Moustaches

"Moonchen hon to Nathhulal ji jaisi!" Amitabh fans would recall this dialogue from "Sharabi" film, where Amitabh praises Mukri's moustaches in these words, although he himself was sans any growth on the upper lip, clean shaven. Isn't it surprising that moustaches which are synonymous with masculinity have been out of favour with the images of our Gods, whether it is Maryada Purushottam Sri Ram, Lord Krishna, or Lord Vishnu, even Adi Yogi Shiva despite his unkempt hair and the snake around his neck chose to remain without the whiskers. Our demi-gods the Bollywood stars and models have also chosen to remain clean shaven except when they have been essaying the role of dacoits and villains. 

Rajputs considered the moustaches as their pride and even a single follicle carried tremendous value. History is replete with examples when the Rajput's moustaches were accepted as a guarantee. Even today the blue blooded Rajputs will rather die than shed their prized moustaches. If I am not wrong the Guiness Book of World Record also acknowledges the longest moustaches of a Rajput, "An Indian man currently holds the Guinness World Record for the longest moustache – which is 18.5 FEET LONG. Ram Singh, from Jaipur in Rajasthan state, India, proudly holds the Guinness World Record for the longest moustache with his impressive 18.5 foot long facial hair." ( just confirmed from the web!) In the Rajput regiment in Indian Army, moustaches maintenance also entitled its owner an allowance for its upkeep.

Since femininity is defined by absence of facial hair of any kind, it is no wonder that their presence is associated with masculinity. So the onset of puberty is eagerly awaited by kids, the appearance of the first few strands are an undeniable proof that you have crossed the Rubicon and can't just be brushed aside as a mere kid.

"To sport or not to" with due apologies to the Bard, is the quintessential dilemma of the youngsters on the threshold of adolescence. Although in our family, the menfolk were all clean shaven types,but our generation somehow were unanimous and all siblings and cousins decided to proudly sport them, feeling manly. Unfortunately the first place where we had to part with them was in NDA, the very epitome of masculinity; the training academy for the armed forces. In a matter of seconds with just a few strokes of the razor, the bright smart youngster was reduced to a pansy. What a tragedy, but the intent was to make us realise the importance of these whiskers, so one had to clear the drill square test to earn the right to be a "man" ! Naturally, without the moustaches one was forbidden to venture anywhere beyond the four walls of the campus. Incentives can't get any better! So gradually the spirits started to soar with the tash sprouting back ......and we were strutting around the Main Street on the Sunday liberties, smartly attired in our crew cuts proudly twirling our painstakingly earned moustaches!

Moustaches have been very loyal and have stayed on as the years went by, the hair on the scalp proved very treacherous by parting company even before we had officially joined the middle ages. Our stints in high altitude areas with balaclavas for protection turned out to be more of a "bal-niklava" just expediting the inevitable. But our moustaches have weathered all such storms except that they have greyed. Some of us suddenly were gripped with insecurity of age catching up, colouring the hair and shedding the whiskers in our quest for perennial youthful looks, least realising the disappearance of moustaches covered up under the garb of a "shaving accident"  merely reduced them to be christened "Vrihanalla". In Mahabharat Arjuna having been cursed to an year as a transgender by Urvashi,  assumed this name and taught song and dance in the Matsya kingdon during the last one year of their exile. So the earlier one makes peace with the receding hairline and grey moustaches, the better. I think these have only added to our persona, at least I would like to believe that(!)

Thanks to Abhinandan, moustaches have made a come back and not one of those creeping in variety but a grand one, his handle-bars were an instant hit with the girls. Boys naturally rediscovered this simple attribute which could have their girlfriends swooning. Here is hoping the youngsters catch the bug, shed their unkempt neanderthal beards and be gentlemanly....

MENTORING

"Cadet Ranpreet Singh has been assigned as your cadet guardian", I was informed and introduced to a smart immaculately turned out Sikh boy slightly taller than I was. Guardianship is an onerous responsibility at any age imagine that for a 12 year old. Amazingly, he immediately took charge of things at hand; he was polite and super confident escorting my father and myself through the first day activities, while addressing the queries which my father was posing. I was actually a little overawed and was unusually quiet. The Monsoons arrive with all guns blazing in August in Dehradun, so the downpour was torrential and Ranpreet won over my father by holding the umbrella in such a way that although he was at the receiving end from the showers but my father was totally protected. A gesture unmatched, obviously it reflected on his upbringing and the value system as also the functioning of the school. He was there with me when I bid farewell to my father at the War Memorial, a tearful adieus when we finally parted ways. My father was reassured that I was in good hands!

The system of mentoring in the Armed forces and their training institutions is simply outstanding, unparalleled.  These mentors take their role very seriously, being strict and considerate in the right measure, wonder, how does a 12 year old acquire such maturity. The bonds between these gurus and their wards are forged for life. I was a raw youngster with just passable English and obviously not to the manor born. Mess etiquette was my first battle, using the fork to  gently nudge the veg curry into the folds of chapatti was the first skill acquired, lest I stay hungry. Opening-closing of plate, course wise meals and continental menus was all novelty and interesting. The various outfits/rigs PT, Drill, Inspection Parade(IP) type uniform, handkerchiefs (we the Rimcollians always carried two sets of hankies one for daily use which would obviously not be spotless, the other one was). The other funny rig was in the night suit, in the absence of the dressing gown, one had to put a towel around the shoulders, when moving outside your dormitory.  Ranpreet was always around guiding me through these ordeals. Then the time came for payback, we were required to memorise the names of the appointments and senior cadets, teachers and so on, we were trying our best but did not match up to the expectations of the senior hierarchy of cadets. The brunt was borne by the cadet guardians, which in due course was passed onto us in measures varying from a mild reproof to a full fledged dressing down. He was tough on the slippages and could be quite a bully when he was in one of those torrid moods. We bonded over Table Tennis, not a preferred sport in school, but having noticed my TT racquet in the box, he was the one who got me a few knocks in to assess my game. I had played state level and was quite good at it and had an edge over him as also other seniors, however this activity was generally conducted after lights out, since during the day we were not even permitted to enter the Middle Ante Room where the only TT table was kept.

We had our share of spats but by and large, the relationship remained cordial. Sometimes the Cadet wards play truant and the guardian is at the receiving end, ending up being punished for no personal fault. A very important lesson in parenting, which I am sure, comes in handy later in life. Similarly when the ward goes on to be an achiever, the guardian is justifiably proud. Excelling in academics or sports was one such way of getting in the good books and be rewarded by "extra pudding" on the dinner table. Unlike NDA, the guardian here does not get to put the ward through any physical punishments, but the control exercised is much greater, I dare say. May be because we were younger in age and more malleable.

The cadet guardian-ward relationship is unique and is life long, in my case since Ranpreet did not join NDA, we lost touch, till I got to know of his unfortunate demise and thereafter met his parents and younger brother. He had been an Investment consultant and was doing pretty well, after having graduated as an engineer.

NDA was a different ball game, we the Rimcollians, Georgians and Sainik school types were no longer rookies unlike our other course-mates. Second termers were put under the tutelage of an overbearing over-study raring to go, having borne the brunt for six months at the bottom of the pyramid. Here the Over-studies do not indulge in parenting but ensure the "undies" are pre-mustered for the Corporal's pre-muster which is followed by the pre muster of the sergeant. Accordingly the bathroom clearance for the dukkis was generally around 0415 hours for the muster (the first parade in the morning) scheduled at 0600 hours. More about the Musters some other time. The over studies were actually "hover-studies", hovering over all our activities with powers to punish....Sherry Peter was my over study, from SS Kazhakottam, generally believed to be terror types. We enjoyed a different connection though; we shared our birth date, 21 Mar, the spring equinox. He was in a dilemma, in normal course this coincidence should have automatically anointed me the coveted status of a "pal", but as the over study he felt he would be severely handicapped in discharging his duties (!) So the "palling" had to wait till next year 21 Mar. 

The over studies had to ensure their wards were dressed appropriately whether these were the authorised dresses or the typical NDA attires of "Taant Police Order, Paper Drill Order, Superman, Phantom, Congo Rig.....". For the uninitiated, these dresses need some elaboration, Taant police Order was Khaki Drill Shorts, Ammunition boots, White patrol tunic and Side cap, depicting the Maharashtra policeman. Paper Drill Order comprised just newspapers converted into shorts and shirt; with the ammunition boots of course...this designer outfit would have put many an haute couture to shame! Superman was even more ingenious, a dungaree with swimming trunk over it, with a towel flowing as the cape but Congo rig took the cake, just garter flashes to cover the vitals, rest was sky clad. As though the dresses were not enough, there were several other interesting stuff such as the "out of the box" exercises which we were routinely put through to toughen us up, the Academy whiskey ( a sufi meditative trance achieved by revolving like the darwish except that instead of raised hands, we had our finger firmly on terra firma), Cream roll ( front roll and back roll carried out alternately to provide an equitable balance to mind ,body and soul), side rolls.....these physical exercises not only helped us build our muscles and the six packs but achieved the yogic outcome of cleansing our stomachs of the "vaat, pitt and cough" by making us throw up.

Meals in NDA taught us the true value of two square meals by literally ensuring the meals were partaken only in perfect square motion of the hand, i.e. the hand had to move in a straight line  to the plate, from where it had to move in a perpendicular motion , parallel to the mouth and from there it had to trudge along the straightest path to the mouth, finally returning to the plate in a perpendicular motion again. After this elaborate exercise the hands needed to rest in your lap, before commencing the same drill again. Then there were even more innovative ways of consuming soups, with forks rather than the mundane spoons again training our minds to focus shaolin style on the substance without any distractions.
These set of instructions obviously needed mentor-ship of a very high order and I dare say, I was singularly lucky(!)

By the time we reached the Indian Military Academy, we had become "purane paapi" and didn't need any mentoring whatsoever and took to it like ducks to water. The physicals were just a re-run of NDA so we could just sleepwalk through these. Before we could say "Rajaram Sitaram", we had taken the Antim Pag and received the President's Commission duly signed by none other than Giani Zail Singh!

On joining the unit, it fell upon 2Lt (now Col) Rohit Mehrotra to straighten out the crooked Rimcollian who had joined the elite Airawat Signals fraternity. He is such a thorough gentleman that his goodness rubbed off on goondas like us, we had no option but to emulate him. After all you can't take a panga with someone who is ever ready to apologise even when you are at fault. Someone has very correctly attributed the successful careers to their senior subalterns and their grooming in their formative years in the unit. All the officers took it upon themselves to ensure we were put through a tough training regimen which has stood me in good stead over the 32 odd years of commissioned service.

I think I took this mentorship a little too seriously and got after the youngsters in the units as also in MCTE when I was an instructor for Young Officers. I took pride in the fact that while I made life miserable for them, in the bargain ended up toiling doubly hard. But it was all worth it........

Vikram

Vikram had become a part of the lexicon after Chandrayan- ll, named after the father of Indian space programme,  appropriately christened, though odds were heavily stacked against it succeeding in the first go. Some of us old timers would recall "Betal Pachhisi", the tale of King Vikramaditya and Betal the spirit. Most of us were introduced to this story by 'Chandamama', a very popular children's magazine those days. So the connection between Moon(Chandamama) and Vikram has a history. In fact there was a Sunday morning TV serial too where Arun Govil the celluloid Ram from Ramanand Sagar's Ramayan was King Vikramaditya and yesteryears character artist Sajjan was the Betal.

Each story or episode was essentially a part of the larger canvas, where Vikram was tasked to recover a corpse from a tree in the jungle, the spirit would thereafter narrate a story and ask him questions relating to the story with the condition that if he uttered a word, the corpse would return to the tree and if he did not answer the question despite knowing the answer, he(Vikram) would die. The stories were focused on the prevalent social norms and were tricky, leaving the reader curious and Vikram in a dilemma. But why I am narrating this tale here, well, it is the perseverance and determination of Vikram which stood out, every time the betal disappears with the corpse he would dutifully retrace his steps and again embark on the same journey.

Etymologically Vikram is essentially a Sanskrit word, with 'Vi' derived from Lord Vishnu and 'kram' meaning a stride/step, so a giant stride our Lunar probe Vikram indeed was. Lord Vishnu's strides span not just the earth but the universe as a whole.

There have been other great warriors and valourous individuals who have lived upto the name of Vikram, Chandragupt Vikramaditya the Mauryan King was another illustrious one. The most recent one of course was Capt Vikram Batra,PVC (posthumous),  "Shershah", the King of Lions, as he was affectionately addressed by the troops. His bravery and courage is now part of the folklore, "Yeh Dil Mange More" was his response after the capture of Tiger Hill during Kargil War.

I am not sure whether all these names were also part of the consideration for naming Vikram, unlikely, as the name of Vikram Sarabhai himself was apt for this historic occasion. But looking back, ISRO could not have made a better choice...... So persist we did against all odds and emerged victorious, temporary setbacks mere spur us on for further glory. 

A Close Shave

A Close Shave.....

Today's youngsters are all Virat Kohli look alikes....clones, same bearded chins with hardly any clean cut faces. I wonder why has this reverse evolution commenced in the men folk,  where they have got so entangled in the facial hair that they have messed up Darwin's treatise itself. At this rate,  soon they should be growing their vestigial tails on their derriere! I actually feel sorry for the girls too as they have very little choice, it must be quite a task for poor Anushka to spot Virat from the 10 other identically bearded blokes on the field. Ironically  Team India is sponsored by Gillette, I wonder why....their ad agency needs to be sacked. They must be crazy, if they think the shavers of the country will plump for their products because of their patriotic sporting zeal of sponsorsing Team India which comprises only hirsutes.

When we were kids, this daily ritual practised by our fathers was rather awe inspiring for our generation. We would monitor every action very closely as it was an essential part of growing up, something akin to the girls watching their mothers dressing up in the traditional saris all decked up. Their favourite attires were the chunni wrapped around like a sari in which they would proceed for their favourite passtime, no prizes for guessing... Shopping! An activity which is 'sans pareil' at every age, when it comes to the fairer sex of the species. 

So getting back to more masculine pursuits, the once ubiquitous activity of shaving, which was an art, the fathers would invariably settle down comfortably on a chair with a table or a teepoy, where a mirror would be placed, we would run along to fetch hot water, the shaving round, brush and the razor would then make an appearance and be laid out majestically. There were no squeaky slimy shaving gels nor the obnoxious foaming ones, no messing of hands, the brush, which I was told of real animal hair(pigs), the brush would be immersed in the water and the stubble would be softened up for the task at hand. This activity was almost like caressing the chin in a rather delicate manner preparing it gently for the harder stuff ahead. After the foreplay, the brush would now make a contact with the shaving round, 'Godrej', very popular brand those days, and a vigourous bout would ensue, with brush emerging the winner with adequate lather ready for the plastering which now the face was due for.This activity required a little precision, so as to ensure that no part of the chin was omitted. The razor would then be opened to fit the blade, the razors had an elaborate mechanism, with a knob at the bottom being rotated to 'open sesame', the mighty razor, a Topaz blade would then be placed gently into the slot. The knob would turn again to close the opening, now finally the show was set to commence. With the precision of a surgeon, the razor would flow smoothly over the lathered face removing the stubble, all this while the face would be assuming rather dangerous contortions, to ensure no stubborn follicle managed to hoodwink the razor sharp eyes. The mopping up operation was generally a hurried affair, with a towel to wipe the extra left over lather and the razor being opened again to remove the blade for rinsing before being wiped clean and replaced in its cover safely tucked in for the next 24 hours, when it was to be summoned again for its duty, except on a Saturday, when the Sunday sabbatical was observed for the stubble as well. This activity was so mesmerising for the young minds that almost each kid attempted it on his own, ending up nicking himself in the bargain with a bloody face scaring the hell out of the young mothers. The dads were at the receiving end for not having been careful, that we scoundrels managed to get an access to such a dangerous gadget. 

We could hardly wait for the first signs of facial hair attempting to emerge from the dark recesses underneath the skin, when we again got to take a shot at it. By now I was a 16 year old with some growth on the upper lip which was visible, proudly twirling these strands of whiskers, we were soon to be jolted out of this treasured tache. The first casualty at the NDA Wing Ghorpuri was our little moustaches, which we had nurtured so proudly with lots of love and care! The drill instructors were deriving perverse pleasure in depriving us of our manly appearances and 300 of us were reduced to 'chiknas' with just a single swipe! The saving grace was we were all in the same boat..the misery was shared. But that was just the trailer, now the harder part of the daily shave before the first parade was looming large. The charm associated with shaving as a ritual which we had so keenly observed had been reduced to this monotonous mundane affair, where hurriedly we would go through the motions. Many a times just  dry shave and splash Old Spice after shave lotion,   so that drill instructor would be convinced that we had indeed done the needful. The alcohal in the lotion would cause a terrible burning sensation but we did not have a choice. After all a dry shave saved us those precious minutes in the morning, when everyone was in a tearing hurry. 

The closest shave of my entire life was reserved for a little later in the term, Flt Lt Grewal, or Gary as he was known in the Wing, was the duty officer and he appeared to have been at the receiving end from his better half, so we ended up as the lambs to be slaughtered. There were some of us who had skipped the shave that morning, with hardly any growth, we did manage this stunt every once in a while. Gary sir observed each of us closely almost as though using a magnifying glass and wherever, there was even a hint of a black spot anywhere on the chin, we were branded as defaulters. Punishments had to be meted out immediately and for effect!!! so the whole division was summoned, we were asked to get Colgate toothpaste, Cherry blossom polish and blanco, a gooey paste was formed and applied on our faces and then we were asked to use the razor to get rid of the invisible growth... The result was a number of snicks, with skin having been  literally peeled off the face and the mess that we made of ourselves, with the blood oozing from these incisions into the pasted face on it was grotesque. He of course enjoyed it thoroughly, went back laughing all the way. We had learnt our lesson, never save the shave less you get shingled rather closely. As we realised soon enough, in one of the camps, it was the turn now of using another improvised device for shaving, which was akin to those used by the prehistoric homo erectus probably, yes we used the stones to scrub the stubble to the delight of the perpetrator, Capt Vijay Bakshi, who did not 'baksh' anybody!

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 !!!