someone may find something interesting in them, apart from our own reminiscences and 'chewing the honeyed cud' in old age, as John Keats had described in 'The Human Seasons'.