Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan and other Indian Army stories

[Ray]

ALL HOLES OPEN

This happened long ago and it is not a fairy tale.

General Sunderjee of the Mahar Regiment had taken over as the Chief of the Army Staff. He was a ‘sci-fi’ solider and apparently ahead of his time. He had done a course in the USA and so he had imbibed some egalitarianism that sent shivers through the Indian Army military relics of the British Raj. His celebrated ‘Dear Brother Officer’ letter to all officers of the Army, exhorting us to be ‘men’ and quit the cult of sycophancy, was blasphemous in military protocol, to say the least. Generals NEVER wrote to the rank and file!

The General had kick-started the Army the computerisation way. He was cranking in new fangled ‘concepts’ and making the uniform more ‘practical’ was one of the low end razzmatazz. In short, the Army was on the road to various ‘experiments’.

Sunderjee’s mobile brain was too électrique for the plebeian. Of the experiments with the uniform, one was to have Regimental insignias on the collar. The Adjutant General was exhausted and out of his depth with whether to have the Regimental insignia on the collar or have it not, since some British relic Colonels of the Regiment were having serious misgivings in having their officers lit up like Christmas trees, while some others liked the idea â€" if only to show ‘solidarity’ with the Chief for obvious reasons. The result was like Alice in Wonderland. Instead of the heads, the regimental insignias were on one day and off the next day! The only thing permanent in this exercise to ‘practicality’ in the uniform was the ensuing holes in the collars where the insignia jumped off and on like cats on the hot tin roof. Further, it was ‘impractical’ financially to have sets of uniform to suit the mood of the day of the Adjutant General!

The Mahar Regiment, to which I belonged, opted not to have the insignia. Hence, they had holes in their collar since the insignia was no longer there. Notwithstanding, the Adjutant General remained confused as to what he had ordered and what he had not! And we preferred the holes â€" lest there was another change of heart for the collar insignia.

During this ‘momentous’ era of the Indian Army, I was an instructor at the College of Combat, Mhow in the Junior Command Wing.

Since he was an enigma, General Sunderjee was touring the Army and was projecting his thoughts first hand so as to have a closer interaction with the officers and ‘feel the pulse’.

The day came when he visited Mhow.

It was a balmy day when General Sunderjee arrived at Mhow. There was interest amongst those who did not know him since they wanted to know 'yeh kia cheez hain' [what type of ‘thing’ is he?] After all, in the rigid military hierarchy, no Chief had ever written a letter to all officers or had so openly talked or admitted about the growing cult of 'ji huzoor-ness' [the ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ syndrome]. Sunderjee had already had a fan following, thanks to the ‘dear Brother’ letter. Further, his fondness for things ultra modern had made him Mohamed Tuglak-ish [the crazy, but way ahead of his time, Emperor of India]. The anticipation was as keen as would some unique specimen brought to the zoo from a strange part of the world!

While the General nestled in Guest Room No 1, the instructors and the students were all hustled into Lecture Hall No 3. In spite of the Madhya Pradesh heat and the profuse sweating, none really realised the discomfort; such was the excitement!

The lecture was still a good one hour away, but like all good things of the Army, we were herded with a large time cushion that even Army husbands don’t normally insist of their wives even when they are going for an important social event! The time lag was preposterous which matched the ‘Havildar Major timing’! For the uninitiated the Havildar Major is the Non Commissioned Officer who is responsible for the discipline of the troops who congregates troops two hours before an event, if he is a bit soft in the head, and six hours earlier, if he was not!

We arrived in the Lecture Hall No 3.

In front of us we found whole lot of gizmos and arrays of wire and some sort of a contraption that was to project the slides. Remember, in those days we did not even know what ‘slides’ or ‘view-foils’ were! Music was also coming out of the battery of weird machines that were still being set up. In fact, I thought RK Film Studios had arrived to show us some film like "Satyam Shivum Sunderumjee" ("Satyam, Shivum Sunderam" was a rather "hot" film of those days). Only Zeenat Aman (the star) in the near raw was missing! In her place it was only Lieutenant Colonel UB G, who I knew from my cadet days. He was sticking various things into place and was to be the Master Of (Information Technology) Ceremonies. Since we were not allowed to move out of our seat, we watched the proceeding with bated breath. It was as if we were to witness the launch of the Apollo satellite from Cape Canaveral!

Then on the appointed hour, the Chief arrived, duly escorted by the Commandant. People craned to have the first glimpse of this man, who was already an icon like Hema Malini, the comely female film star. He was lean, thin and tall. He bettered Malini. He was smart and handsome too! The best part was that he "ran" up the stairs to the lectern on the dais. The man was really in a hurry. If that dash were anything to go by, then the Army was really on the move!

The usual banality of introduction of the guest speakers done, we were informed how fortunate we are that the Chief had ‘so graciously deemed it fit to grace the College of Combat’ etc etc. The Commandant was at his eloquent best. He then gave way, smug as a bug, for the Chief to give his ‘two penny’ bit.

The Chief commenced. There was none of the ‘Good morning, Gentlemen and Officers’ sacrament of commencing the address. He got underway with ‘Brother Officers’. Had he been a politician addressing an election rally, there would have been instant and spontaneous ‘Sunderji ki jai. Bharat Mata ki Jai {Halleluiah to Sunderjee. Victory to Mother India}’ and all the other things the guys, at these election rallies, are paid to shout with total insincerity. However, the difference was that if we were allowed sloganeering, this would have been totally sincere!! Such was the charisma and hope he had generated with his ‘Brother Officer’ letter.

He spoke of innovations that were on the anvil and what was expected of the rank and file. He told us not to overdo the ‘Sir’ part of our life and there was no need to say ‘Haanji, Sirjee, Sir’ (Right sir, sir). He assured us that saying ‘Sir’ once was adequate. In fact, he strongly advocated calling seniors by their rank, giving an example that it was absolutely adequate to call him ‘General’ without adding the ‘Sir’; just like US Army! The stuffy British relics of the Indian Army could take a running jump! The shackles of the British Raj were finally becoming a hoary past!!! The Boston Tea Party so to say â€" true Indian style!

One could observe the Indian Army brass sitting in the front seats visibly squirming!

He was candid. He said that sycophancy could not be rid of overnight. He exhorted us with an example of two men who were chased by a Tiger and had climbed a tree. One had to come down and face the Tiger and maybe die. But, the other guy would be free. Someone had to sacrifice.

That did not go well with the audience, though. It proved that Sunderjee had no idea of the Indian mentality. Catch a modern Indian sacrificing for community good! That ethos had finished with the struggle for Independence. The current struggle was to find a place in the sun, by hook or by crook and most likely, by crook. I think his over exposure to the US caused this ‘thought-mismatch’ wherein he had lost the touch of reality. It was rather odd for a Tamil Brahmin to have a mismatch since they are known to be shrewd blokes who always had their ear close to the ground and nose in the air and reacted as per the situation for the maximum payoff.

Anyway, the Chief continued and having finished the address, he was given an enthusiastic and warm standing ovation. The standing up and clapping was not a ‘done thing’, but this form of recognition was creeping in. I don’t know if it was a sycophant phenomenon or the 'loose disciplined' US ways.

Then, the address was open to questions from the floor.

There was silence.

Notwithstanding my reputation of asking questions and being awkward, I thought this was a chance to test whether he meant what he said.

So I got up to ask a question.

There was a petrified look writ large on the Commander JC Wing’s face, who was my boss. It was OK to be awkward in-house, but with the Chief…..! But it mattered to me not, at least for the moment. I was like the Gorkha. Having taken out my khukri [battle half sword], it could not return to the sheath un-bloodied.

“General, it’s all very well to take the Army from the bullock cart age into the space age. But, is it possible to do so when such a simple decision as to whether we are to wear our regimental insignia on our collar or not keeps changing practically daily? One day, we are to have holes on the collar to fix the insignia, and, the next day not. It will be appreciated that we can’t continue to have two different sets of dress to suit the mood for the day of the Adjutant General”.

I knew I was being obnoxious. After all, no Chief is capable of answering simple questions. I really wanted to see if the man who climbed down from the tree [namely, me] could survive.

People froze. Sacrilege had been committed! One, a cocky question; and two, instead of addressing as ‘Sir’, the addressing was with just ‘General’ and that too rather cockily which was too close for comfort!

“Hey, aren’t you Rayc of the Mahar Regiment?”

“Yes, General, it’s me”

“It had to be you. Well, as far as you are concerned, irrespective of the order and the mood of the day of the Adjutant General, you have my personal permission as the Chief to keep all your holes open. I mean all your holes!!!!

Indeed, he proved that he was a Tamil Brahmin and not lost his touch! Next day onwards till I retired, I was provided enough evidence that the Chief was right. Ever since, it has always been ensured by the Army that I have all my holes opened!!!!!!!!

 

[Ray]

THE KNUCKLE DUSTER AND LONG KNIFE GENERAL

A new Major General, General Staff (MGGS) had been posted at our Command HQs. There was none of the ‘introduction’ rigmarole since he was the ‘get down to the job immediately’ type of man. No ‘tamasha’,(circus) no frills.

I was the Colonel General Staff (Training) and two rungs down the pecking order.

As in Staff, working involved just pushing files with notings. Interaction was rare; unless the English defied comprehension or something was earth shatteringly wrong!

Life went on as usual.

Three days past when the MGGS’ runner (peon) presented the MGGS’ ‘salaams’ to me. That was the British Raj meaning that the MGGS wanted you to present yourself to him pronto. Chop chop. The Indian way was ‘X sahib ne apko yaad kiya hai’.

Something must have gone wrong with a noting of mine.

I went to his office.

Protocol perfect, I entered and saluted.

“Sit down, bachhe”, said the MGGS.

It was another of the British Raj condescending hangovers. ‘Son’ replaced by ‘bacche’ Now, I am allergic to this ‘bacche’ business. It is a favourite with the M&S officers â€" the makki ka roti & sarson da saag(corn flour leaven bread and spinach; a Punjabi delicacy (sic!)) folks. But then with a name like Inder Varma, what else could the MGGS be, but an M&S. Old habits die hard. Imagine a middle aged fogey like me being a ‘bacche’ (kid).

This was the first time I set my eyes on the new MGGS.

I found him rather handsome (even though he must have been on the wrong side of 55). He was also suave unlike some of the guys around. That was his saving grace!

Opened in front of him was a file I had sent. So, something dreadful must have happened! I felt a wee bit discomfited. How did he get the hang of things in just two days to perceive an error; with just two days in a new job?! Could be. These Punjabis could sometimes be smart!

I waited for his opening lines. Deep furrows etched his forehead and then he spoke.

‘Bachhe’, you looked educated but then I don’t think you understand English’.

I was thunderstruck! I was educated in an English public school and here I being told I did not understand English! Yet, I was most uncomfortable - his accent did not waft of the smell or the grunt of a buffalo like the normal true blue Five River sher de putts (offsprings of Tigers as the Punjabis love to claim; though being the rustic types, they keep the company of buffaloes and men are known by the company they keep!)

I thought I should show some lingual empathy.

“Sari sirrr, some prablaams?” I said in my best Punjabi accent of ‘Sorry, Sir, some problems?’

“No problem as such. But the English! Atrocious! Here is the sentence (having run his delicate fingers over the sentences). It should be ‘is’ and not ‘are’” and he showed me the file. He was right. But hang dang it, this was not earth shaking! This man was nuts!

He was rather green behind the ears after all. Soon the files in vernacular English from elsewhere would pour in. Then, the poor man would have to be carried hotfoot to the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) of the Command Hospital! No kidding. I however, kept my counsel.

He asked me more questions. I answered him in the guttural thet (genuine village) Punjabi accent, the rendition of which I was quite proud; as proud as South Indians and Bengalis attempting speaking Hindi.

“I say”, the General, said, “You don’t look a Punjabi, so how come you have this accent?” The way said it and the way he looked at me, it appeared, as I was some rat!

“No sirrrrr, since I thaught that you are Punjabi, I thaaught it be good to talk in Punjabi English so that you understood!” I said.

The General was livid. He was spluttering; spittle leaked in frothy anger from the side of his mouth. Almost like Kishore Kumar (a super film comedian) in Padosan (a Hindi comedy film). He was wild. He would have hit me, but the Army Act saved me.

“You stupid idiot. @#$%^&*. I studied in a premier English school in Calcutta and you have the audacity to tell me that!”

Calcutta? Premier? Well nothing could be more ‘premier’ to my school in Calcutta. Therefore, this was utter bullshit.

Since my school was being degraded, it was my turn to be livid; but you don’t get livid with Generals generally. Therefore, disguised sarcasm was in order.

Flashing a most charming smile with innocence writ all over my demeanour, I asked softly, “That is news (sic!), Sarr. If you permit the liberty of asking, which school?”

He named a school. I concede his school was the first English school in the country but for snob value, it as my school. Because his school was located at Kidderpore, which was near to the docks and mafia, we never gave them that aura!

Internally, I burst out laughing hysterically. Premier! Hah!

Before the General could say anything more, I rushed towards his side of his huge table and frantically started opening the drawers of his table and banging them shut!

Since this type of an action by a junior officer is unthinkable, the General was speechless and thoroughly confused.

Recovering his composure, he yelled, “Hey, what the hell do you think you are doing?”

Rushing back to the right side of the table, I said, “I was just checking for knuckle dusters, butcher’s knives and the like, Sarr”.

“Whatever for, you dumb idiot?”

“Sir, I am from X School in Calcutta and we don’t think that your school produces anything better than hoodlums possessing such weapon of the profession!”

You have to give it to the old timers who passed out from English public schools. Mention their school and they all turn into schoolboys ready to fight without realising that they are grown up men. Thus, he forgot that what I did warranted disciplinary action, and instead he started fighting like a little schoolboy!

“What bullshit”. Without realising, he hurled a filthy Bengali expletive at me, true to his school’s reputation.

“Your school?” he spluttered. “You are all girls. We are he men! Got that? You sissy”.

“Indeed, sir?” This time I spoke with clipped BBC accent. “Yes sir. We play Rugby and you play soccer. Indeed, girls do play Rugby that is supposed to be more dangerous”

That got him!

He spluttered some more and shrieked some more Bengali, English and Punjabi abuses and told me to get out immediately.

This I did.

The General was a gentleman (in spite of being from the school he mentioned). He never held it against me.

In fact, we became good friends (if I can claim) and lived happily thereafter.

 

[Ray]

THE CADET AND THE POSTERIOR

The English language has always been a problem with Indians.

Indians think they know the language, but then in actuality because of over confidence and a meagre grasp of the language, it lands them in a lot of hot water.

There could be no better example than what happened when I was a Battalion Commander in 1991 in the National Defence Academy {NDA} , Kharakvasla. [NDA is where cadets of the three service train for the first three years].

Though the appointment ‘Battalion Commander’ appears impressive, it is actually a sinecure.

There was hardly much official work that could have kept me busy. The actual interactive level with the cadets was at the Divisional Officer level. The Divisional Officers were youngsters of the rank of Captain of the Indian Army and its equivalent of the other Services. Between the Divisional Officer and the Battalion Commander was the Squadron Commander, an officer of the rank of Major and its equivalents, who looked after the Squadron. Under his command were three Divisional Officers.

I was the No 2 Battalion Commander.

This story is about an ‘infamous’ squadron called Hunter Squadron. The name ‘Hunter’ has no connection with the underlining theme of the story. In actuality, it was ‘H’ Squadron. For radiotelephony clarity over the atmospheric static, internationally, all alphabets have a phonetic identity for clarity. In radio telephony, ‘H’ was ‘Hunter’. Whether they were hunter or hunted or not, only the NDA chaps can tell. I emphasise this because it is a story about a cadet’s ‘wonderful posterior’.

That being the background, lets get on with the story of the Cadet and the Posterior.

There was this cadet who otherwise was an excellent lad. However, like all humans he had made a mistake. The mistake was not serious, but then the Army can make the smallest of mistakes look awfully serious, depending on how the next person up the channel views it. Very subjective, but then that is how, unfortunately, the army runs. That is why civilians, the world over, feel that the Army is peopled by Colonel Blimps and chaps recruited from lunatic asylums!

The Deputy Commandant of the NDA was Major General RKM. He was very officious, though a good-hearted man. The good General had a booming voice. That made his demeanour even more self-important. He was a stickler for rules and demanded absolute discipline.

Now, this cadet has committed the cardinal sin of ‘skipping’ off to Pune without ‘liberty’ [naval term denoting sanction to go to town]. It was a military sin no doubt, but it did not warrant being ‘marched up’ to the Deputy Commandant. Marching Up to the Deputy meant a minimum of 14 days restrictions. This involved reporting behind the Sudan Block in FSMO [a heavy and cumbersome rig] at prescribed times, the last being at 2200 hours with an hour of afternoon punishment on the Drill Square. It also meant ruining of one’s record and consequently a poor order of merit during passing out or even relegation! Relegation meant losing six months.

To my mind, the cardinal sin was not the ‘skipping’, but being caught by the Deputy himself and, more importantly, trying to gyp the Deputy. The Deputy was from the Rajputana Rifles Regiment, but originally was an Artilleryman; the latter call themselves as ‘Gunners’ with much brouhaha and unconcealed glee and pride. The Gunners, also had this motto, ‘Once a Gunner, Always a Gunner’. Absurd, but anything can be expected of Gunners. Thus, in spite of being an Infantryman, he actually was a dyed in wool Artilleryman. One may wonder what’s so great about it. Well, actually Gunners, since they fire artillery shells in the indirect mode and at long ranges with the help of mathematical tables [they cannot see the infantry they are supporting] have to be very precision oriented and thereby they are very hide bound because accidents meant lives lost and a court martial. Thus, the Deputy was a strict bloke and to him rules were rules. Interpretation of such rules could cost lives, lives like that of this poor cadet in question!!!

Before a cadet is ‘marched up’ to the Deputy, it was incumbent on the Battalion Commander to check the Cadet’s dossier.

I called for the dossier from ‘H’ Squadron. The dossier came. I read it carefully. I was astounded!

The cadet had an impeccable record, but the dossier had one entry endorsed as ‘the cadet has an excellent posterior’. Posterior? Now, that was real odd, Hunter Squadron or otherwise. In the US Army the rule was ‘ask not, tell not’. In the Indian Army such things do not exist because we are straight-laced and yet the Divisional Officer was being a trifle explicit. I believe in democracy, but this was taking things too far.

I called for the Squadron Commander. He was a chap from the Deccan Horse called Major W, son of a Major General; not that it is a sin to be a son of a Major General.

Major W came in with the complete swagger and shake that only an Armoured Corps chap [tank chaps] alone can do. I was duly impressed. However, I was on ‘pigs back’ since the North Indians and Americans from the Stateside, in spite of all the supercilious superiority, aren’t too hot in English. I knew while Major W was quite good at spoken English, the written word in this foreign language â€" English, was not his forte or cup of tea.

“Major W, Cadet X is to be marched up to the Deputy. I have gone through his dossier. How is it written that the boy has a ‘good posterior’?”

“He is an excellent chap, sir. He is a Squadron Cadet Captain [top gun] material. Indeed, sir, I can personally vouch that he does have a wonderful posterior”, Major W confidently answered, giving his left leg a swerve in a 45 degree angle and plonking it on the carpet as would a horse suffering from a bout of serious colic.

I wasn’t impressed. He could not browbeat me, even if he were an Armoured Corps chap or a superiority assuming Punjabi. He was possibly under the fond delusion that we, Bengalis, were docile, non-martial and were perpetually petrified of Sardarjis, as we maybe of ferocious animals in the Alipore Zoo . He didn’t know that I was the Royal Bengal Tiger.

“Do you know the meaning of ‘posterior’, Major W?” I asked him still rather incredulous.

“Of course, sir. Anyone who has learnt English would know”, Major W answered most patronisingly. His confidence startled me, Bengal Tiger or no Bengal Tiger that I thought I was.

This was indeed becoming a queer situation.

“I find that the Divisional Officer has endorsed this remark. Please call for him”, said I since I wanted to get to the bottom. I couldn’t let this type of a queer situation get queerer any further.

The Divisional Officer was a naval chap. They wear half pants. I find this exceeding obscene, especially if they have legs that are more hairy than a Grizzly bear. In winters, one can put on a blanket at night, but you surely cannot carry a blanket in the office on your legs, even if it is only human hair and God given. This naval chap was hairy and funnily, the hair was like the quills on the back of a porcupine. With lot of difficulty, I tore myself from the pastime of imagining what animal his hair on the legs resembled

The naval bloke gave me that naval salute where the hand flips towards Mother Earth in homage! They take pagan rituals too seriously about worshipping Nature.

“Ah ha, old chap,” I said cheerily. After all, if his inclination was what he had endorsed on the dossier was anything to go by, it was better to keep this guy on the correct side â€" up front and across the table.

“This dossier you have endorsed on Cadet X states that he has a good posterior”, I said with a condescending smirk as if to say ‘Gotcha’ in an official way.

“Yes sir, he has an excellent posterior. I assure you, sir, about the authenticity”, said this naval Divisional Officer.

I was incredulous. This man appeared to be a queer!

“That’s wonderful. Pray, where have you seen this Cadet’s wonderful posterior?” I queried. To be truthful, I was quite intrigued by this time. Both the Squadron Commander and the Divisional Officer had seen it and here was I, the Battalion Commander, deprived of the privilege! The Deputy wouldn’t like this. It was poor command and control on my part, the Deputy would deem. Unforgivable indeed!

“I saw it on the Drill Square. Not once, but repeatedly”, said the naval bloke with his confidence soaring by the minute.

“Drill Square?” I asked, “Do you know the meaning of ‘posterior’? If what you are saying about having seen his posterior repeatedly, may I request you not to indicate your inclination so openly and in writing? Can’t have personal experiences in the official realm, can we? ” I thundered as if I were Thor, the God of Lightning and Thunder himself.

This whole incident by then had got my goat. I had to put a stop to all this nonsense. I opened the dictionary to the word ‘posterior’ and showed them.

Both went red in the face and were immensely embarrassed. Inter alia, the dictionary indicated that it meant ‘buttocks’; not to be mistaken for the ‘buttocks’ that Baldev Singh, India’s first Defence Minister had seen in London. (Buttocks means ducks in Hindi).

“Sorry, sir, what I meant was ‘posture’. In Drill that is an important factor” said the naval Divisional Officer defensively.

“That I know. No matter how wonderful a posterior the Cadet might have, and no matter how many times you have seen the same on the drill square and no matter what your inclination might me, please follow the US way â€" Ask not, tell not…and further, write not. Just be Bapu ke bandars ” (Bapu ke bandar = three monkeys who see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil).

That stern caution ended the sordid mystery of the Cadet and his excellent posterior.

The Cadet was marched up to the Deputy. I was able to save him from the worst when he was marched up to the Deputy. Yes sir, the Cadet was saved. His posterior was saved!

I wonder if the Deputy, too, had second thoughts because the cadet had a wonderful posterior! Once a Gunner, always a Gunner, as the Artillery saying goes!

 

[Ray]

GANAPATI, THE ELEPHANT GOD AND HANUMAN, THE MONKEY GOD

It’s not that I have, suddenly, become religious; nor am I nearing the time to meet my Maker and thus being drawn to Gods. Therefore, let the title of the story not fool you.

This is not a story about Gods. This is a story about Captain Ganapati and his transforming into the Monkey God, Hanuman.

It happened before the 1971 War.

I was the Adjutant of my unit and Ganapati was the GSO 3 (Intelligence) at the Brigade HQ. We had a daily interaction since he would take the daily sitreps (Situation Reports that are sent, once in the morning and once in the evening), which the Adjutant gave him over the telephone or over the radio duly coded in case the landline were ‘down’ (not functional).

Ganapati was a pompous oaf. He was a Short Service officer. His appointment at the Brigade HQ had gone to his head.

One day he was not there. Hence, I passed the Sitrep to his Clerk.

An hour later he rang up.

“I have just gone through your Sitrep. What do you mean by ‘FDL 507 ‘saw’ one rifle shot of the enemy from X to Y’? How can anyone see a bullet? I think you people are stupid and you have no idea of the English language!”

That was the most stupid thing I heard. Not only I knew English, but my pronunciation was as good as the BBC, if not better. After all, though my CO was an Indian, he thought he was British and so we were being corrected day in and day out! Naturally, I was enraged and that too hearing tripe from a person whose accent was so strong and unintelligible that there was no requirement to even use the Slidex code to ‘mask’ from the enemy!

“Look here Ganapati” said I. I was being distinctly nasty having given an intonation to his name that without doubt turned it into a Hindi cuss word meaning ‘a ruptured posterior’. “We were explicit in the Sitrep. You have never dared come to the front lines and so you won’t know. One can see the enemy and his rifle. One can even see the flash from his rifle. Further, one can see the puff of mud where the bullet hits. Therefore, if that is not ‘seeing’, what is? A rifle shot can be heard from one point, but can it been ‘heard’ as to where it hit? Don’t be an idiot yourself”.

Ganapati was enraged, especially since I had converted his name to a Hindi cuss word. He banged the telephone down.

Soon I was called by the CO. He had been rung up by the Brigade Major. Obviously, Ganapati had reported to his boss. He was the type who could not fight his own battles!

“What happened with you and Ganapati?”

I told him the whole story including the fact that I had corrupted his name to a cuss word.

“Ah ha! No wonder the Brigade HQ is wild with you and wanting me to change the Adjutant!”

I thought I was going to be changed since none likes to mess around with higher HQs!

My CO was British to the core. “Stupid chaps. They think that I am an Indian scared cat. Bullshit that I will change you. No chance.” I really felt good. He was the type who protected his command, especially when he was in the right.

The CO continued, “Now listen to me.” Thereafter, he told me what to say.

I rang up Ganapati.

I was at my pleasant best.

“Ganapati”. This time I pronounced his name correctly. “Could I have your photograph?”

This was a ridiculous request. He smelt a rat.

“Why?” Ganapati said cautiously.

“Actually, since you have forced my CO to rethink if I should be the Adjutant, a feat that God could not do, could you as a parting favour give me your photograph? I want to install it in our Regimental temple, especially since you have such an uncanny resemblance to a God.”

Curiosity got the better of him.

“God? Which God?” The bloke was real conceited. He actually imagined that he resembled a God!

“Hanuman, the Monkey God. All I have to do is add a tail!”

The second time he banged the telephone down.

This time the Brigade Commander rang me up. He was actually rather fond of me. I recounted the whole incident. Though he did not take sides, I never heard about this incident again!

I still remained the Adjutant!

 

[Ray]

GENERAL P’s NEPHEW

In my quest for an honourable livelihood, I joined the Army.

In continuation of my training, after graduating from the National Defence Academy, Khadakvasla, I went to the Indian Military Academy (IMA), Dehra Dun, for the next phase of the training.

The Commandant of the IMA those days was Major General P. He was married to a very charming and a graceful lady. Both the General and his wife were cerebral in their attitude and ‘devoured’ books. They also had a daughter and an ancient car â€" a Lancia, with a wooden steering wheel. The Lancia fascinated me. Of course, it is another matter that another of his possession â€" his daughter, fascinated the whole Academy. We could observe his Lancia pass the tree-lined roads of the Academy, but unfortunately, rarely his daughter.

One cold day winter day in Dehra Dun, when I came out after the academics class to go to ‘Stand One’ for a tactics class, I found that my bicycle had a puncture or what the cadets called, a ‘flat’. This meant that one abandoned the bicycle to be picked up later in the day, as the ‘break’ between classes was a mere ten minutes. The alternative was to run for the next class lest one got late and invite punishment as a result.

Being late was sacrilege. The punishments invited were in the form of ‘extra drills’ or ‘restrictions’. Both meant running around the drill square, with a rifle on the head with arms stretched up and doing this and other aimless callisthenics. The agony was compounded since this was after lunch, in starched Olive Green uniform, under the supervision of pitiless and moronic NCO (Non Commissioned Officers) drill instructors!

Restrictions were worse since in addition top these moronic activities, it involved reporting at prescribed time, throughout the day, in Field Service Marching Order [a weird, unwieldy and uncomfortably heavy uniform that is worn during battle]. Restrictions were a ‘battle’ against time, physical fitness and humanity! Extra Drill, unlike restrictions, was more humane than Hitler’s gas chambers.

Extra Drills didn’t come singly; they were normally given in figures of ‘7’, whilst Restrictions were normally given in figures of ‘14’. It also meant an embargo to the cadets’ market, café or to the town, something like being ‘gated’ in school. Accumulation of either could result in repeating the term of six months [known as relegation], or, if they were kind, it would invariably affect the overall order of merit. It meant, at the end of one’s service, one’s friends would be Generals and you slogging away as Brigadiers or something even worse!

I had a flat.

I didn’t want extra drills or restrictions. I was about to scoot towards ‘Stand One’ in a similar fashion as the soldier did in the Battle of Thermopylae. It dawned on me then that ‘Stand One’ was about a mile and a half away. It was obvious that only Emil Zatopek, the Czech long distance wonder or Roger Bannister, the four-minute a mile man, alone could accomplish the feat. I was no Bannister or Zatopek. I deflated like my tyre!

I reconciled to fate and could only contemplate which of it would be â€" extra drills or restrictions!

I could have gone back to my Company and had a well deserved sleep since it was the last three periods of the day and cadets were always short on sleep. However, there was always the danger of some officer ‘catching’ me in my cabin during training time resulting in either more extra drills or restrictions! Therefore, going to the library and read something worthwhile was a better option with lesser chance of getting caught ‘skipping class’. This was contingent on the class senior ‘covering’ me with some official excuse like ‘reporting sick’ or some equally absurd but ‘plausible’ reason.

As I was moving to the library, I spotted the General’s Lancia. My day was made. There was none near the car as the classes had commenced.

I made a beeline for the car.

I started inspecting the car. I felt the wooden steering wheel. The dashboard was heavenly ancient. I looked below the chassis. I checked the polish and the car insignia. It was a beauty. How I would like a drive in it. I was in a dream.

“And what do you think that you are doing?”

I wheeled around. There was the heartthrob of the Academy. It was the General’s daughter. I gave a sheepish but a bright smile.

“You can’t play around with my father’s car like that and that too without permission”, the girl said in her haughtiest best. I don’t blame her. Cadets are not really believed to be gentlemen except that they are called ‘gentlemen cadets’. In fact, right from the civilian orderlies, the ustads [NCO Instructors] to the Commandant, we were taken to be the lowest form of human existence. Protoplasm and amoeba were more respectable! Therefore, I could not blame her. Yet, the prestige was hurt. Agreed it was a General’s car, but so what? I liked cars and I could not afford this beauty. Hence, there was no harm in seeing something you love but you cannot have. Please note: I am talking about the car.

Being a Bengali I could never lose an argument. And she? She was only half a Bengali. Her mother was a Maharastrian. Her father was a Bengali. Therefore, victory was surely mine, even if she threw her weight, unfairly, as the Commandant’s daughter.

I was to get extra drills as it is, since I had skipped the class. Some more would not make any difference. The ‘silver lining’, at least was that I could see what the Commandant’s office looked like, as I would have to be marched up to him for the supreme punishment! It could not have been anything else since I was taking ‘panga’ [‘cocking the snoot’] with the Commandant’s daughter!

Senior officers’ daughters are really bossy.

She went into a harangue. I had no options. I had to be polite in the ‘discussion’.

This interaction was going on, when Mrs P emerged from the library with an armful of books. I rushed to her as any good protoplasm or amoeba would do! I took the pile from her. It rocketed me into her good books for relieving her of the burden of the pile of books!

Daughter P was livid at this chicanery.

She went into a shrill yawp narrating misdemeanours, imagined and otherwise, committed by me, including how I dirtied her father’s car with my lowly cadet’s hand!

Mrs P smiled beatifically throughout this J’Accuse.

“Why did you play with the steering wheel, GC (short for Gentleman Cadet or it could be also for Goru Chor [cow thief]?”) asked the lady. I presume she meant the first interpretation since the car was not a goru and I was no chor.

“Ma’am, I love cars. This one is a beauty. It is so ancient and yet so spanking new. And the best part is the wooden steering wheel. I have never seen a vehicle with a wooden steering wheel. It must be right from the Victorian age” I blabbered. The glint of Daughter P, I observed, was getting nastier.

“Oh, you like cars? Yes, this is an ancient one but it is a real marvellous car,” said the lady.

“By the way, shouldn’t you be in your classes now? I am sure you will get punished and all because you got so interested in the car that you forgot to go to the classes”. Mrs P was a real understanding lady. How I wished that the officer instructors also were so decent and understanding.

“I know Ma’am, I will get punished, but that is a part of growing up,” I said philosophically. “My cycle had a flat and I could have never reached ‘Stand One’. And so punishment is inevitable. Instead, I thought I would read something in the library, but then seeing this beauty of a car, I got enamoured till your daughter came”. I thus appealed to her Academy famed intellectual trait, as also had a dig at her daughter and leaving it unsaid that she was a ‘meany’.

“OK. Let me drop you at your Company [the ghetto where Cadets live] so that you could have your lunch” this excellent lady, with a golden heart, said.

Indeed, I wanted to go in the car since apart from enjoying the drive, the crafty cadets’ mind, honed in the survival instinct, was at work. Many an advantage would accrue, as the reader will soon realise.

“Actually, Ma’am, you needn’t trouble yourself. I’ll walk down. It’s only a twenty minutes walk [actually it was ten but one had to exaggerate so that the lady rose to the bait]. And anyway, you will have to take the detour through ‘A’ Battalion and then come to ‘B’ Battalion. Worse would be that the instructors would be sunbathing, as usual, and they would be highly embarrassed to be found lolling in the sun when the Commandant’s wife passed. They will take out their wrath on me then.”

Daughter P was absolutely furious. But you had to grant it to the girl that she was sharp and could see through the game. I reckon both of us were young and so the grey cells were more deviously active than the nice Mrs P.

“Oh, never mind son. Jump in and I will drop you.”

She was going to drive. There was a mad rush between her daughter and me as to who will sit next to the lady. After all, it was her birthright, while it was my motto ‘Har Maidan Fateh’ {victory in every field [not agricultural field, but fields of life]}. This was my Platoon Commander’s regiment’s {Punjab Regiment} motto and though I disliked him as he did me, I liked the motto. In life, it’s always unfortunately a compromise.

“Oh, let him sit down. The poor boy is so keen on the car. This way at least he can see the controls”, the good lady told her daughter. If looks could kill I was killed. She sulked into the back seat, having no desire to share the front seat with me, even though I would not have minded the least.

The wonderful lady started the car and we were ‘B’ Battalion bound via ‘A’ Battalion. The instructors would see that I got a lift in the Commandant’s car, which they, in their living dreams, would not be able to manage! It was a nice way to strike back on these certified sadists, masquerading as instructors, as Normans did over the Anglo Saxon serfs!

We passed ‘A’ Battalion. As predicted the instructors were lolling in the sun. When they saw us, they were incredulous! They scampered into their offices with as much dignity as rats can muster when deserting a sinking ship. I smirked. This is the first time the daughter shared a gesture of mine. Her mother was dignity personified.

“You are really naughty”, the daughter deigned to inform me. I turned back and gave a mischievous smile.

We turned in towards the ‘B’ Battalion [my battalion]’s lawns. The officers there were leisure personified. Not only were they lolling and basking in the sun, they were having tea in their hands and the Battalion Commander was holding ‘court’ or maybe since most of the officers were from the villages, was holding a panchyat [village council] at the ‘chaupal’ [an area in the village where the elder sit down and gossip]. They were sadly not correctly poised to scamper into their offices since the tea would have spilled.

I requested the lady to stop right in front of the Battalion HQ rows of offices.

“Why? I will drop you at Kohima Company Lines [which is where I stayed]. It’s alright with me”, said Mrs P.

“Thank you ever so much, M’am. I have already taken much of your time and indulgence and it is OK if I got down here.” After all, the instructors had seen me and I was ‘skipping’ a class. Punishment was inevitable. Sooner they gave it, the better. Further, if I were to get the punishment, then why not let these ‘bozos’ not eat their hearts out in jealousy that I, the lowly GC, was hobnobbing with the Brass?

So, I got down in the blazing gaze of many an embarrassed, irritated and even furious stare of the ‘cornered’ instructors.

I wanted the instructors to burn with envy. Therefore, I decided to have a longer chat with Mrs P as also wangle a lunch invitation at the Commandant’s house. Catch me not delivering the coup de grâce on the instructors.

“Ma’am, the Commandant normally calls a few cadets every Sunday for lunch. I always wanted to see the Commandant’s house. May I come next Sunday?” I said in a most pathetic tone as that of a person walking to the gallows and hoping against hope that the Presidential pardon would intervene.

“Oh well, I really don’t know. The guest list must have been already prepared. But then, one more would not make a difference. Yes, you must come. I will tell the ADC (Aide de Camp)”. The daughter did not object or put a spoke. She had started enjoying the little game I was playing and was actually taking part in it, even if by silence alone.

After some more mundane conversation and repeated thanks to the lady and now also to the daughter, I let them go, which anyway they were keen to do since they hardly knew me.

So, wonders of wonder, I managed the lunch!

I was aware that the instructors were ready to pounce on me the minute the car turned its tail. So, I dragged the conversation as long as I could. I thanked her profusely and praising her kindness to the skies. It had been a full three minutes, but it must have been a lifetime for the ‘cadaver loving vultures’ [instructors] waiting in the wings to nab me.

As the car turned about and moved off some distance, I yelled, ‘Bye Bye Aunty”. It was in a voice that could be heard by the instructors but not by the lady and her daughter.

The lady had already left.

I sauntered, a little extra cockily. Something like Huckleberry Finn. It was bound to annoy.

“Come here, you blaadi phool [bloody fool] Rayci” I could hear the distinct bellow from Captain C, my Platoon Directing Staff. As I knew his voice signature, I knew it was he. Someone else would have surely mistaken it for a bellow of the buffalo munching merrily in the adjoining Physical Training {PT} field.

I turned and walked towards him. I came to a halt in front of him and saluted all and sundry of an officer dotting the lawn. Externally, they were looking as peaceful as the buffalo on the PT ground but one could make out that they were internally burning with rage like a bull in a Spanish bullfight ring. To be fair to them, I must add that they were not pawing the ground, as the bull would do. One or two snort like a bull in pain, I must confess I heard.

“V’hat [What] you do in Commandant’s car?” said the true blue son of the Punjab, Captain C, his whiskers dancing in the wake of his furious exhalation of rage from the nostrils. “And haw [how] know you Commandant?”

“Sir, I will leave it at that. I would prefer not to answer the question, if you would be kind enough to excuse me.”

“Don’t give fancy English, baai [boy], you better tael [tell] or else life will be haell [hell]”

Well, he was such a meany, he surely would have seen hell even though he was still living. As he looked like and behaved like the Devil himself, I relented.

Certain species of North Indians are extra polite, especially when cornered, and so, like them, I decided that if you can’t win, you better join them. Do as the Romans do in Rome the adage went and he was that certain specie of North Indians!

“Sirjee, {This was a highly polite form of address in North Indian English, since you said ‘sir’ twice; once in English and the second time in a North Indian}……….. my father told me to stand on my own two feet and not use influence, so please forgive me; I can’t tell.’

“What nansance [nonsense]. You jalli [jolly] teal [tell]”

The reader should not forget that General P was a Bengali and so a contrived relationship being a Bengali would not have been outlandish.

I gave Captain C a ‘fear crazed’ look before answering. Being the sadist that he was, it gave him immense satisfaction when cadets shook totally rattled in front of him. I wanted him to be self-satisfied.

“Sirjee, I am letting my father down, but since you are insisting and scaring me, I have no option but to break my promise to my father. Sir jee,……” I deliberately paused to build up a theatrical effect.

I could see C getting immensely impatient and furious. The other officers of the ‘tea party’ and lolling in the sun were also waiting with the keenness butchers display towards an Id (a Muslim religious festival where goat’s meat is the raison d’être) goat ready for slaughter.

“Sirjee, General P is my Uncle”. It’s all very fine to claim a bogus relationship, but if P came to know, I would not have lived to see another day. Therefore, to ensure total safety, I added, “But, sir, please don’t tell him. My father would never forgive me.”

The silence was loud.

The instructors gasped.

Their rage mollified to a beatific and serene attitudinal change. It was like the transformation of King Ashoka after the Battle of Kalinga. Even Buddha would have been pleased.

Where I should have got a few extra drills, I got, “Wael bai [Well, boy] carry on to kebin [cabin], have lunch and relax”. It came from none other than the direct descendant of the Demon King Ravana, namely, Captain C.

I was saved and I forgot all about the incident.

Next day I was summoned to Capt C, the Platoon Commander’s office!!

I froze. I dreaded the thought that they had got wise and the game was up. Cadets being cadets, I resigned myself to fate. Sheepishly, I was marched into C’s office.

Capt C was devoid of his permanent scowl that was a fixture whenever he saw me. I may be wrong, but through his bushy moustache and beard that was so thick that it could rival in density and inscrutability the undergrowth of Mizoram and Nagaland, I thought I saw a friendly smile. But, I could be wrong.

“Weal bai, here card Commandant house lunch tomorrow. Don’t forget be in tam [time]”. The North Indians, being enterprising like the Americans, believed in the theory that time was money. Therefore, more often than not, whenever they spoke in English, they used telegraphic language, especially the village bred, who had learned the language by the ear

I wasn’t the one not to dramatise the issue. So, I decided to go all the way.

“Sorry sir, I have to regret. My cycle is flat and if I walk, then I would be sweating and a sweating cadet would be offensive in the Commandant’s house”.

If you ask me this was stupid logic on my part. As if the Commandant sniffed the armpits of cadets on entry to his house. Imagine an armpit sniff being the clearance for entry into the Commandant’s drawing room! And anyway, all Cadets even when bathed, they stank.

“Don’t worry bai. I come. Scooter. Drop you. No late”. The man must have saved a fortune in telegrams!

Next day, true to his word, Capt C drove me to the Commandant’s house.

It was a sweet revenge, even if achieved by ‘innocent’ subterfuge

 

[Ray]

THE IMPORTANCE OF HAVING BREAKFAST

It was just before the 1971 War. I was the Adjutant of the unit. Lieutenant Colonel KS, a very British type of a gentleman, was commanding the unit.

The line communication was notoriously erratic. Rarely could we talk to the Brigade HQ. Therefore, most of the time it was on the radio or what is also known as the wireless.

Radio, those days did not have the secrecy devices and so we could not speak ‘in clear’. It was either done in a round about way or by using Indian languages which the Pakistanis were not familiar with or by coding the messages with Slidex and Unicode . The last form was very tedious and cumbersome. The Sitreps or Situation Reports were sent twice a day giving the resume of the daily activities including enemy actions and activities from the last Sitrep till then. It was mandatory that these were sent at the prescribed time since they were consolidated at each level and then sent to the next higher HQ and so on, till the Army HQ.

One day when the line communication was ‘down’, I was trying to pass the Sitrep over the radio. There was tremendous static that day and so it was taking time.

My frustration was being compounded since it was past breakfast time. My Commanding Officer (CO) was a stickler for form. It was incumbent on me, the only other officer in the Tactical HQ, to attend all meals and that too in time. After all, officers ate together and the Mess was not a hotel! Further, the important fulcrum to this logic for my CO was that it was the way the British did it. Any deviation, for my CO, from the British way was sacrilege!

The CO had come to the thatched gazebo like structure that passed off as our Officers’ Mess. I was at that time still trying to pass the Sitrep and was having a harrowing time. I wasn’t naturally in the best of spirits.

The CO found that I had not come. He was outraged.

He sent the waiter to search me out and bring me to heel.

The waiter arrived with the CO’s missive to come down immediately for breakfast. I told him inform the CO that I would soon be there, once I had passed the Sitrep, which all knew was an important operational requirement and had to be passed on time.

Lo and behold, the waiter was back. The instructions were the same and the reply was also the same.

The third time the waiter arrived, he was quaking. He pleaded that I join immediately for breakfast or else there would be fireworks for both him and me! Disgusted, I quit passing the Sitrep and followed him. There was no option given the rigid ways of my CO.

“What the Dickens do you think you are doing, you oaf?” bellowed my CO.

“I was passing the Sitrep, sir. It is still to be done”, I replied.

“Come, come. That’s a real silly excuse to not be in time for breakfast. Are Sitreps that important? It’s the same old junk of the enemy firing a round here and a round there. Everyone knows that. So long as there is no casualty, how does it become important?’

It was excellent logic. However, it was not how the Indian Army saw it, but who could educate him on the same? The Queen’s schedule to him would have been earth shaking, but not what the Pakistanis were doing with lethal weapons!

“Sit down and have your breakfast”. And so I sat down.

I ordered an omelette, without asking for the porridge, since I wanted to go back the earliest and pass the Sitrep.

“You, Indians, will never learn”, said the CO. I was not astonished hearing this phrase, even though, he, too, was an Indian. It was that in actually he thought that he was British. “Breakfast cannot be eaten without porridge. So, order it”.

Seething with impotent rage but with controlled placidity, I asked for cornflakes.

“Not done. You had it yesterday. You’ll forget the taste of the other types of porridge and cook will forget how to cook it. Today, you must have Quaker Oats”.

So Quaker Oats it was, even as I quaked with anger.

Having finished the Oats, I asked for an omelette.

“No, you can’t have an omelette” said the CO. I really didn’t understand if he was feeding himself or was my stomach mine. “You’d rather have a rumble tumble today. OK, Old boy?”

This was getting to be a bit dictatorial.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t like rumble tumble”.

“It does not matter what you like or dislike, old bean. You had an omelette yesterday and so you must have a rumble tumble today and maybe tomorrow a poach. Got that, old thing?”

This man, the CO, was incorrigible. I felt that a little bit of cheekiness would be in order and damn his anger thereafter. I was ready to even be removed as an Adjutant. In fact, it would actually be a good thing.

“Begging your pardon, sir, can I not eat the type of food that I like? Must I have to eat as if I was performing some military manoeuvre?”

I was expecting the CO to explode. Instead, he was as calm as the Pacific Ocean.

“No, old fellow, you can’t eat what you like. Further, it is not a military manoeuvre since military manoeuvres are complicated while eating is not”. That was rich. This man had made eating of a meal so complicated and yet he called it easy!

The CO continued, “You see, if you eat the same thing day in and day out, you’ll forget how the other things taste and more importantly, the cook will forget how to prepare it!”

This was funny logic to say the least. Instead of eating what I like, the logic of his demanded that I was actually eat to keep the cook as fit as a fiddle professionally!

One didn’t argue with this CO. Therefore, I gave way to his logic.

The breakfast over, I returned to passing the Sitrep.

I forgot all about this incident till one day in Chowkibal in J&K, 14 years later, when a visiting CO was having breakfast and I was the President, Mess Committee, meaning that I was responsible for the efficient running of the Mess.

The visiting CO had ordered a rumble tumble. He got scrambled eggs instead!

The wise saying of my ‘British’ CO rushed back along memory lane.

I rushed to the kitchen and made a rumble tumble and saved the day.

Ever since, I always have a different type of eggs for breakfast and much that I dislike I have different types of porridge too!

 

[Ray]

COLONEL K AND THE PARTRIDGE SHOOT

Those were the days when Maneka Gandhi, the energetic Indian animal activist, was unknown.

Hunting was encouraged in the Army as stalking of prey taught stealth, survival, use of ground and jungle craft. These were qualities that guaranteed survival and thus success in battle! A faux pas at a 'shoot' meant, at best, a 'Last Post', the three volleys and a two inch paid obituary in the Press. The sad part of shikar was that a Tiger did not
comprehend that a General was poor quality meat – old and decaying, and guaranteed to be boneless! A unique process called age that guaranteed bodily decay and vanishing bones including the spine!

Major General KS, our Division Commander, was a keen shikari especially since he was a minor North Indian squire. Shikar was a propensity deemed necessary for Squires to exhibit their God gifted macho-ness, even if one was frail and withered, which the General was. However, his devotion at shikar restricted itself to partridge and small game since small game like partridges could only increase the pulse rate but not stop it! In addition, a partridge tasted better than a Tiger.

It happened in May 1982. We were out for our annual three-month Collective Training camp at Oda Nala near Rewa. Brigadier MML, our Brigade Commander, was supervising the training for war. We were doing magnificently.

Then, the Word came officially over the wireless (radio) that the Division Commander would arrive in the next two days for a 'surprise visit' to check if the training was as per the directive! It was a bolt from the blue. It is a universal fact that all bosses are 'pains' in the ungodly part of
the anatomy. Major General KS was no exception. He was more so since he was an artilleryman - a sect of the army, which excel themselves in being awkward to the point of being obnoxious. Adding to the agony, it was mentioned that Major General KS was to stay with us for three days even though we all knew that one day was adequate for the inspection!

It was decided unanimously that the General had to be kept 'on the hop'.
What could be better than pandering to his macho fad of partridge shooting?

Paratroopers are a resourceful lot. However, they are a type of folks who are expected to be untamed and yet to be forgiven for their idiosyncrasies. Fortunately, the Brigade had a Parachute battalion. The Commanding Officer [CO] was Lieutenant Colonel K.

K was tasked by the Brigade Commander to keep the General 'busy' for one complete day with a 'shoot'! Others would have thrown up their hands in despair at this task, but not K. As his unit too would be under inspection he could not spare all officers. Therefore, he wanted assistance from other units. The Brigadier readily agreed to this and since I was also a 'wild' category, even though not a Paratrooper, I was more than willingly 'donated' by my own Commanding Officer. This act of my CO puts paid to the theory that there is brotherhood in the Army! My own CO threw me to the wolves, so to say! Being thrown to the Paratroopers is worse!

Without a rehearsal, nothing is done in the Army. Therefore, the rehearsal for the 'shoot' was organised. The scenario was that the General would be 'guided' to a 'spot' 'abundant with game' by the 'expert' shikari, Colonel K and thereafter action would start.

The action went something like this.

With military precision, a whistle would be blown by the Regimental Police Havildar to indicate the commencement of the 'shoot'. It would also indicate that the General was at the correct 'spot'. My task, along with two paratroopers, from deep inside the woods full of brambles, would be to release four partridge and three rabbits from a basket at that precise sound! These animals were to be scurried off in the direction of the 'spot' where the General would be obliged to halt by Colonel K, the 'expert' shikari, who it was claimed, could 'smell' game. The partridges and the rabbits would then 'spring' towards the General and his team. The General and his team would then fire their 12 bores and get the birds 'on
the wing' and thereafter swivel and get the rabbits as they scampered past!

A great picture postcard shoot it would be.

That was not all! What if the General missed?

That, too, was catered for.

I was also to carry three partridges and two rabbits, which were previously shot with the same 12 bore the General would use. These would be then 'discovered' by the bush beating party as they beat through the bush! Efficiency was the second name for the Army after all!
Major G, the second in command of the Parachute Battalion, emphasised repeatedly ad nauseum to us that action was to take place only after we heard the whistle. Anything otherwise, would have been premature or too late. He warned that any error on our part would adversely affect our career and our health! It was an ominous warning since all those who were detailed including me were ambitious and also keen to be in the 'pinkest of health'.

Then, came the day of the shoot.

We were positioned six hours before the General was to arrive at the 'spot'. The spot was miserable. It was swampy. The mosquitoes and insects were making life miserable. The partridges and the rabbit too were uncomfortable and waking up the dead. Foolish things. They did not know stealth was the watchword for shikar; be it for the hunted or the hunter.

Time ticked. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit. The stink of the swamp burned the nostrils. Yet the General had not arrived 'at the spot'. There was no whistle from the Regimental Police Havildar. The time for the arrival was well past! It was agonising. What was up?

There was no sign of the General or his shikar party. This was getting ridiculous. I was in a state of panic and so were my helpers. The mosquitoes were no longer on my mind even though they were having a field day!

Suddenly, in the distance, we saw Major G shooting in as if he had seen a ghost! Pushing the bramble, bruised like badly loaded tomatoes, he came panting, in a state of total chaos, collapse and consternation.

'Release the birds you idiot', he choked and raved, repeating the same like a deranged and hallucinating lost toad.

'Release, sir? But, we haven't heard the whistle'.

'Don't be an idiot. I order you to release the %*** birds and other muck"¦.. Immediately"¦"¦ This instant"¦"¦"¦ You stupid posterior of a donkey'.

Catch me being a posterior of a donkey! I didn't like this one bit; but you don't argue with a deranged Sikh in a forest, talking of posteriors. The consequence could be very dangerous. And so, I released the 'muck'.

The partridges took off like George Bush's mouth. There was no sense of direction. The rabbit released from the stings of the mosquitoes jumped up like Blair and took off into the blue. One rabbit bit the nose of a jawan. He yelped.

Major G froze"¦"¦.

The yell of the jawan would give away the game! The man had totally violated Army Act Section 63 of maintaining 'good order and military discipline' in that he was not to make noise!

However, the yelp was drowned for, at that very instant guns boomed, in all direction.

The effect was better than Kargil.

Scowling at the jawan, Major G, with total presence of mind, snatched the dead partridges and the rabbit from the cage and followed like the rabbits into the blue!

We waited as per the orders till the second whistle blew after three quarters of an hour to declare 'all clear'.

We thereafter returned to our respective units.

None knew how the shoot went. Junior officers are not supposed to know these higher directions of war. I didn't venture to ask also because of the fiasco. It would invite trouble. Discretion is the better part of valour and all that.

It was only after a week that I came to know how the shoot went.

I had, per chance, met the Regimental Police Havildar. I queried him as to why he had failed to blow the whistle to indicate that the General had arrived.

The story is sad and typical of all army actions the world over. At that critical moment, the poor man had gone to answer nature call since he felt that was more important than a General!

He will never do it again. He his learnt his lesson – he had lost his stripes because of this faux pas.

A General's arrival is more important even if it means wetting your pants – which anyway you do!

 

[Ray]

FICTION WRITERS




The champagne and caviar chatterati may find it an oxymoron, but the Army officers do excel in fiction writing.

It is totally a different matter that the Nobel and Bookers Prize give them the go by The truth is that the Army officers cold shoulder all prizes, since nothing is beyond politics in the contemporary world. And Army officers are apolitical, and so would not touch it with a 10 foot barge pole!

Absurd a claim that Army officers are great fiction writers, is it? Not if you see reality and facts can be stranger than fiction!

I am not asking you to take my word. Why don't you ask Musharraf?

That cove wrote a masterpiece. Oozing with blood and gory, Fame and Honour, he sketched his Kargil Operation Plan. Dripping with stealth, surprise and stoic, he etched the backdrop in a scenario on a blanket of deep snow, along trackless heights that kissed the sky, with men of steel ready to steal real estate for the sake of patriotism, religion and God, almost in the genre of God for Harry, England and St George! If only he could have thrown in sex, it would have been ideal for a runaway success in fiction! But then, he was a religious man or so he wanted all to believe!

Having launched this fiction, Musharraf was struck with amnesia. He thought it was the Mujhahideens who were the prime actors, but then the Northern Light Infantry had stolen the thunder! He lost interest trying to find the thread of his story, when his neighbours, the Indian Army took over his tome. They added death and gory to make it exciting and anti climaxed it with a resounding defeat to the hordes! A more brilliant, gripping story none had sketched before and Tom Clancy turned green with envy!

But then, this is confusing. Musharraf was the author and so why did the climax be left to the Indians? Napoleon rolled over in his grave. He had the answer. The Army marched on it stomach i.e. no replenishment in arms, ammunition, rations and medical evacuation, you conjure a scenario of defeat and little glory, religion notwithstanding!

Musharraf imagined he was a Rommel, Guderian and Patton rolled in one, of course without the tanks. And that is what all military men think when they are on the Sand Models, TEWT , wargames and exercises. So, he is not an exception. And on these formats is the professional acumen gauged based on the vociferous, verbal callisthenics that one exhibits to excel over the others, till the real McCoy war differentiate the wheat from the chaff!

Now, how come such people are not found out earlier?

That is because of the annual appraisals. Those who are empowered to write them think they are Nobel and Bookers Prize material. They write pure fictions with total ambivalence and employ the well tested English adage – Discretion is the better part of valour! Why rock the boat and why get involved and waste time justifying the truth, since complaints against the remarks were bound to erupt with the vengeance of Mount Etna and Krakatoa, all rolled in one! After all, all think they are cats' whiskers!

I, too, was one of the fiction writers in my time.

It was one winter when I was busy at my desk at home. Home is the best place for peace where one can think.. No chaos, no time bound hassles, no seniors to be pleased! And the wife is too busy with her chores. The tea and snacks arrive on time as the mind boils over!
I was busy with some office work and who do you think should walk in? A Divisional Commander! He always visited us when he was in town, to satiate his palette with Bengali cuisine for which my wife was famous for. Lest you think I am a sycophant, let me assure you that he was not my Divisional Commander.

My orderly announced him.

I was his junior being only a Brigadier and so I had to dress up appropriate to receive the General!

I was not least bit pleased that I had been disturbed with some serious work at hand that required thought and dexterity in the English language. His appearing at my home, without prior intimation, did upset me. But, you don't say so to a General! In fact, as a gentleman, you can't say to anyone for that matter! All one can do is grin, chin up and bear the inevitable!

I went downstairs to the living room where he was waiting. It took time since I lived in a mansion that befitting my appointment as the Station Commander, all with a guard and all the other cosmetic paraphernalia of military pomp and grandeur!

The General, was not one of the stuffed shirts that General as normally wont to be.

"Hi Roy, busy?"

Catch me tell him that he had ruined my afternoon!

"No, sir, it's great to see you. Are you here for some official stuff with the Command HQ?"

"Yes, but the Army Commander seems to be busy and so I thought what could be better than having lunch with you. Don't bother; I will have whatever in the house."

I had the staff to whip up a lunch for him, but I knew that Lunch meant Bengali food. Catch my non Bengali staff whipping up some Bengali food! And my wife was away with some Other Ranks Family Meet!

He wanted 'whatever in the house'.

Great, but I did not know "what was in the house'. All I knew is that we had biscuits and I knew that is not what was on his mind under the heading, "Lunch".

Fortunately, my wife arrived and after the usual polite small talk, she went hotfoot to the kitchen and saved me from losing weight through sweating as the boxers do to reduce weight and be in the category to win. At this moment, I required weight to win and not lose!

While he kept nursing his soft drink, I kept him busy with small talk and kept imbibing beer!

"Hey Roy, did I disturb you from something important? You don't look comfortable."

"Not really, sir, I was merely writing some Annual Confidential Reports.

"Ah yes", said the Divisional Commander, "One of our burdens of office."

He paused and I waited with bated breath since he was known to be a sarcastic man.

"The annual fiction writing!" he finally said, with a deep sigh!

So, now you know how people claw up the ladder – because their seniors don't want to rock the boat!

Great fiction they write annually!

So, why blame Musharaff 's seniors?

Musharraf is cat's whiskers as you and I!

Only thing is he is smarter.

Unlike you and me, he is a President, having toppled his Boss and sent him packing!

 

[Ray]

THE COLONEL, THE BATTALION HAVILDAR MAJOR AND THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT



We were in the Balnoi Base in the Bhimbergali Sector of J&K.

Lt Col KSM was commanding our battalion. He was "British' as British could be. He knew what was best for desi Indian kalus , namely us and other hapless Indians, who may cross his path. Major S, one of our officers, always wondered if the British in 1947 had forgotten him somewhere between the Gateway of India and the Taj Hotel when they were boarding the troopship taking them home!

Captain 'Mahdo', however, opined that the CO had himself volunteered to remain behind in India and carry on with the White man's burden on behalf of his cousin, the Queen of England!

The only person who lamented Colonel KSM's decision to remain behind in India was, Major L, the battalion second in command (one of our 2ICs – but that's another story as to how we had two 2ICs). Major L's distress was only at dinnertime. While KSM only ate 'English' dinner, Major L was the desi ghee type. The latter was always upto some subterfuge to satiate his urge every dinner time.

That, in very brief, was what the environment in which we found ourselves to be in – a happy coexistence between the sanity and the ludicrous! In that environment, the Colonel of the Regiment decided to visit the unit.

Our BHM (Battalion Havildar Major), Uttam, typified the folks who composed our unit of those days. He was a fine and efficient chap, but even with him, one had to go with the Regiment Work Code ethics (not found in the Standing Orders of War or Peace) of 'Order, Check, Recheck and Finally Do It Yourself'.

As far as the Colonel of the Regiment, a combination of Hop Along Cassidy and Lord of Tartary is a more than adequate description.

That being the background knowledge of the principle actors, we move on with the events.

The Colonel of the Regiment was "heli-dashing" somewhere or the other. It mattered not to us as to where. In those days, we all were well contended to charter our career to the next day only, unlike today's youngsters who are more alive and smart and rather career savvy.

Notwithstanding, the Colonel of the Regiment was 'air dashing'. His role and profile demanded this 'sacrifice'. He was, after all, the Regiment personified and it was "Après moi, le déluge"

Being astute and savvy, the Colonel of the Regiment decided to make a detour to our unit, just to be 'with the boys'. Obviously, for us mortals, it was to be a Red Letter Day and hence everything had to be 'taped up'.

A long distance telephone call to the ADC over the notoriously troublesome military lines brought only desolate news. The Colonel of the Regiment, the ADC informed us had barely time to even munch a Digestive biscuit, let alone partake in any elaborate Japanese Tea Ceremony! And to imagine, my "British" CO wanted Huntley and Palmer Cream Crackers to be given and that too in back of nowhere, Balnoi!

I informed the CO what the ADC had said, adding that our Colonel of the Regiment was a 'man of action' and had little time for such mundane routine as having tea and biscuits. However, KSM being KSM, with disdain overruled the Colonel of the Regiment, even so, I believed every word what the ADC had said since the Colonel of the Regiment was reputed to be more in the air than on the ground and being in the stratified air makes one less hungry.

To us youngsters, the Colonel of the Regiment's visit was a red-letter day. There was a lot of hul chul as we dubbed hyperactive ceremonial chores. But that was not so for our dear Colonel KSM. He was cool as a cucumber, even though cucumber never grew in Balnoi. Our CO was a man who went by his own ideas and damn the others, whatever the rank. He cared two hoots for who vini, vidi-ed and vici-ed (saw, came and conquered or onked out{!}). The rule as far as KSM was concerned was that so long KSM was happy, 'Mogambo was khus' .

The Colonel of the Regiment's visit was important to us. Amongst the youngsters, I was selected to 'organise' the 'visit'. While the dismal, dank and dark living and administrative bunkers were being whitewashed from the inside under the supervision of Major GSS and the flowerbeds were planted by Major S with fresh overgrown plants that had bloomed, I was sent hotfoot to the helipad.

The whitewashing the inside of bunkers, we thought, were a waste of time for a man who hardly had the time to sniff a peanut, let alone eat or sniff it. Peanuts alone were the munching delight of the hip-hop dignitaries in those days unlike today where cashew, almonds, chilguzas apparently are the metabolic delights!

Anyway, I was despatched to the helipad. The Battalion Havildar Major (BHM) trotted obediently behind me. It was a different matter that, like all senior NCOs detailed to work under youngsters, he, too, wore a scornful and disdain look, a little short of total contempt of officers still green behind the ears.

The BHM and I walked to the helipad. The area was so huge. We got busy removing the loose stones and pebbles and gave the boundary stones and the 'H' another coat of fresh lime wash. A Company worth, in the meanwhile, got busy and sashayed with their talwars manicuring the wild grass to give the impression of an operational area lawn! Efficiency had visited our unit!

I 'selected' the spot where the shamiyana was to be pitched as also the mandatory toilets – separate for the General and separate for the lowly mortals, like the aircrew and us.

I could never figure out the rationale for separate toilets. As a youngster, I always thought that the procedure to relieve oneself was the same for all. However, Major GSS informed me that it was different for the Flag Rank and different for others. There were orders to that effect I was told.

The siting of the shamiyana was no problem. The site was the same ever since the 1947 War. Yet, the military mind insisted on a song and a dance every time without fail to move the shamiyana six centimetres this way or that way. Maybe it was done to prove that the military mind was fertile and innovative. I did not let the Army down in this pagan mumbo jumbo of the 'six centimetres dancing ritual'. In addition, I added a few flags along the way as a bonus, apart from the mandatory flag that indicates Toilets. In the Army, we have flags denoting various activities!

The CO had to be given his due. He was dead serious about being actually innovative about siting the urinal and the commode ['combode' as per our safaiman as if it were some sort of an abode!]. KSM's idea of siting the commode was unique and way futuristic, almost like Muslim emperor who moved his capital down South. KSM was a military genius. He gave us precise instructions on the subject since it had been honed into a fine art in the unit he was previously. The BHM and I followed this art to the letter and I must say I am now a great toilet site-r even to this day and rank!

As per the innovative toilet erection technique, the BHM and I spent the next six hours in the General's toilet tent. We checked and rechecked the wind direction every 15 minutes and recording the same on a clipboard. We were not disturbed in this serious activity even as the painter furiously hand-painted the commode's wooden structure. What really got my goat was that the painter painted the brand new enamel chamber pot also! I queried him on this unique procedure. He was amazed that I did not know that before a VIP visit everything had to be whitewashed and painted – the vintage and state of disrepair immaterial.

I informed the 2IC of the unit, of the painter's unique 'innovation' and guess what? He said that the painter was right! Wonders never ceased in this topsy-turvy military world.
The wind record taken, we marched off to the CO to present our earth shaking scientific discovery. The wind direction was true to the adage – fickle as the wind or was a woman supposed to be fickle? The recorded degrees touched all the points, sub points and sub sub points of the compass!

KSM perused it like the sage Agastya Muni . He put his head between his palms, took deep breaths and his chest heaved up and down like Mumtaz cleavage (they do this during the dance sequence in Hindi films). Suddenly, KSM's eyes sparkled like the Pole Star at night.

"North by Northwest", KSM barked into space, as if mesmerised like Archimedes, when he jumped out of the bath naked and yelled through the roads 'Eureka, eureka'.

'North by Northwest' was a unique suspense film by Hitchcock but I could not fathom the connection with the wind records. However, one did not argue with KSM

"Marvellous film, sir", I said in the form the Punjabis say yeh bhi wah wah, ta bhi wah wah i.e. non-committal lest I faced the wrong end of the stick.

"Film? What film, old tyke? Don't be a freak, young man. You will site the commode in the North Northwest direction, so that the General doesn't soil his clothes in a hurry nor have his nostril offended by the odour."

Great musings, I must say and what an eye for detail! I was in raptures to learn that a General's relief was offensive to the nostrils, like most. They were also human!!!!

'Trot off now. And by the way, don't forget to put magazines in the shamiyana lest he wishes to read.'

I ordered the BHM to have a whole lot of magazines organised in the shamiyana for the General's reading pleasure and comfort, even if he did not have time to sniff a peanut!

The BHM and I jogged off to the helipad to recheck the arrangements. All appeared to be well. It was still four hours for the arrival of the Colonel of the Regiment. We returned to the Base to relax.

Doubts still nagged me. The military mind can never lie still. It was still 30 minutes to time, when the Colonel of the Regiment would arrive.

I couldn't take the tension any more. I meandered to the helipad in a controlled 'casual way' as if I was taking a walk to breathe in the bracing air!. After all, I could not show that I was flapping. In fact, it would be silly to flap in front of the troops, especially when I had no wings to flap!

Horrors of Horror!!!!!

Neatly, in the shamiyana, on the table, there were magazines of all type – not the pornographic ones that would have ruffled my feathers, but there were, in all its glory and well shone ------------ pistol magazines, sten magazines, rifle magazines, LMG magazines and a belt of MMG ammunition thrown in for 'bull'!!!!!!!

How the right magazines arrived before the Colonel of the Regiment arrived is another story, but then it proved the then popular adage of my Regiment – Order, Check, Recheck and finally DO it YOURSELF.

 

[Ray]

THE CO-CK IS TOUGH

The unit was deployed on the posts in the Mendher Sector on the Line of Control in Kashmir.

It was usual for the Commanding Officer to visit the posts every now and then.

Capt SKC was commanding a post in absence of his Company Commander.

He was a very conscientious and a hard working officer, but as is common with most of us, not very versatile with the English Language.

On the other hand, our CO was not versatile with the vernacular or so he gave the impression.

As per the CO's visit programme, Capt SKC's post was to be visited and Lunch would be partaken there.

For a youngster, the CO's visit was a momentous occasion. He had to do everything that would make the visit comfortable as also a resounding success.

He practised his briefing for the 'nth' time. He checked that his men knew their arcs of fire and all the other aspects and rehearsed them till the cows came home!

He was pleased as Punch!

Then it struck him that the CO was to have lunch and the CO was very particular on this aspect! He also knew that the CO only preferred "light English food". Neither Capt SKC nor the langar cook knew a sausage about English food! It is a different matter that they also don't know about Indian food either!

Capt SKC, however, knew that the CO, a fitness freak, preferred chicken to mutton!

He sent hotfoot his flunkeys to the nearest village to purchase the most tender of chicken available.

That done, he breathed a sigh of relief and with great glee wiped his brow!

The red letter day came!

The CO and the entourage, after a hard slog over the mountains, arrived quite exhausted.

After a brief interlude and having had bracing hot tea, Capt SKC took them to the Vantage point and gave a fantastic, well rehearsed briefing and answered issues that were posed to him, admirably. Capt SKC was mightily pleased with himself. It was not easy to keep the CO happy!

After some small talk and chilled beer (even though the weather was chilly, it is fashionable in India to have "chilled beer"), lunch was served.

It was an Indian lunch.

The salad, dal (lentil) and vegetables having been eaten, the chicken was served!

The CO was delighted since all the ghas poos was not his forte. He was a "strict non vegetarian"!

He dug his fork into the chicken with all the fervour of a famished one!

The chicken piece shot out like a bullet, hit the 2IC sitting opposite on the field table and bounced off in the direction of the elated dog that is there in all posts!

There was thundering silence and total embarrassment!

Not so with Capt SKC, pleased at Punch that he had passed the briefing with colours!

"Sir, so sorry. Was your c-ock that tough?"

That brought the house down, but none dared laugh!

Capt SKC, thereafter, learnt that tough cocks don't go too well with the niceties of the English language and we learnt the charms of "soft cocks"!

 

[Ray]

THE CLOCK RAY LANDMARK


It happened when we were deployed in the Mendher Sector of Jammu and Kashmir. It was a beautiful area thick with heavenly smelling pine trees standing firm on the mountain tops. Those were the days when the Cease Fire Line was peaceful except for the occasional stray shots that left the muzzle more out of carelessness than anger.

Within the regular army string of Posts along the Ceasefire Line, BSF( Border Security Force) posts also dotted the array. They were placed under command of the regular Army in whose Area of Responsibility the BSF Posts found themselves.

This happened in that time when the BSF had just been raised with its core based on the PAP (Punjab Armed Police) . They were possibly good at police work, but were way short in so far as military tactics or battle procedures or drills were concerned. The PAP having an older retirement age accounted for some real ancient stalwarts amongst the rank and file of their new avatar, the BSF.

It was a common practice for COs of unit to visit the posts of the unit and those under command.

On one of his usual monthly inspection of the Posts, our CO was programmed to visit BSF posts under command.

Our CO was a stickler for military protocol and almost akin to the Prussians. Some found him rigid and difficult.

The visit to the Posts commenced and by mid day, after inspecting some of the Posts, we arrived at a BSF post.

The Inspector who was commanding the Post had found it convenient to visit his HQs. Militarily that would be sacrilege, but since issues were still in its evolutionary stages, there was dual command and hence anything was possible. The wily Inspector may have taken advantage of this woolly dual command structure having no intention to face my CO and exposing his ineptitude for the task. His miraculous call from his HQs left a hapless and an ancient Head Constable holding the fort.

The portly Head Constable saluted as smartly as he could and even before the saluting hand had reached it original position of rest, a constable thrust a plateful of savouries right into our face! It must be said, in all fairness, that it was customary that hot tea and something to munch was always given to the visitors to refresh after the hard walk over the mountain paths. Of course, it was never thrust into one’s face, and that too, even before the person had crossed the gate of the Post!

My CO, who was very military like in his demeanour, was seething. Firstly, he was furious that the Inspector had skipped and now, this, what to his Prussian way of thinking, was a crass civilian way of handling issues of hospitality through over indulgent toadyism!

He cuttingly told the Head Constable that he was most displeased that the Post Commander was absent without the permission of his Battalion HQs, as with the non military manner of thrusting the savouries even before the commencement of the visit.

The Head Constable profusely asked for thousand pardons and invited all to lunch, it being past mid day.

My CO dismissed the suggestion that we have lunch before the military aspects of his visit being completed. And though the Head Constable tried his best to guide the CO to the makeshift table loaded with deliciously aromatic food, the CO marched straight to the Viewpoint for the Briefing. All the while it was a ludicrous charade going on with each trying to outwit the other. One to force a lunch before the proceedings and the other equally adamant to avoid the same!

The Head Constable, a man who apparently had handled many a senior officer in his time, was not the one to be daunted and more so, he had the natural stout-heartedness of Sikhs. He badgered on with total old world charm but it was to no avail. My CO had his way since he had rank on his side and he too was a Sikh, even though, a shaven one!

We trooped to the viewpoint.

Apparently the Head Constable did not know Hindi (the national language) too well.

He started off in Hindi and then took off in Punjabi, the language the Sikh Head Constable was comfortable with and that used in the PAP.

Catch my CO allowing that! Even though my CO understood every word that the Head Constable was saying being a Sikh himself, the CO insisted that it be given in Hindi.

“Na eee Na eeeeeeeeeee. Hindi men bolo. Yeah Khaabe, Saaajey shab bakwas hayeh!” ( “No. No. Speak in Hindi. All this Khabbe (‘Left’ in Punjabi), Sajje (‘Right’ in Punjabi) is all ‘bakwas’ (bogus)”), the CO thundered, his accent replicating the British Indian Army goralog (British) sahib officers taking pride talking in what they thought was Hindusthani!

The more the CO tried to impress upon the man that nothing else than Hindi would do, the more the poor Head Constable got entrenched in Punjabi!

Interestingly enough, the Head Constable did all the pointing out of landmarks by shooting his hands in the direction of the landmarks instead of using the accepted military methods of landmark indication like the clock ray etc.

While all this was going on, we were standing behind them and silently smirking at his circus that was unfolding. We knew our CO and knew that he would remain ramrod stiff like a Panzer General and would not in anyway disturb his military demeanour by looking here or there or rearward without cause and even if he had to, it would be done with precise military deliberateness! In short, we would have adequate time to wipe our imbecilic smiles and be back to military normalcy!

“Kiyah bakwaas hayeee. Hath mat hilaooo. Ghari ko istamal karo” ( “What rot! Don’t move your hands, Use the clock (ray)”.)

The Head Constable looked left and right. He looked at us. He appeared confused. Use a watch? His eyes desperately appealed to us with thunderstruck incredulity.

He gained his composure.

Once again he started in landmarks in his Punjabi â€" Hindi mix.

“Samne wakeho. Toor ik Kar. Am rukh ” ( “Look to your front. In the far distance â€" a hut. General Line of Direction”.).

”Khabbe wakho, ik darkht ” (“Look to your Left. A tree”.).

Our CO was exasperated.

He snapped, “Rab de waste, Ghari istamal karo!!!!!” (For God's sake, use the clock [ray] method).

The CO was surely at his tether’s end. Most unlike him, he had unwittingly drifted into Punjabi!

We too were surprised!

The Head Constable, without missing a step, repeated, “Khabbe wakho, ik darkht” (“Look to your Left. A tree”.) and then he did the most incredulous thing. He shot out his left hand, saw his watch and said “Do bajke tee mint” (It's half past two)!

He had given the time of the day instead of using the clock ray which would have been to indicate that the landmark was to the left and in the nine o’ clock direction of the imaginary clock!

We burst out laughing!

There was a faint amusement etching the CO’s lips and we left for Lunch.

The PAP had won the day!

 

[Ray]

TAKE ME TO YOUR OFFICERS MESS


The Change of guard, at the top level, of any organisation, civil or military, activates vigorously Darwin’s theory of ‘Survival of the Fittest’.

The Indian Army may be isolated from society, yet the negative aspects of society at large do make its visitation, as the cultural stock remains the same.

My unit ardently endorsed Darwin.

Pavlov and his conditional reflex dogs were also a great favourite with us.

One may not believe it, but our dedication to Darwin and Pavlov signatured events when the change of command took place.

The CO designate, the 2IC (Second in Command) of another unit was replacing our incumbent Commanding Officer. Obeisance to the Rising Sun ruled the day. I am not too sure if the Fading Sun sulked at this disproportionate attention profile. But then, such is Fate. Sceptre and Crown finally tumbles down!

It boiled down to the simple fact of life â€" one was responsible till now, and the successor would henceforth be responsible â€" be it a matter concerning the fate of the unit, and more importantly, the fate and career upward mobility of the officers! Therefore, the CO had his value to the proceedings of the unit and the officers! Darwin cannot be faulted and neither the officers; and Pavlov was the guru and conductor of our behavioural responses!

The CO being replaced was large and hirsute in a substantially generous manner. His moustache, which he used to tug at frequently, would rise higher than his head. Though never mentioned, yet it was believed that he must have been from some mystique sect of the Orient because he followed a curious ritual of not allowing smoking or drinking in the Officers’ Mess or elsewhere! He was highly puritanical. Once his Intelligence Officer drank up his Orange Squash stored in his jeep during an exercise and I was blamed for “poor security”, being the MTO. His logic was, thus, also unique!

Saintly or otherwise, the outgoing CO would, however, to be with the Jones, especially when senior officers graced our Mess, partake in water with lime cordial to masquerade a gin! He was quite a spectacle with a ‘hoax’ gin as it would cause him to nervously tug at his moustache, letting it climb over his head to thereafter let it abruptly sink like a coiled spring to its original symmetry, curled at the rims like contented overfed Cobras.

On the other hand, the incoming CO was dissimilar. As dissimilar as chalk and cheese. The incoming CO, for eternity, stood stiff like a Buckingham Palace Guard. One could mistake him for a ‘cadaver in the upright plane’. Even a housefly perching on his moustache could not affect his demeanour, except for a contemptuous twitch. His toothbrush moustache was totally in concert with his wrestler type haircut.

The CO designate was worldly wise and ‘fancy’, as we later discovered. He was Nirad C Chaudhuri (an ardent Indian Anglophile) to his bowler hat! He spoke with clipped curtness. True, there was a touch of the North Indian accent, but it was well camouflaged. Weird as it may appear, but even in the blistering heat of summer of Allahabad, he was always booted and suited, preferably in a three piece one. The profuse sweating did not deter him. His eating habits veered to cuisine of the Occident, while his table manners were such that he used a fork and knife to eat ‘lentil wafers’ (papad in Hindi)!! He would never be seen at the table without his lightly starched damask napkin and tablecloth (dastarkhwan, as he called it) and he contemptuously rejected Indian Made Foreign Liquor as ‘gutter water’!

The incoming CO was more at home with the English language and the outgoing CO, with the vernacular. In fact, the incoming CO would have been more at home in England, while the outgoing CO would have taken like a duck to water in the pinds (villages), preferably one from the Mand (an area with water bodies in the Punjab).

Our Battalion was a new raised battalion and this was our first ‘peace station’ at Allahabad. Being a new unit, we were poor. Like the proverbial church mouse, at least in our ‘outward appearances’.

Our Officers’ Mess was passable. Instead of leather sofas, we had some cane furniture alone to boast of, since cane came cheap. There were no doubts that we were totally desi (native), even though our Regimental and Officers Mess funds were bursting at the seams. Austerity was rigorously pursued. To get even a pencil for official use from the regimental funds was a bureaucratic exercise that even the burra babus (Head Clerks) of the Comptroller of Audit and Accounts office would shudder to brazen out. It was not that the outgoing CO was a tightwad; it was just that Shylock would appear a philanthropist compared to him!

The demographic pattern of the Officers in our battalion indicated a majority from the pastoral fold. They were most uncomfortable with the incoming CO.

The rituals and ceremonies of handing and taking over done, we all went to ‘see off’ the outgoing CO at the Allahabad Railway Station. It was quite bizarre to note that while the spotlight should have been on the outgoing CO, the fawning courtiers were practically stumbling over the new CO. We the 2/Lieutenants were not counted since the adage was ‘2/Lieutenants should be seen and NOT heard’.

The train having left and the old CO gone, there was a melee to join the new CO in his jeep for the return journey.

The enthusiasm was so intense that willingly they would have even sat on the spare tyre at the back of the jeep. Who all finally managed to accompany the new CO, I could never discover, since it was a riot. These attempts to curry favour with the new CO, in short, indicate the atmosphere that was prevailing immediately after the new CO took over. Darwin would have rolled in his grave with glee.

Next day was a Sunday.

It being a Sunday, the new CO was in his civvies, as they would dress back home in the Blighty. He had a suit, an umbrella and a bowler hat!

He was to dine in our Mess for the first time.

We were naturally there before his arrival. The keener types were there, I think, at the crack of dawn.

The menu was North Indian and the cook was a Bengali â€" an ideal mismatch. We, at that time, did not know the new CO and his tastes. It was expected that as a North Indian, he would gorge earthy North Indian food supercharged with all the ghee (clarified butter) available in the world!

The new CO’s room (temporary abode till allotted a house) was walking distance, but the royals don’t walk. Therefore, a jeep brought him to our humble community ‘eat to live’ portals i.e. the Officers’ Mess. The Officers’ Mess food was so putrid that to exist we had to eat it perforce, and that is how, we youngsters, had named it the ‘eat to live’ joint.

The new CO arrived.

As he arrived, there was this melee again. We youngsters were left out in cold in so far as the impromptu Reception Committee was concerned. The hurly burly proactive types gave none other a chance!

All were in the lobby.

The new CO, in his inimitable style, took his time over the proceedings. He loved to make an effect. He was precise, majestic and obscenely painful. He surveyed the area like Satyajit Roy or Attenborough would behind a movie camera panning a ‘frame’. He spotted the hat pegs. They looked pathetic since its origin could be traced to some driftwood picked up by some ‘artistic’ officer that flowed in the many rivers at our last duty station.

The CO walked, in a measure manner, to the ‘hat stand’, as if treading carefully over a heap of dung. Carefully removing his bowler hat, patting his hair back into shape, dusting the hat, he placed it on the hook. His expression was pained, as if he suspected that the frail peg would collapse under the sheer sophistication of his bowler hat! Or maybe he suspected that a worm would creep out of the hat stand!

He then took his umbrella and hung it also as carefully. The effect he created was as if his umbrella were made of gold. In fact, it was so new that I am sure the Colonel had never used it and instead had kept it for effect.

The scene was uproariously comical.

The new CO was acting as if he were King George V meeting the hurly burlies, the fawning natives of India. The British had quit but here was their photocopy, sepia coloured and dim and yet a part of the original with the ‘natives’ toadying. It was just like the scenes in the paintings of the Raj!

The Adjutant, leapt forward as if executing a dive, from a diving board, in the ‘tuck position’ with degree of difficulty 1.5. The poor cove stumbled over the foot mat and came into the stationary position, being ‘balanced’ on CO’s stomach, his chin at the belt and looking pathetically upwards as if for forgiveness. Seeing this, the 2IC, pretending to help the Adjutant, plucked him off CO’s lean stomach and practically threw him out like the WWF wrestlers do when they chuck the opponent out of the ring!

“Sirjee, wealcaum” (Sir, Welcome), the 2IC chirped breezily. He was as ‘breezy’ as the first swallow in Spring.

If looks could freeze, then the CO’s look could have frozen an Eskimo in his igloo!

Measured, the CO walked into the anteroom.

He stopped abruptly.

He repeated rocked and oscillated forward and backward on the balls of his feet as if bolted to the floor and afflicted with ‘instant’ paralysis with a touch of plasy.

Some of the hurly burlies also rocked in unison as if this was a ‘disco’ bhangra (a native welcome dance in wild ecstasy for the royalty in the Punjab).

The CO’s gaze had rested on the cane chairs of the anteroom and on some paintings that were possibly the effort of the unit barber, during his spare time.

The CO turned on his heels.

He choked.

Getting his breath back, he squawked, “Take me to your Officers’ Mess”.

The 2IC and ex officio President, Mess Committee, was bewildered.

“Baat Saarjee, this be the Hafsar Maes (But sir, this is our Officers’ Mess)”

“Really? I thought this is the JCO’s Mess.” (JCOs are Junior Commissioned Officer who are below the Officer rank)

Turning on his heels, the CO departed.

The disgust of the CO had been so great that the ‘Englishman’ had forgotten to depart with his bowler hat and other English paraphernalia. They hung there in pathetic oblivion for the next two days!

Such was CO’s cultural shock!

And we, in turn experienced what is known as the “bolt from the blue”.

 

[Ray]

THE GURKHA AND THE STAFF COLLEGE

This is a story that I heard when I came to command my battalion.

Naturally, since this had happened before my time, I cannot vouch for its veracity. Nevertheless, it is worth retelling.

This is about a hardworking, diligent, sincere and a soft spoken Gurkha officer, called G, who spoke very little since he was told in his childhood that “A wise old owl sat in an oak, The more he heard, the less he spoke; The less he spoke, the more he heard;
Why aren't we all like that wise old bird?

He wanted to be a wise old bird, if nothing else.

He studied hard and as the story goes, some say he won a Gold Medal in Academics in his school. I can, however, with authority say that it is a fact that he passed the NDA examination, went through the rigmarole of cadets training in the IMA and lo and behold!, he was commissioned and given the finest regiment of the Indian Army â€" my Regiment. Of course, he didn’t know it then that is the finest regiment, but hopefully he knows it now!

He slogged through the initial years with quiet fortitude and he reached the magical rank of a Major. The rank is magical since that is the first time one understands what the Army is all about because till then, it is mere running around the countryside the monkey chasing the weasel!

He did well in all ranks and appointment he held, but since he was the quiet and overtly silent stereotype of a Gurkha, hardly anyone realised it to acknowledge his contribution. Nonetheless, he was satisfied since he believed in Vivekananda who believed that satisfaction was not doing what one likes, but liking what one does. Of course, it is true that Vivekananda had not told him so personally; but then his teacher had told him so. Being the good Gurkha, who never question what he is told, he never asked his teacher who told the teacher so. He took it as the Gospel truth and he believed in this Gospel.

As is wont, there is this hullabaloo in the Station amongst the Majors whenever it is the time for applying for the Staff College exam. It being the time for applying for the Staff College examination, the hullabaloo was on, right as rain! Major G, too, had heard about this Staff College exam but being the regimental officer that he was, he went about his duties and without fanfare went about to submit his application for the examination.

He may have been an unobtrusive type, but it did not mean that he was not aware of the surroundings. He knew that this examination was for surefire career enhancement more than the Retention, Part A,B,C and D exams. He knew that any Tom, Dick and Harry could become a Colonel so long as he passed the exams and yes, he knew that Staff College was an important input too, if not the most important of them all!
.

Diligent that he was, he looked about the AOs (Army Orders) on the Staff College exams and the AIs (Army Instructions) too (lest something was there too since the Army was a mysterious organisation that was bent on complicating the simplest of things). Fortunately, the Queens Regulation was not there, or else he would have read that too, lest someone felt he was not a diligent and a sincere chap. He had to keep up with his reputation, after all.

He read it all and then he filled the application and put it up through proper channels to the CO. He forgot all about it thereafter, knowing that the CO was an equally diligent, sincere and hardworking soul, who would forward it to whoever it concerned and the whole process would have been set into motion.

But, what happened?

The application reached the CO, who that day was distraught since the Commander had been a bit prickly and unfair. So, the CO was not in the best of moods and was hunting for some excuse to let off steam.

The CO flipped through the dak (mail) and then jumped out of the CO’s chair!

In front of him lay the Gurkha officer’s application for the Staff College exam. He picked it up, felt it, smelt it, re-read it, checked the name again and then yelled, “Maj G ko bolao” (Call Maj G).

It was the turn of the stick orderly to jump. He had never heard the CO ever yell since this CO was the “command by persuasion and sweetness” type of leader who spoke softly but carried a big stick and was known as “Roosevelt” by those who did not know him, but had heard of him.

Sure enough Major G arrived, all smartness and the personification of Gorkha robotlike precision, right down to the click of his heels.

Clicking his heels, he saluted.

The CO waved, indicating that he should be seated, since in the opinion of the CO, it was so extraordinary a situation that it would take long time to apply the persuasion and sweetness style of his.

Maj G was taken aback. The CO asking that an officer sit down? That an officer had been called, in itself was more than extraordinary, and to sit down would mean that the sky was about to fall on his head. So, he decided to maintain military protocol as per the Rules and Regulations and not sit down, but stand ramrod straight, breathing ever so gently to maintain the decorum and dignity of the hallowed office!

The CO had come from a different regiment and so he knew all about Gurkhas. He realised that this would be a tricky nut to crack and so he had to apply the third degree, which to him was yet another yell, “Sit down, Bacche”.

Maj G winched! Not because of the yell, but because the yell and the word Bacche was incongruous and this command by persuasion and sweetness style was becoming real ridiculously ridiculous! But, he said nothing and instead sat down.

“Bacche (son), what is this I see before me?” the CO asked in the most mellifluous of tone and thrust Maj G’s application into Maj G’s hand.

Maj G looked at it. Obviously it was not Banco’s ghost. It was his application. He was thunderstruck as to how the CO seem to have forgotten the English language and the alphabets! Even those who used the word Bacche knew English!

“Sir, it is my application for the Staff College exam”.

“That I see”.

Maj G decidedly beamed hearing that; at least the CO had not forgotten English! But doubts crept into his mind. If the CO saw and understood what he saw, where was the problem to sign the document? Or did he wanted a certificate for the CO to sign which read, “I have read it and sign it as correct” as they do for Cs of I. The CO was a bit of a legal chap and so it was not beyond his wanting such a certificate.

Some Mother have funny children, Maj G had nearly blurted!

Some more silence ensued.

“Maj G, are you serious about this?”

“About what, sir?”

“About applying for the Staff College, Bacche”, replied the CO.

“Yes sir, I am” replied Maj G.

The CO was a mathematics oriented man. He loved statistics too. Now, what if Maj G failed? After all, Gurkhas were not known to be too hot in studies, his statistical mind informed him. It would not look good in the Annual Inspection Folder. The CO was also a regimental soul. He could never let the regiment or the unit down! The unit uber alles was his motto. And yet, it would be unfair to not let the officer’s application go through, Gurkha or no Gurkha.

More silence ensued as the CO pondered.

The CO switched on his glassiest of smiles (which was so rare since his normal demeanour was like brass monkey weather , being a serious soul) and called in for two cups of coffee and literally mewed in the true “command by persuasion and sweetness” style.

The coffee came and the CO warmed up to the pep talk session.

“Maj G, Gurkhas make fine soldiers. Nowadays, they are also making fine officers. Yet, statistically not many make it to Staff College and higher education. Why press your luck? Aren’t you satisfied and thankful to God that you, amongst so many, are an officer and a damn good officer at that?”

Maj G sat back and blinked his eyelid and gazed back blankly as if in meditation and said nothing, and continued to say nothing, and instead gaze as blank as ever, just to rub in the stereotyped Gurkha image that the British had injected into their successors.

Minutes ticked and more of the blank gaze continued.

More minutes of blank gazing and the CO had enough of this blinkity blank silence and the beatific gaze in total serenity from this Gurkha.

It was enough of tomfoolery for the day for the CO.

He hollered, “OK, so that’s it?”

Maj G replied, “Sir”. The CO could take it anyway â€" yes or no.

And that ended the interview………

The application was signed.

It proved that Gautama the Buddha was indeed a Nepali. Nirvana could only be achieved through silence and meditation!

But that is not the end of the story.

When the results came, it was only Maj G who had passed the Staff College exam in the Station and everyone else had failed!

So, Looks can be deceptive. Stereotypes are also fallacious. Statistics are like a bikini. What they reveal is suggestive, but what they conceal is vital.

And Maj G had the last laugh!

He, who laughs last, laughs the best

And he is still laughing all the way up the ranks!

 

[Ray]

I AM HAPPY, SIR

My ‘popularity’ with my Commanding Officer always ensured that a host of temporary duties and courses came my way. It ensured his solitude and peace.

In pursuance of this favourite pastime of my CO, I found myself propelled out of his eyeball contact as an ‘observer’ at a large sized armoured exercise .

This exercise was professionally productive and so the last laugh was on my CO. This exercise was being tomtommed as ‘the exercise of the century’.

The ideal position to observe armour manoeuvre first hand was being with the CO of a Tank Regiment. Therefore, I requested the same through my friends at the Armoured Brigade HQ. This earned me the privilege of riding in the Tank Regiment CO’s tank to observe the ‘higher directions of war’.

The exercise got underway.

The Tank Regiment was to attack an objective deep inside the ‘enemy’ territory. The move to the enemy area was to be on multiple thrust lines, after crossing a river obstacle.

I met the CO of the Tank regiment and requested for the privilege to accompany him on his tank. It was natural that he wasn’t too pleased at my riding his tank. Armoured Corps folks don’t fancy Infantry people; worse being those with ‘influence’ in their immediate HQs. However, he had no option since the Brigade HQ had categorically told him that I would be with him.

The CO’s piqué ensured that I was not allowed inside the tank. He made me sit on the turret and allowed me to hang my legs through the hatch. The ride was most uncomfortable and there were many occasions when I thought it was being made so, so that I would be thrown off.

I hung on to dear life.

We had travelled for quite sometime. We were near the objective. The CO was trying to muster his columns at the designated RV .

The radio transmissions between him and his Squadron Commanders were fast and furious. I was obviously privy to all transmissions.

The deadline for the RV was nearing. One squadron was still untraceable. The CO was furious. He was trying to ‘guide’ this squadron through radio instructions to the RV.

“Where are you, you gauchi gaa ” (lost cow in Punjabi) Normally, the Armoured Corps officers spoke only in English; rarely in Hindi and never in Punjabi. This was just ‘not done’. It was worse than the British ‘going native’. So, obviously it was not ‘normal times’.

“I am near a pond with palm trees. There is a village North North West about 2 kilometres from where I am”

“Good. At least you can differentiate a village from a pond. What is the name of the village?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excellent. How ‘happy’ are you?”

That was odd. What had ‘happiness’ to do with being lost? The squadron had to be brought home and it was unaware of its actual position!

There were more transmissions from the lost squadron’s commander, but it got unintelligible owing to static.

“What’s that? I asked ‘How Happy are you?” bellowed the CO over the radio.

“I am very, very Happy”, pat came the reply.

“You mooncalf . Is this the time to be Happy? Don’t be a daft idiot. Stop being so %”* happy”.

I thought that the CO was being quite silly. Things weren’t going as per plan. The weather was definitely chilly and a light drizzle seemed to be brewing up. The situation was far from perfect. And yet, the Squadron Commander was the epitome of calm professionalism - he was lost and the weather was not being helpful. Yet, it did not dampen his optimism or state of mind. The Squadron Commander was not only happy, but very happy and extraordinarily stupidly the CO was asking him to stop being happy!

What more could the CO want?

I wanted to chip in and come to the rescue of the Squadron Commander, but since the CO wasn’t very happy himself, I let it pass.

What was the connection to being ‘happy’ and ‘being lost’?

It was after the exercise that I came to know what was being ‘Happy’.

It was the ‘codeword’ of the Regiment for that common phenomenon with tanks â€" getting lost! In an exercise, which is also a test of the unit’s efficiency, one did not expose the weaknesses wantonly. Therefore, such imaginative codes were the order of the day to cloak the same from not only the exercise enemy, but from the real enemy â€" the umpires, who travel alongside and record errors.

This code of being ‘Happy’ for ‘being lost’ was real imaginative indeed!

When I commanded my battalion, it became our code too!

 

[Ray]

ONLY PLAYED THE DAMROO (Rattle to make monkeys dance)

I had returned to my unit after a stint at the Army Headquarters.

The unit had a new Commanding Officer (CO). He was a cute chap with a cherubic face and was from some Rajkumar College, which he repeatedly told us was a premier school in Gujarat and to which only the Princes of India went. Unfortunately, none of us had heard of it. The CO had forgotten that the Indian Kings were near bred to the dodos and the school apparently had vanished into history. It was not listed in the Yellow Pages. Anyway, how did it matter? I was from a school that had the rare privilege of having a Battle Honour!

Notwithstanding, the CO was an excellent motivator and what, now a days, is called a 'theme event manager'. No important activity in the unit was routine. Everything had to be a 'tara fickling' . It meant not only a super affair, but also, one loaded with startling gimmicks!

Therefore, the unit's Raising Day, one of the grand events of each year, had to be a new and different 'tara fickling' affair every year.

One Raising Day had a 'wall' that separated the guests in the cocktail area from the dining area. At the appropriate time, after the cocktail hour, with a shrill whistle that startled, the extraordinary happened! The wall 'moved' and vanished into the night! The waiters with the soup, till then out of view, charged in like infantrymen in an attack, almost on the trot, towards the guests. They, then, fanned out like a flower, slowly blooming; and the soup was served individually to the mesmerised and stupefied guests.

A while later, the food wriggled in as a 'dragon'. You guessed it right – the food was Chinese. The 'dragon' was a jeep pulling many trailers, duly decorated as a 'dragon'; as authentic as the Chinese New Year dancing dragons.

The next year's Raising Day had stalls with food of all cuisines. The servers were all in the dress of the country of origin of the cuisine. The 'show' also included a paan shop that had all the typical adornments that such shops have. The after dessert fruits defied nature. They 'sprouted' on the banyan trees of the Officers' Mess!

Hands were washed, not under taps, but from a central fountain with rose smell.

The bar was a 'Jungle Bar', the barmen were as Tarzan. It was of logs and placed below a Peepul tree. Toy monkeys hung from the branches; and extraordinarily the peepul tree had banyan tree roots hanging from its branches with leaves from some other exotic trees! The area so landscaped that it gave a jungle look. Fortunately the jungle trail to the Bar was not too tricky to find! It was the novelty that year.

The man was imagination at its best.

The CO had another 'astounding' quality - he was pleasantly sarcastic.

There was this tall young handsome officer called Captain AP , who was deputed by the second in command, Major T, as the Liaison Officer for the Centre Commandant, who was to visit us. CO did not like the idea. The more Major T insisted, the more the CO demurred. The CO's logic was that Captain AP was God fearing!

It intrigued us as to why God Fearing was a negative qualification to being a Liaison Officer. And anyway, we thought that the CO, having come from another unit, had no clue that Captain AP Far from being a God fearing chap, was actually a chap who never missed an opportunity to savour life in all respects. Thus, if Captain AP was God fearing, then the CO was a monkey's uncle!

No amount of discussion budged the CO from the deduction that AP was God fearing.

The CO got impatient. To cut the discussion short and to show who the Boss is, he said, "Captain AP is God Fearing. Finito [he liked to think he was an Italian or some such thing]."

"How come, sir?" we all chimed in wanting the CO to eat crow since he was obviously wrong about AP.

"Well, AP is a good chap but he leaves everything to God" the CO said. Seeing the disbelief on our faces, the CO continued, "If he is the Liaison Officer, he will leave even the receiving of the Centre Commandant at the Railway Station to God!"

That indeed cut us short, because it was a truism that Captain AP was mighty bindaas chap.

Such was the prowess of our CO – a real imaginative chap. Great event manager and a man with great imagination to boot - declaring Captain AP a God Fearing cove!

Whatever may have been the CO's excellent qualities, owing to a misinformed gossip that I was a 'panga (cocking the snoot) specialist', the CO was apprehensive of me. He had once told me that if anyone saw a snake and a Bengali , it would be rational to kill the Bengali first. This was under the belt since I was a Bengali. I queried his rationale. Calmly he told me that not all snakes were poisonous, while on the other hand, all Bengalis spat venom!

And so the unit rolled along merrily under the command of this CO.


The CO's command tenure over, it was time for the CO to leave the unit. He had had a successful command, too. He called a conference to thank us all for the cooperation and all the usual inane stuff that outgoing COs state with emotion choked voices and a hint of a tear in their eyes. He thanked us and as he left the room, I rushed after him.

"Sir, don't mind my being frank. Actually, you were successful not because of any great stuff that you did. It was because with your diplomacy. You actually made monkeys out of us!"

"Come on, Eskay. You are attributing too much to me. I am a simple soul from a nondescript school as you feel. And, who said I made monkeys out of you guys?"

He gave a pregnant pause and said, "All I did was play the damroo"

 

[Ray]

THE FRENCH DELICACY, 'BURNTE MOUTTONE'


It was the days when there was no entitled ration. Hard cash and it did not go a long way either. My pay was a princely sum of Rs 400, not a penny more, not a penny less! It was 1967 if my mind does not hallucinate.

I was the Officers' Mess Food Member.

Having newly arrived in Allahabad, we were hosting a dinner for the first time for the rest of the Brigade.

The atmosphere was palpable with anticipation. The best foot forward and all that pip pip!

Deep Chand was our civilian cook. He claimed that he was Mountbatten's cook when the latter was the Viceroy. This he emphasised with vehemence, especially when in his cups. He was a highly reputed and ardent devotee of Bacchus .

Notwithstanding Deep Chand's partiality to tipple, he was a good cook. The menu for the evening was continental and the kitchen was humming with activity right from the morning.

After lunch, I went over to kitchen to see the progress of the meal. There was pandemonium. Deep Chand had toppled or is it tippled in his cups. That was not all, he had burnt the mutton! The mutton had a distinct smell that only burnt mutton can have. In fact, it was disgustingly foul.

The market had closed for the afternoon and it would only open in the evening. By then, it would be too late to buy mutton (with my own money) and prepare the dish in time for dinner for such a large gathering that was expected.

Cold sweat flooded my humble brow. The seniors were an unforgiving lot. It was no use to explain the situation to them. Therefore, the only way was to get into the act – pronto, jaldi or chop chop, the choice of language was not material at this moment.

I went over to the shelves of the larder surveying the exotic sauces on display. I was no cook and so salvation dawned on each of the sauces or so I thought. I grabbed the whole lot, tucking some under the armpit as the hands were full. I got to work with the frenzy that Kingfisher - NDTV's 'Gourmet Chef' would envy.

And so the dinner was 'fixed'. Deep Chand snored into pink clouds as black cloud circled my being!

The evening was a stupendous success. There was much revelry and everyone was in a mood for the grand finale – the Dinner. Deep Chand's culinary skills were famed and all looked forward to the same with great anticipation.

This was the moment I dreaded; and it had come!

The people attacked the tables with delighted anticipation.

Their anticipation turned to disbelief and grief.

"What the hell is this?" the Brigadier angrily hissed to my Commanding Officer (CO).

Some hushed and animated conversation between them ensued, and then, between the CO and the Mess Secretary.

The inevitable happened. I was summoned. Explanation given to my CO, I was sent to the Brigadier.

"What the hell is this, Food member sahib?" the Brigadier hissed like a python revolting over the calf that he had swallowed. The 'sahib' (though an honorific form address in Hindi or Urdu) was dripping in sarcasm. Or was it oozing with the viscosity of a leaking treacle jar?

"I knew that this would happen, sir" I said with feigned disgust, as if talking to some village oaf.

The Brigadier was incensed at the condescending tone. He could not believe a Second Lieutenant being condescending to a Brigadier!! He nearly jumped out of his Dinner Jacket!

"What do you mean by 'you knew this would happen'? Obviously it would happen, you freak", the Brigadier thundered and spluttered, forgetting the sophistication of his 'hissing python' voice.

"Obviously it would happen, idiot. You have served burnt mutton, you Godforsaken toad."

"Begging your pardon, sir" I said and paused for effect as Jeeves would have done. The Brigadier was incredulous at my calm cockiness. He had turned pink.

"Begging your pardon, sir", I repeated. More pause. Then, having incensed him further, I continued, bringing the Menu Card. "This dish, sir, as the sophisticated would know, is a French delicacy. It is called 'Burnte Mouttone'. It is cooked over a slow charcoal fire with assorted sauces and the outer skin is a trifle singed to bring out the tenderness of lamb with the sophisticated lingering of smoke. The vindication of the culinary skills lies in the mutton being slightly singed with a hint of charcoal smell lingering within the mutton to titillate the taste buds and challenge the olfactory sensitiveness. In short it is tribute to the five senses of man!"

I prolonged, "I told the cook not to try this since most have not gone to Europe, let alone beyond Bombay, but he insisted on it since it was a favourite of Lord Mountbatten. Sadly, my gut feeling has been proved correct. I knew that most of the officers would never appreciate. However, I knew that you alone would appreciate having relatives abroad and would have had this dish in France during your Europe tour".

I omitted the fact that he himself had said it was burnt and that I knew he had neither relative aboard nor had he been to France.

In those days, relatives being abroad were not so common except for the community he was from i.e. Sikh and they were proud that they alone were the pace-setters.

The Brigadiers chest expanded with pride. His face glowed.

Turning to the CO, he said, "Paaji (he was so delighted that the natural vernacular overtook him), I knew that it was a delicacy. I was just testing you. Indeed, I had this dish in Moulin Rouge in Rome". That indicated his grasp of facts and restaurants locales of Europe!

He turned to me and said most charitably, "My compliments to the cook. However, one advice I have, son". Great! From a 'freak' I had now transformed to 'son' and he had an advice!!!

"Don't try these delicacies in the Mess. Most of the officers won't like it".

Pausing for this 'gem' of an advice to sink in, he continued........... "Most of the officers are silly village bumpkins".

 

[Ray]

DISCIPLINED LOGIC

The Monsoon had descended on Sevoke Road, where I was stationed.

It was still in the teasing caressing mode, the full fury still being a month away. The pitter patter of the rain beating on the window pane lulled the senses and beckoned a further tête-à-tête with sleep.

The steaming cup of bed tea nestled on the bedside teapoy with the fragrant aroma of fine Darjeeling tea was doing the Flamenco in the nostrils. The cigarette lay in the ashtray, the smoke languorous in its ascent in whirling eddies of fine greyish blue smoke.
It stimulated the archetypal mood for a pleasant morning.

The Flagstaff House was cuddled in total idyllic indolence. I, by happenstance of Fate, was the current occupant!

I looked out through the window pane, while still in bed. The ambient light outside was low, though not quite so dark as it could be in full monsoons. The flowers including the tall hollyhocks were dancing gaily in the breeze, almost in symphony to hypnotise the mind. It was almost hallucinatory. The birds, in spite of the rain, chirruped and the occasional trumpet call of a solitary elephant could be heard through the foliage and fern of the Baikuntha Forest that hugged the Flagstaff House. The atmosphere sure had the indication that it heralded a tranquil beginning for the day. Jairam Ramesh, the Environment Minister, would have been in raptures!

I looked at the table clock. It was one of those fancy digital clock giving the time, day and date! That it was a Sunday had slipped my mind. The clock zapped my memory lapse! It was, thus, ideal for a longer snooze, more so since I was no keen Kumar who worked on Sundays for effect or slave drove subordinates to put in overtime on Sundays, as if they were factory labour! No siree, the British were right – no leave in station, full annual leave and no working without pressing reasons in the office and, best of all, no 24 x 7 workday week! The mind required rest and away from office, if efficiency was the watchword. If working like Commonwealth Games labour 365 x 7 was the mantra to feign 'efficiency', then it was not my or my subordinates' cup of tea! And we were an efficient Brigade, even though my GOC, the good man that he was, held contrary view!

As an aside, to illustrate our ethos, I must mention that the GOC did a 'sneak preview' one day climbing down from the hills along the Teesta and was horrified to find me practising Golf drives outside the office! He conceded that because I had computerised my Brigade, it was easier for me, but he opined that just for form, I should have been sitting behind the monstrosity of a teak desk and staring into the vacant space, willing a file to appear!

I thought this sagacious advice over. No wonder, one finds redundant and trivial work in the Army transmogrifying into things earthshaking! I realised this even more after retirement when I had the time to see the real world called civilian India.
I looked out through the window pane to see the garden to put me back into a pleasant mood.

As I was saying, I looked at the fancy table clock. It informed me that it was a Sunday! True one could laze around, but then laziness would not do. I, reluctantly, dragged myself out of bed and addressed the cup of tea, now turning cold, took two puffs at the dying cigarette and was bathroom bound. A leisurely walk through the forest attracted me immensely and so before the day turned hot and humid, it was essential that I make haste.


As I moved towards the bathroom, I gave a longing look outside the rain drenched window pane. It gladdened my heart. The flowers in the garden and the hollyhocks were swaying gently in full frolic like lithesome Manipur dancing girls. The Flagstaff Guard, a Gorkha, stood rigidly immobile, like a Madam Tussaud masterpiece, in his sentry box. The stiff and measured movements of the Gorkha soldiers never failed to fascinate me. They were masters in economy in the field of ergonomics, while the rest of us were like birds continuously flapping!

With that scene in mind, I finally entered the bathroom. A leisurely time I spent there, except for a brief interlude when the sahayak (batman or orderly, if you wish) thrust a telephone through the door after much banging to show urgency. In bated breath, he announced that it was the GOC on the line! As if, Yama (God of Death) was knocking on the door to take me Heavenward bound! However, to be fair to the GOC, it was indeed an earthshaking cataclysm that troubled his delicate mind – his Liasion Cell had informed him that some soldiers were visiting Salugura and he sniggered, yes, he sniggered like a young girl, and informed that they were doing 'naughty' things!

Wow! Naughty things by naughty chaps that made the issue real knotty!

I assured him that I would have them on the mat in two ticks! Now, I am gizmo guy; I spoke into my Dictaphone. Naughty, was it? Man, they would be hauled over the coals, I informed him.

There went a good beginning of a day like a damp squib!

Bathed and physically refreshed though mentally down in the boots and angry too, I exited from the bathroom. No, it was not that I was overburdened with the naughty boys doing naughty things and make life a knotty issue. It is just that a Sunday was ruined a naughty telephone call aimed at ruining a perfectly good day. It was hardly a matter that the DQ could not investigate and keep all informed! Anyway, I realised that the GOC had a chronic digestive malfunction and maybe his hyperacidity had taken the toll whereupon he seized the opportunity to unburden himself. That perked my mood immensely.

As I walked out of the bathroom, what do I see?

A Gorkha soldier merrily doing something outside my window!

I would be damned if he thought I was a strip tease artist who could be salaciously observed in a peek show!

I walked across to the window where he was.

I should have worn a bathrobe, but then the mood was not that accommodating, what with the GOC's naughty boys call!

In my towel, I marched to the window with all the imperiousness a Brigade Commander could muster wearing a towel! I threw open the window. I glared at the man and he blankly, with fluttering eyelids, stared back. A staring competition was thus on!

"Hey Kancha, tum kia kar raha ho?" (Hey little boy, what are you doing?) I asked without thundering to avoid adding to the thunder that God, Himself, was undertaking!

The Gorkha was flabbergasted! He looked at me as if I were some cretin! With his head, he made me follow his movement, to the watering can!

"Thik hai. Batao kia kar raha ho?" (That's all right. Explain what are you doing?) I asked.

More blink blink on an immobile face!

"Sab, ham paude par pani de raha hun!'' (I am watering the plants) pat came the reply and with economy of words.

"Lekin, kia zarurat hai? Abhi to barish ho raha hai!" (But why? It is raining) I asked with incredulity mounting by the minute.

"Woh thik hai, sab. Hukm hai kih roj 0700 baje paude ko pani dena hai. Ham pani de raha hun." (That is right, sir. I have orders to water the plants at 0700 hours every day).

I nearly burst out laughing. Watering plants even when God is the gardener watering! Man, they really could take the cake.

With decorum and without laughing I rushed to the bathroom and broke into uncontrolled laughter which he could not hear!

Naughty chaps they may have been, but damned good chaps they were and totally disciplined! They could always be depended upon!

 

[Ray]

PAGAL KHALSA (The Crazy Sikh)

It was a very tiring day.

Waking up at the crack of dawn, catching a flight from Calcutta to Delhi, changing planes to reach Srinagar and then by road to the Battalion located near Kargil via ZojiLa and Dras. That was not all. There was a long wait in Delhi as the aircraft had a snag. All this was exhausting.

Yet, all was not lost.

Salvation visited me on landing at the Srinagar airport – the liberation from the heat and dust of the plains! Yet, there was still a languor in the heart – my annual leave had come to an end!

Enduring the the usual and unnecessary hustle bustle that greets a CO (Commanding Officer) returning from leave, I entered the Jonga (Nissan Patrol). We were Transit Camp bound, when I did the unforgivable. I told the driver to hop it straight to the Battalion and the acclimatisation mandatory for units in the High Altitude be damned! Not a great example for a CO, but then the heady civilian lifestyle acquired on leave seemed to have charged me with a sense of déjà vu. The driver was not too pleased that I was breaking procedure. His long innings with me seemed to have given him a proprietorship over me, as one would for a loving dog! Yet, he had no options. I was, after all, the CO!

My Battalion, located in the Kargil Sector was something like a circus. All and sundry, irrespective of rank, visited it to get a feel of 'war'. It was, after all, the only active combat area of the Brigade and daily exchange of fire was the staple.

The daily firing had no routine. The Pakistanis resorted to heavy and relentless firing, mostly at night, with all their weapons. The intensity increased when we moved, at night, the small donkeys (local breed) through the predictable and only tracks available, carrying replenishment and defence stores. The Posts were still being constructed and we were under their direct domination since the Pakistanis were on higher ground along the ridges. Unique defence work along the routes and using of gravity feed pipes, laid at great risk, ensured that the Pakistanis merely wasted their ammunition. All this was way before the famous Op Vijay (Op Badr, as named by the Pakistanis) and before gravity feed became the rule than the exception in Siachen. Movement by day to the Posts or within the Posts was impossible in most places. Morale, nonetheless, was high.

I wanted to take charge as fast as I could.

Driving through the night, I reached the base of the mountain where my unit was located and climbed to the Battalion HQ.

My 2IC (Second in Command) and the Adjutant met me at the crest of the hill. The former was very sleepy and not too pleased. With sadistic delight he dropped the bombshell that the next day the new Brigade Commander would be arriving at 0900 hours to get an operational briefing!

A good beginning I must say.

Briefing the next day? Well, the next day had already become today!

''Ah well!'' said I, ''what difference does it make? It is a circus here and we brief all and sundry and so it will be no great shakes''.

Turning to the Adjutant, I said, ''Just have the briefing paraphernalia ready and send me the updates by 0600 hours and hey presto! we shall give him the very best!''

Having said so, we went off to our bunkers. I was tired, but since it was a habit I never slept at night since the firing was at its zenith.

I stayed awake. I will admit that I was dozing off.

0600 hours and the updates came and having gone through them, I was ready, come rain, hail or high water.

Having bathed and all that, I placed myself on top of the hill where the track would bring the new Brigade Commander. As an aside, it would be prudent to state that though it was the only active area in the Brigade and a novelty for all and sundry to visit the Battalion HQ to get a 'feel of the war', it was safer than the Posts. This was so since the Pakistanis, for some good reasons that were a national secret in Pakistan,used only their AD guns and HMGs at the Battalion HQs. It was effective but not as it were on the Posts. Only once, had they toppled a Field Flush Latrine, giving the poor chap inside a heart attack of his life and nothing very life endangering!

I was stationed at the top of the hill awaiting the new Commander.

A few minutes before 0900 hours, I saw a mule coming up the track from the base of the hill with someone sitting on it and another holding onto the tail, gasping for dear life. To gasp was not unusual, for after all, we were in High Altitude and air is rare. Yet, I was most unhappy at this spectacle. It was hardly a time for the 'all and sundry' to want a ringside seat for the war extravaganza!

The mule, the man on top of it and the man following had come closer and one could make out to some extent the features. Shock of shocks! The man astride the mule was none other than my neighbour at the Battalion Support Weapons Course at Mhow. He was the very studious chap who rarely came out of his cabin and so we had named him 'Pagal Khalsa' (Crazy Sikh). He was otherwise a good chap and always helpful and he did top the course. He was a VrC (the third highest gallantry award) to boot! A solid soldier indeed! And an educated one too!

Pagal Khalsa or no Pagal Khalsa, friend at the course or not, I could surely not entertain him the way I should, for the sake of good old days, since the new Brigade Commander was coming to visit us and get a briefing; and who knew what type of a pain in the anatomy the new Commander would be!

"Oi, Pagal Khalsa, what are you doing here?'' I yelled, letting the breeze carry my words. "The new Commander is to visit me and who knows what type of a pain in the anatomy he is. So, hurry up and I will send you to the Post and later we can chat up. We have laid a good breakfast for this new cove and so you can tuck in merrily. Got that Pagal?"

The rider just looked up, gave a wan smile and nodded his head. The man behind was furiously huffing and puffing and oddly, rubbing his finger on the lips, as if to check if the cold air had parched it! Maybe he wanted water and his lips had got parched. I turned to the Adjutant and told him to have the water ready, lest the chap conked off!

I thought Pagal Khalsa had not understood the urgency. I used broken Punjabi, the best that I could muster, so that the urgency hit home.

"Pagal Papaji, cheeti kar. Sade navi Commander athey aiye shartly. (Pagal daddy O, hurry up. Our new Commander is expected here shortly)". I even used the Punjabi accent for 'shortly' so that there would be no error in understanding and anyway, I had no clue of the Punjabi equivalent of 'shortly'.

There was no perceptible change in speed of the mule. It plodded on as leisurely as possible. I yelled again, "Oi Pagal chheyti kar, rub de waste (Oi Pagal, for God's sake hurry up). Notwithstanding my consternation, the mule and the rider and his follower plodded along with the follow up chap desperately doing the finger to the parched lip drill. I looked behind and was pleased to find that the water was near.

I was at my tethers end. Pagal and his friend behind the mule had taken no heed of my urgent pleas.

They reached the top. I was delighted to see him. He was perched high on the Mule MA (mountain artillery) and we were in a dip in ground.

"Pagal, its great to see you here. Maybe you could re-site our Mortars and all those other stuff you are an expert on. Now, this crazy coot of a Commander, who has just been posted, has decided to visit us for a Briefing and to imagine, I arrived only after midnight! These senior officers have no sense! Anyway, I am ready as always, for the main weapon of war in our Army is English and I am well armed!" I blurted all this in one breath. Pointing to the post about 100 meters away, I continued, "Why don't you go and make yourself at home there and have a hearty breakfast?"

Pagal burst out laughing.

"Roy, you will never change. You say the most atrocious things.''

Having said that he leaned forward and wagged his shoulders with a mischievous smile.

The Ashoka Lion and the three stars burnt right into my eyes. Pagal was my new Commander!

That really got me!

I gulped once or twice, the Adam 's apple moving vertically vigorously.

My ears were burning with embarrassment.

"Yes, Roy, wonders never cease."

And then he delivered the coup de grace – "And to imagine that you made it to a Colonel"!
"Touché, what? That's for calling me publicly Pagal Khalsa!"..........................."Now, let's see your best weapon in Action – the Briefing and could we have it in Hindi?"

Now, that was cruel since my Hindi was the butt of the jokes during the course!

 

[Ray]

'BALLE, BALLE'

It was in the year of the Lord 1968.

I was then but a youngster with one year of service. The battalion was located in Allahabad.

Our Brigade Commander was a hard task master. He was blunt. He was imperious. He rode roughshod. He was certainly not a man to fool with or take liberties. He never claimed that 'Popularity' was his middle name!

Yet, he had a sterling quality – he always ensured that the culmination of a Brigade exercise was always a rip roaring, no holds barred party at one of the unit's Officers' Mess.

Let me elaborate on the atmosphere prevailing during such parties since it was unusual for those times. It was like a carnival. Whilst one did not forget rank, but it got sort of blurred under the bon homie that ran riot! A 'one for all' pizzazz, so to say.

We were attending such a party. My unit's Officers' Mess was the venue.

The party was riotous and boisterous. The drinks were coming thick and fast and so were the snacks. It was not the organised sort of party that the military normally has. It was more of a fete, with groups enjoying themselves without being a part of an organised show, so to say. The atmosphere, in today's teen parlance, would be 'cool', with all the 'chilling out' resulting in 'chillax' (chill out and relax)!

Sher Singh, a Special List Quartermaster of a unit and a village hurly burly, had just declined a boisterous request for a song from him. The atmosphere was électrique! Catch him not singing when asked by the majlis (congregation in Urdu) ! Boisterous yells automatically dubbed him, 'Chuha (Mouse) Singh'!

Being dubbed 'Chuha Singh' for cowardice was too insulting to bear for this worthy of the North (North India). Anger swelled in his heart! In a piqué, he burst forth in a wolf like howl, like Akela of the Mowgli tales, passing it grandly for a song. Not that it mattered, since most were chatting in their own small groups and having a great time. Even if Chuha Singh's rendition was jarring the sonic balance and inviting furtive glances from other groups including the one with the Commander and the COs, who cared?

Sher's 'song' and the loud guffaws were somewhat upsetting the 'law and order' of the party or so it appeared to some.

There are these types in the Army who are always anxious about maintaining 'Discipline' and 'military order' and feel it in their bones that it is the paramount business in the Army. This affliction is normally amongst some senior officers who suffer from a dangerous dose of the 'senior officer syndrome'.

And so, one 2IC (second in command) collared me, it being our Mess. He was one of those 'command by deflection' type. He preferred to 'steer' the boat and not 'rock' it. He ordered me to start the radiogram, which was a novelty at that time, and organise some dancing. He felt that by doing so, even Sher or Chuha Singh would shut up and join the rocking time all would have with the thunder of the music. He informed me, most sagaciously, that the Northern blokes loved nothing like a good bout of wild dancing to let down their hair.

The radiogram was started but the pandemonium continued, not that anyone other than this 2IC, cared.

The Brigade Commander and the Commanding Officers (COs) were also delighting themselves huddled in their group.

The flinty and unyielding 2IC alone was not enjoying. He was keen on bringing the party to order. He once again came to me.

"This won't do", said he. "Start a Punjabi song, preferably a boisterous one". One will recall that Punjabi songs have 'catchy' tunes and the wordings normally real 'earthy'. Thus, it was the best option in his opinion he informed me.

That also didn't work. The situation was getting frustrating. The 2IC was adamant.

One officer, not too young a youngster and who had seen life longer than me and who had followed the whole proceedings with uncontaminated curiosity, came up and advised me to get the Brigade Commander's group to start dancing. That would do the trick, he advised, since the Army had a propensity to follow 'The Pied Piper'. Don't get me wrong – those that follow are not rats, but just normal career driven ambitious individuals!

I was hesitant. Youngsters cannot dare talk to Brigadiers, let also make them dance – at least, not in those days!

Seeing my hesitation, he challenged me. He added a bet – hit the Brigade Commander on the back if I were a 'real man' and get him to dance! I mulled that over. On the pittance we got as pay, the wager was indeed handsome. I might as well add that given the alcohol flowing, it requires no prompting to state that we were all in a rather 'happy' state of mind. I, too, by that time had acquired some Dutch Courage, even though I was imbibing Indian Made Foreign Liquor (IMFL) as whisky was known in manufacturing circles.

A real man? Me? Wasn't that obvious?

The bet was on.

I put the radiogram louder"¦..real loud.

The Brigade Commander's group looked towards the radiogram, lifted their brows and then went back to the ritual they were engaged in.

I walked up to the Brigade Commander and slapped him hard on his shoulder as one would when meeting a dear old friend – real Punjabi style to boot!

He was startled and shocked. A man of his importance does not get backslapped and that too so hard in a gathering of his subordinates, and to add insult to injury, by a pipsqueak!

He had no time to get furious"¦"¦..Grinning from ear to ear I said, "Come on, sir, you all are hot blooded proud Punjabis. Let's do the Bhangra (a boisterous Punjabi dance) "¦.Balle Balle "¦."

The Commander actually thought I was a great admirer of the hot blooded Punjabi pride and their folk dances and that I was dying for some authentic stuff from none other than the Brigade Commander! He was, after all, a megalomaniac.

Delighted, he broke into a boisterous bhangra, giving it all the pep and go that his advanced age and creaky old bones could give.

The COs followed the Pied Piper. The rest of the crowd followed their COs.

The sourpuss 2IC was happy.

And"¦"¦"¦

Sher Singh had stopped his howling.

And......

The best part was that I had won the bet!

Balle Balle!

 

[Ray]

CAN YOU HEAR ME THERE?


I had just been commissioned two weeks ago. I was in that embryonic state on matters military that gives rise to the time tested adage - 2/Lieutenant should be seen and not heard!

Honestly, I had no clue of the Army, let alone of the Infantry in which I had been commissioned. My serious and yet enthusiastic looks belied the fact. It gave rise to the misconception that I was one of the eager beaver keen Kumar variety that infest the Army and such an impression camouflaged the fact that I was but green behind the ears with hardy any, or actually, no service at all in the Army! That is, unless one took two weeks of service to be service enough to warrant eligibility to join the pensionable bracket!

And so, it came to pass that no sooner that I had started getting a hang of unit life, I was detailed with a few others of the unit for a 'Lecture – Discussion', at the Divisional HQ, which was to be conducted by the Division Commander (General Officer Commanding or GOC) himself. The subject was – Employment of Armour in Riverine Terrain.

I learnt from the others that there would be over 75 officers attending of a variety of ranks and it would be followed by Lunch.

I was most apprehensive and nervous over the prospect of attending this Lecture Discussion.

I rang up a course-mate who was commissioned in a neighbouring battalion. He told me that he had not been detailed since his unit felt that it was too early to give him an exposure, as also, to ensure that he did not make an ass of himself if asked a question and let the unit down! Imagine that! He was being protected and I was being thrown to the wolves as if I were Androles, the slave, who was thrown into the Circus Maximus, to battle against the Lion to bring cheer to the Romans and the Emperor!

I was petrified! I actually had butterflies in my stomach as Androceles must have had, and to top it all, I was told that the GOC was some Singh, or a Lion in English!

As a youngster, one is not expected to air one's views or even ask too many questions; and anyway, none was interested in what were my views. Yet, I took heart and asked the officer one senior to me in the unit hierarchy as to how could I explain to the Battalion Second in Command, who had detailed us, that I had no clue of the Infantry, let alone of Armour and that I was dreading going there and making a fool of myself.

The chap senior to me was a bit of an uppity chap. He was wallowing in his happiness that he was no longer the junior most in the unit and the odd job man thereof. He adopted a picture of total peevishness when I asked him the question. He told me to shut up and do as I was told and not get extra smart. Having said that, he thrust some pamphlets my way and told me to study and be prepared, or else, he said I would be demoted to a Subedar Major! Imagine that! What a laugh! I was taken to be a total fool, and yet on the other hand, being taken to be wise enough to discuss armour with the GOC! Conveniently it was forgotten that I was still discovering the difference between a 3 inch and 81mm mortar and between a Jonga (Nissan Patrol) and a Jeep!

I read through the pamphlets, but only perfunctorily. It was not that I was not keen. It was just that it was as comprehensible to me, as it would be even if it were written in Greek or Pushto! I had no idea as to what was an Vanguard, an Advanced Guard, Flank Guard or a Rear Guard, let alone what was meant by a Commander's position in the whole subchiz (plot) being 'as far forward as possible to influence the battle, but not too far ahead to get embroiled in battle'! Good English, but what was the actual place in the Order of March (a term which I only understood since I knew English even if not tactics) was he to be in, is what confused me; and so I quit delving deeper, having not understood even the basic!

The very thought of having to go for this Lecture Discussion was giving me sleepless nights and there was help from none. Most of the seniors were treating me as if I did not exist, while the kind ones taking me to be just an exotic worm from the African rain forests which had lost its way. I could find none to pour out my heart and my apprehensions. So, I suffered in agonising silence!

Our Second in Command was a nice gentleman. He noticed that I was very forlorn. He enquired what ailed me. I poured my heart out. He sympathised, but sagaciously informed me that it was good for my exposure to 'higher levels' of understanding of operations and that it would go a long way for me! Of course, it would and that I knew, providing I knew what tactics was in the first place!

The big Day came! We were herded into a Nissan Truck 1 ton and we were Division HQ bound. It was a cold day and my blood has frozen with apprehension. The idle chatter of the other officers, looking forward to the Lunch more than the Discussion, did nothing to change my total paralysis of mind, limb and brains.

We reached the Auditorium where the Lecture Discussion was to be held. I showed great alacrity to find a seat way at the back and checked the lighting too. It was in a dark corner. I hoped that because of the distance and the darkness where I would sit, I would remain the 'Invisible Man'. I breathed easy and I did not move, lest someone else usurped my 'strategic' seat!

The General came and the Discussion started. The General was a swashbuckling Cavalry man and had been a Commandant of the Indian Military Academy, when I was a Gentleman Cadet there. He was a tough cookie as they say. He swung the Discussion like a Cavalry Charge. Fast and furious but it was beyond my horse sense, let alone tactical sense. In this tactical m̻l̩e, I was like the General who ordered the Charge of the Light Brigade Рtotally clueless about the situation. Yet, possibly like the Charge of the Light Brigade General, I wore a very intelligent look!

I kept listening with rapt attention. I think I was learning a wee bit and I was quite enthused. My memory flooded with the great armour battles of Kasserine Pass, Battle of the Bulge and of Patton, Rommel and Guderian.

I leant forward lapping up the discussion and may have worn an intelligent look, apart from appearing to be beaming with 'keen interest'. The General must have been a hawk in his last life. Even at that distance, he could spot me. He caught me unawares in my reverie, for out of the blue, he asked me a very pertinent question – pertinent as per his perception, but totally Esperanto to me!

I was so enamoured with the discussion, that I did not hear the question, let alone understand it!

I stood up since I was asked the question, having observed that this was the form.

The fact that my legs were shaking and it also indicated the state of my brains, the General did not realise. He couldn't, in any case, have discerned that since there were many rows ahead of my row and between him and me.

In sheer confusion, I pulled out my pipe since I thought a smoke would clam me down. Smoking had been allowed. Sherlock Holmes is said to have smoked his pipe before piecing the detective puzzles. So, what worked for him should also work for me I thought!

I slowly filled the bowl of the pipe. I had no option otherwise since my hand was shaking Time was ticking away as all, including the General, patiently watched. Putting the pipe stem in my mouth I gave a couple of pulls to confirm that the airway was clear. ! Having done so, I lit the pipe after many attempts. The impatience of the audience and the General was now quite evident.

Having lit the pipe, I gave a puff. It was most satisfying and helped to calm my nerves.

If I were to have my maiden speech in the Army, then it was mandatory that all heard it and it should never be forgotten.

I looked to towards the far left of the audience and asked, "Can you hear me there?"

I took another puff. It cleared my mind more.

I asked the same of the audience to the far right.

I gave another puff.

By then I forgot what the question was.

I asked the General, "Begging your pardon, sir, could I have the question again?"

The General was kind and patient, possibly having observed that I was but only a 2/Lieutenant and incapable of growing a genuine military moustache. He gently, with all decorum expected of a General, repeated the question.

I gave another pull to inhale a huge amount of smoke. I was horribly nervous. I thought it would open my brains and pop would come the answer.

The General waited patiently, tapping patiently on the lectern, Beethoven's Third Symphony, if indeed there was something like that.

Nothing concrete tactically visited my brains, try that as I might.

I racked my brains remembering the sagacious word of the pamphlets thrust to me to bone up as also of the discussion so far.

The audience waited for my tactical gem to be cast amongst them.

Having kept the General waiting and having asked him to take time out to acquiesce to my request for repetition the question, it was mandatory that I said something that was coherent.

All I could say was, "Sir, I have no idea. I haven't the foggiest!"

What happened thereafter is history!