Rum, Bum and Mouthorgan and other Indian Army stories
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THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST ABOUT BREAKFAST
It was just before the 1971 War. I was the Adjutant of the unit, A very British type of a gentleman was commanding the unit.
The line communication (land line) 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 the moment when the Sitrep was being passed. 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 was not naturally in the best of spirits.
The CO found that I had not come for breakfast. He was outraged.
He sent the Mess waiter to search me out and bring me to heel.
The Mess 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, because he, too, was an Indian! It dawned on me that in actuality 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. 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 and the Mess Waiter how to serve 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 and the Mess Waiter 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. President, Mess Committee meant 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!
It was just before the 1971 War. I was the Adjutant of the unit, A very British type of a gentleman was commanding the unit.
The line communication (land line) 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 the moment when the Sitrep was being passed. 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 was not naturally in the best of spirits.
The CO found that I had not come for breakfast. He was outraged.
He sent the Mess waiter to search me out and bring me to heel.
The Mess 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, because he, too, was an Indian! It dawned on me that in actuality 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. 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 and the Mess Waiter how to serve 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 and the Mess Waiter 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. President, Mess Committee meant 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!
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THE HUKAH AT THE MESS
We were located in 'Operation D' in the High Altitude area.
Of course, it was not earth-shaking an experience. It was just that there was this daily unpredictable incessant, intense and unrelenting exchange of fierce shot and shell, especially in the hours when people elsewhere curl up with the warm hug of sundowners. It is nothing much really, except that one could make his Maker. Bookmakers would make a killing and it was but a daily lottery and that's all!!!!
Our Division's sector was sea of tranquillity. It was this place alone where we were that was the hot spot, if you did not count Siachen. Siachen: Those desolate waste, the land of Guns and Roses! Ours was equally desolate, heights were similar and it was horrifyingly stimulatingly exciting environs. It was also excitingly horrifying to helicopters in the vicinity.
They kept far from our location. This, however, did not deter all and sundry – the 'war tourists' in their pursuit of the 'been there, done that' rubber stamp! The only rider (caveat) being was that the war tourists, desired ringside vistas.......but from safe distances!
The intensity of firing reached the crescendo at night and the 'tourists' were gone by then!
The GOC was one who had to visit, not because he liked to be in the line of fire, but he was conscientious enough to do so in the line of duty. To be fair to him, he did visit even the forward most post, when the preceding unit was there, though on that occasion, he was wounded – not a battle casualty in its strict terms, but he could have claimed the Wound Medal, since it was a North Indian unit he was with. And we all know that the North Indians do mix up their 'W's with 'B's, like Bapas, for Wapas. And so 'Wound' would be pronounced as Bund. The said GOC had been injured while attending his morning ablution because of a jagged used fruit tin as there was no standard toilet at those places and was wounded in the you know where!
Of course, the GOC was not too pleased at the experience. Though he did not claim the Medal as the Citation would be too revealing, he did give a diktat that the 'quality of life' had to be improved. The improvement started when my battalion took over and there were Field Flush Latrines galore. It was in such abundance, that it did not matter even when one of them toppled under enemy fire with a boy still inside at the act!
The GOC was to visit us. To top it all, he was to have lunch. It was not that we were stingy and did not want to host the GOC; it was just that our Regimental Centre, then being commanded by a soldier Brigadier, thought that our unit required to be real battle hardened under strict combat conditions – and so he had posted out our Mess Cook, and to add insult to injury, also the masalchi (the condiment grinder man) to Ferozpur so that they exercised their culinary delights for a Brigade Commander! This left us at the mercy of Joe - who actually was borrowed lunger (troops' cookhouse) marvel. His name was not Joe. We called him so, to assuage our ego, and what could be better than a cook with an English name?! It also gave him the personality fillip, wherein the food was still of the 'lunger' class, but the English name ensured that his enthusiasm for dousing his culinary marvels with an overdose of condiments, though less on chilles to appear very officer like meal!
Under these circumstances, the Pakistanis were easy meat to challenge compared to hosting a lunch for the GOC. And as they say, a way to a man's heart was through his stomach, we decided this was the best weapon we had and our GOC was reputed to have an ample stomach!
When a GOC wants to break bread, it becomes more serious an operational problem than the Pakistanis peppering shots at random and into the blue. As is normal in the Army, when people are clueless, they hold a conference, and we were clueless how to organise this lunch! The Second in Command, true as rain, suggested a Conference and herded the officers of the Battalion HQs, namely, the Adjutant and the Quartermaster (QM), for their 'valuable' suggestions. I presided, being the Commanding Officer. And yes, forgive my memory relapse, to put the records straight, our post dog, William, also attended. He was an honorary member of our Mess, having the right as he consumed the major portion of Joe's culinary marvels that were actually unfit for human consumption!
It was decided that I was the best cook. My qualifications? I survived on extra messing of the lunger version of scrambled eggs – bujiya. Hence, not having tasted Joe's own, I was definitely the sole one who understood food as it was eaten in more respectable and congenial environments. The QM, rotund that he was, was selected as the masalchi, since he did not have the rank to outmatch me, and because he was a gourmand, living to eat and not eating to live!
The decision taken, the QM and I hotfooted it to the Officers Mess kitchen – an underground bunker, dark, damp, dismal and squalid! The Second in Command, the honorary Officers Mess Librarian since he controlled the finances, helpfully brought the book, 'Maharaja's Cooking' written by some minor Raja of Madhya Pradesh. Very apt title, but were we the 'cooking staff' up to it?
The pages of the Maharaja's were frantically turned. "Jungle Roast" appealed. It was the easiest and yet the most exotic! It was a capital idea, sirjee! The GOC having been feted at a surfeit in Messes, his palate could only be jiggled with surprises that separated the class from the crass! The recipe was simple. A hole in the ground, a chicken well marinated, wrapped in leaves, covered with wet mud and left to roast in a slow burning charcoal fire, turning it occasionally. Viola! But no, the problem was that we lived in stark surroundings and there were no trees and so there were no leaves. So, that was out.
More pages were furiously thumbed. Nothing seemed to click. Some condiment or the other was missing from our larder. No fault of ours either. We were not the ITC of MaJor Rehman nor the Taj or even being impoverished Mahrajas writing cookbooks to keep the home fires blazing and warm!
We were at our tethers end.
I took a calculated risk. I wanted to surprise ourselves and leave the GOC surprised and guessing as to what Fate deemed his way! And one cannot challenge Fate, can one? So to Fate we let the GOC stomach lie!
The masquerading mess cook Joe cut the chicken dexterously, he having been cautioned earlier that it had to be cut Officers mess style, where the chicken could be recognised to be so and not mistaken for crow.
We wanted the GOC to realise it was a chicken and not a crow. This was some feat too, since live chicken was a rarity in these parts where food came in tins, bottles, in dehydrated form and in pills that only the famished of Somalia could relish, notwithstanding the ASC's claim nothing fresh could be issued as everything shrivelled in the cold, including human beings. As if, someone had asked the ASC to supply human beings as Meat on Hoof, even if most in uniform were but sheep!
That chicken was cut the officers mess style. I attacked it with a fork stabbing wildly like a cadet attempting the 'Best Bayonet' at the National Defence Academy.
In the meantime, the QM, my honorary masalchi, pulverised the High Altitude rations of raisins, cashew, almonds and the works into a paste and stirred it into a bowl of milk powder turned curds. There being no chillies, he doused the mixture with Hongtu's Chinese Chilli Paste, a welcomed gift from an officer's wife on the Delhi – Hong Kong run of Air India! And then... into this goo..... we threw the Officers Mess style cut chickens to marinate for four hours!
The QM went into an overdrive with the remainder of the menu since the dal and the vegetables were no problem – the Maharaja's Cookbook proving quite adequate and the ingredients being available. Joe, remember him? - Our lunger turned officers mess cook? - He prepared the dessert, which in the Army, is known as the 'sweet dish'. It was some exotic stuff from where he hailed and was his Mum's favourite. We fervently hoped that the GOC and his Mother shared the same tastes!
The marinating done, the chicken was cooked over a slow fire on a slow burning charcoal fire and once done, it was declared ready to eat.
The main part of the battle done, we awaited the GOC.
He arrived on a mule, helicopters being no go in our area. I cannot vouch that he had a sore bottom, but he certain did not look pleased. He had made no secret that he did not like me too much ever since the Spotterscope demand incident (another story, some other time). But I will add the feeling was mutual.
Tea and small eats served, I launched into the Briefing. It had become hackneyed, having given it to all and sundry, be they VIPs or 'war tourists'. I could have given it with my eyes closed and as parrot like as Long John Silver's parrot saying "Pieces of Eight'! The GOC too had heard it many a time and so he flitted his head left to right and vice versa like some mountain bird from Salim Ali, the naturalist's, book! Both of us played out this charade to the hilt!
The Briefing over, the question hours was on. He looked at me as if he had suddenly discovered a worm emerging out of an apple! He blinked twice and rubbed it in, "Still hankering for that Spotterscope, what?" He chortled. "Carry on hankering. You will not get one!" He beamed having said it. As if I cared; I had already bought a Russian telescope from the moth eaten local market!
He had no question and somewhat relieved that the charade was over.
"Shall we have lunch", said the GOC.
A good point! After all, none expected him to go and man a machine gun and go on a pigeon shoot, even if it meant the Pakistanis.
We repaired for lunch.
While we waited with bated breath, he enjoyed every morsel! He was ecstatic over the chicken dish and went so far as to say, "The bird was fabulous". General classify all types of fowl as 'birds'. I believe it is classy to do so! I made it clear that though it was fowl (note the spelling and not the pronunciation), it was clearly was a chicken and not a crow by stating thus:
"Ah yes, sir, its from our poultry, fresh live chicken, prepared just for you!"
"My compliments to your cook and say, can I borrow him?
I will leave the borrowing of the cook episode for another time and instead move on with the story.
After the General had knocked off his 'sweet dish', I asked the General if I could smoke. He was not too fond of smoking.
It was my mess and not his and so he grudgingly waved his arm and said, "Burn yourself for all I care".
The good General had been needling me throughout the lunch and so I was seething.
I delivered the coup de grâce. The time had come for one to have a spine, even if he were only a CO!
I clapped my hands as if I were some Sheik for the Arab world.
The GOC beamed. He thought I applauded his smart repartee, as most CO did and do!
Clap done and in popped Andy, the lean and tall Jat soldier, all decked up for the occasion.
He carried a silver hookah (hubble bubble) perched on a red stain pillow with flowing tassels in gold colour.
He handed me the hookah, took the nozzle, gave it two puffs, changed the mouthpiece and extended the nozzle towards me.
With all solemnity and grace of a Guard Commander of a Presidential ceremonial guard, he saluted and exclaimed loud and clear – "Shariman, hookah taiyar" (Sir, your hubble bubble is ready).
The General jaws dropped, eyes popped and he was left unceremoniously gawking!
"Time to leave, I presume", the General squawked. It was Veni Vedi but not Vici!
He climbed the mule and went into the sunset as Lone Ranger does in Universal Pictures films!
We were located in 'Operation D' in the High Altitude area.
Of course, it was not earth-shaking an experience. It was just that there was this daily unpredictable incessant, intense and unrelenting exchange of fierce shot and shell, especially in the hours when people elsewhere curl up with the warm hug of sundowners. It is nothing much really, except that one could make his Maker. Bookmakers would make a killing and it was but a daily lottery and that's all!!!!
Our Division's sector was sea of tranquillity. It was this place alone where we were that was the hot spot, if you did not count Siachen. Siachen: Those desolate waste, the land of Guns and Roses! Ours was equally desolate, heights were similar and it was horrifyingly stimulatingly exciting environs. It was also excitingly horrifying to helicopters in the vicinity.
They kept far from our location. This, however, did not deter all and sundry – the 'war tourists' in their pursuit of the 'been there, done that' rubber stamp! The only rider (caveat) being was that the war tourists, desired ringside vistas.......but from safe distances!
The intensity of firing reached the crescendo at night and the 'tourists' were gone by then!
The GOC was one who had to visit, not because he liked to be in the line of fire, but he was conscientious enough to do so in the line of duty. To be fair to him, he did visit even the forward most post, when the preceding unit was there, though on that occasion, he was wounded – not a battle casualty in its strict terms, but he could have claimed the Wound Medal, since it was a North Indian unit he was with. And we all know that the North Indians do mix up their 'W's with 'B's, like Bapas, for Wapas. And so 'Wound' would be pronounced as Bund. The said GOC had been injured while attending his morning ablution because of a jagged used fruit tin as there was no standard toilet at those places and was wounded in the you know where!
Of course, the GOC was not too pleased at the experience. Though he did not claim the Medal as the Citation would be too revealing, he did give a diktat that the 'quality of life' had to be improved. The improvement started when my battalion took over and there were Field Flush Latrines galore. It was in such abundance, that it did not matter even when one of them toppled under enemy fire with a boy still inside at the act!
The GOC was to visit us. To top it all, he was to have lunch. It was not that we were stingy and did not want to host the GOC; it was just that our Regimental Centre, then being commanded by a soldier Brigadier, thought that our unit required to be real battle hardened under strict combat conditions – and so he had posted out our Mess Cook, and to add insult to injury, also the masalchi (the condiment grinder man) to Ferozpur so that they exercised their culinary delights for a Brigade Commander! This left us at the mercy of Joe - who actually was borrowed lunger (troops' cookhouse) marvel. His name was not Joe. We called him so, to assuage our ego, and what could be better than a cook with an English name?! It also gave him the personality fillip, wherein the food was still of the 'lunger' class, but the English name ensured that his enthusiasm for dousing his culinary marvels with an overdose of condiments, though less on chilles to appear very officer like meal!
Under these circumstances, the Pakistanis were easy meat to challenge compared to hosting a lunch for the GOC. And as they say, a way to a man's heart was through his stomach, we decided this was the best weapon we had and our GOC was reputed to have an ample stomach!
When a GOC wants to break bread, it becomes more serious an operational problem than the Pakistanis peppering shots at random and into the blue. As is normal in the Army, when people are clueless, they hold a conference, and we were clueless how to organise this lunch! The Second in Command, true as rain, suggested a Conference and herded the officers of the Battalion HQs, namely, the Adjutant and the Quartermaster (QM), for their 'valuable' suggestions. I presided, being the Commanding Officer. And yes, forgive my memory relapse, to put the records straight, our post dog, William, also attended. He was an honorary member of our Mess, having the right as he consumed the major portion of Joe's culinary marvels that were actually unfit for human consumption!
It was decided that I was the best cook. My qualifications? I survived on extra messing of the lunger version of scrambled eggs – bujiya. Hence, not having tasted Joe's own, I was definitely the sole one who understood food as it was eaten in more respectable and congenial environments. The QM, rotund that he was, was selected as the masalchi, since he did not have the rank to outmatch me, and because he was a gourmand, living to eat and not eating to live!
The decision taken, the QM and I hotfooted it to the Officers Mess kitchen – an underground bunker, dark, damp, dismal and squalid! The Second in Command, the honorary Officers Mess Librarian since he controlled the finances, helpfully brought the book, 'Maharaja's Cooking' written by some minor Raja of Madhya Pradesh. Very apt title, but were we the 'cooking staff' up to it?
The pages of the Maharaja's were frantically turned. "Jungle Roast" appealed. It was the easiest and yet the most exotic! It was a capital idea, sirjee! The GOC having been feted at a surfeit in Messes, his palate could only be jiggled with surprises that separated the class from the crass! The recipe was simple. A hole in the ground, a chicken well marinated, wrapped in leaves, covered with wet mud and left to roast in a slow burning charcoal fire, turning it occasionally. Viola! But no, the problem was that we lived in stark surroundings and there were no trees and so there were no leaves. So, that was out.
More pages were furiously thumbed. Nothing seemed to click. Some condiment or the other was missing from our larder. No fault of ours either. We were not the ITC of MaJor Rehman nor the Taj or even being impoverished Mahrajas writing cookbooks to keep the home fires blazing and warm!
We were at our tethers end.
I took a calculated risk. I wanted to surprise ourselves and leave the GOC surprised and guessing as to what Fate deemed his way! And one cannot challenge Fate, can one? So to Fate we let the GOC stomach lie!
The masquerading mess cook Joe cut the chicken dexterously, he having been cautioned earlier that it had to be cut Officers mess style, where the chicken could be recognised to be so and not mistaken for crow.
We wanted the GOC to realise it was a chicken and not a crow. This was some feat too, since live chicken was a rarity in these parts where food came in tins, bottles, in dehydrated form and in pills that only the famished of Somalia could relish, notwithstanding the ASC's claim nothing fresh could be issued as everything shrivelled in the cold, including human beings. As if, someone had asked the ASC to supply human beings as Meat on Hoof, even if most in uniform were but sheep!
That chicken was cut the officers mess style. I attacked it with a fork stabbing wildly like a cadet attempting the 'Best Bayonet' at the National Defence Academy.
In the meantime, the QM, my honorary masalchi, pulverised the High Altitude rations of raisins, cashew, almonds and the works into a paste and stirred it into a bowl of milk powder turned curds. There being no chillies, he doused the mixture with Hongtu's Chinese Chilli Paste, a welcomed gift from an officer's wife on the Delhi – Hong Kong run of Air India! And then... into this goo..... we threw the Officers Mess style cut chickens to marinate for four hours!
The QM went into an overdrive with the remainder of the menu since the dal and the vegetables were no problem – the Maharaja's Cookbook proving quite adequate and the ingredients being available. Joe, remember him? - Our lunger turned officers mess cook? - He prepared the dessert, which in the Army, is known as the 'sweet dish'. It was some exotic stuff from where he hailed and was his Mum's favourite. We fervently hoped that the GOC and his Mother shared the same tastes!
The marinating done, the chicken was cooked over a slow fire on a slow burning charcoal fire and once done, it was declared ready to eat.
The main part of the battle done, we awaited the GOC.
He arrived on a mule, helicopters being no go in our area. I cannot vouch that he had a sore bottom, but he certain did not look pleased. He had made no secret that he did not like me too much ever since the Spotterscope demand incident (another story, some other time). But I will add the feeling was mutual.
Tea and small eats served, I launched into the Briefing. It had become hackneyed, having given it to all and sundry, be they VIPs or 'war tourists'. I could have given it with my eyes closed and as parrot like as Long John Silver's parrot saying "Pieces of Eight'! The GOC too had heard it many a time and so he flitted his head left to right and vice versa like some mountain bird from Salim Ali, the naturalist's, book! Both of us played out this charade to the hilt!
The Briefing over, the question hours was on. He looked at me as if he had suddenly discovered a worm emerging out of an apple! He blinked twice and rubbed it in, "Still hankering for that Spotterscope, what?" He chortled. "Carry on hankering. You will not get one!" He beamed having said it. As if I cared; I had already bought a Russian telescope from the moth eaten local market!
He had no question and somewhat relieved that the charade was over.
"Shall we have lunch", said the GOC.
A good point! After all, none expected him to go and man a machine gun and go on a pigeon shoot, even if it meant the Pakistanis.
We repaired for lunch.
While we waited with bated breath, he enjoyed every morsel! He was ecstatic over the chicken dish and went so far as to say, "The bird was fabulous". General classify all types of fowl as 'birds'. I believe it is classy to do so! I made it clear that though it was fowl (note the spelling and not the pronunciation), it was clearly was a chicken and not a crow by stating thus:
"Ah yes, sir, its from our poultry, fresh live chicken, prepared just for you!"
"My compliments to your cook and say, can I borrow him?
I will leave the borrowing of the cook episode for another time and instead move on with the story.
After the General had knocked off his 'sweet dish', I asked the General if I could smoke. He was not too fond of smoking.
It was my mess and not his and so he grudgingly waved his arm and said, "Burn yourself for all I care".
The good General had been needling me throughout the lunch and so I was seething.
I delivered the coup de grâce. The time had come for one to have a spine, even if he were only a CO!
I clapped my hands as if I were some Sheik for the Arab world.
The GOC beamed. He thought I applauded his smart repartee, as most CO did and do!
Clap done and in popped Andy, the lean and tall Jat soldier, all decked up for the occasion.
He carried a silver hookah (hubble bubble) perched on a red stain pillow with flowing tassels in gold colour.
He handed me the hookah, took the nozzle, gave it two puffs, changed the mouthpiece and extended the nozzle towards me.
With all solemnity and grace of a Guard Commander of a Presidential ceremonial guard, he saluted and exclaimed loud and clear – "Shariman, hookah taiyar" (Sir, your hubble bubble is ready).
The General jaws dropped, eyes popped and he was left unceremoniously gawking!
"Time to leave, I presume", the General squawked. It was Veni Vedi but not Vici!
He climbed the mule and went into the sunset as Lone Ranger does in Universal Pictures films!
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BLADDER BEDLAM
This is about the interesting 'chemistry' between Major J, Brigadier N [my Boss] and the human Bladder.
It happened in Ferozpur, a one-horse frontier dusty town in the Punjab. The period was in the late 1980s.
Major J was one of my Company Commanders. He was massive, fat and immensely swarthy. Shakespeare's Othello, near bred to the burnished sun, was fairer in complexion.
Major J had a fetish for wearing things in Black. This may have been a fallout from his days in the ranks {Sepoy} when possibly he did not have time to wash his clothes and it was practical to wear black; black rarely looked dirty. The Tamil politicians, who wore dark glasses ['cooling glasses' as they call them in the South] even at night, could have also influenced his fetish for black. He was also known as the 'Midnight Cowboy' by the irreverent.
On the other hand, Brigadier N, the Brigade Commander, was a polished person, but a trifle officious and highly conscious of his rank and station. Notwithstanding his polish, he was still nonetheless, a 'true blue' from the Land of the Five Rivers!
I had just recently taken over the Battalion and I was totally at sea. I had come from a 'pure' Mahar [one class Maharastrian composition] unit while the unit I was commanding was an All India mix. The ethos obviously was different. My new unit did not do anything in half measures. Everything here gave the impression that the Moguls were back in business. Providentially, the harems were not.
Brigadier N enjoyed parties and if his social rota was unoccupied, gentle hints by his staff ensured that the evening became 'occupied'. One such evening was organised by my unit. I really do not know the reasons why it was organised, but then the President Mess Committee {PMC} must have had his ears to the ground and so he played by the nose! I was still finding my feet in the Battalion and did not want to upset the 'style' of the unit. The army man management pamphlet had wisely advised us to 'Take it Easy and look Busy'!
N, I was informed, liked good food, exquisite liquor and rather expensive though 'light in tar' imported cigarettes. I was 'educated' by the PMC that such delicacies were always available with the unit and the Mess and that the unit was trained to 'know their onions'. He added that as per the traditions of the unit, COs {Commanding Officers} were never bothered with the mundane; one of the 'mundane' issues being when parties are to be organised. The CO was expected to merely arrive and 'grace' such occasions!
Since I was never to be bothered with the mundane and instead had to only 'grace' such occasions, I decided to be just another guest. In my previous unit, the CO was not just a ceremonious figure. Although I wasn't too happy, it was too early to enforce my views.
I was living in a room adjacent to the Mess as my wife had not yet joined me. To be in time for the Party was no great shakes. The dress code was to be 'Shirt and Tie' [trousers were assumed to be worn] and the time given was 7.30 PM . I was in a position to saunter in, just before the brigadier arrived and simply 'grace' the mundane, such as the arrival of the Brigadier!
I got ready and considering that I had time to kill, I was halfway through a whisky in my room, when the Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant SP Singh arrived to inform me that the Brigadier had just left his residence and would be at the Mess in exactly three minutes! This was interesting. Such was the 'taped up' drill of the unit that a minute-to-minute progress of persons who mattered was always available! I thanked him and as casually as I could, I walked out of my room. SP Singh followed in my wake with the deference of a tug in the wake of QE II entering the New York harbour.
As I walked out, I saw the red dome light of the Brigadier's vehicle flashing on the roof as it passed along the wall of the Mess. The car entered the gate. I took up my position as nonchalantly as I could, to receive the guest. I tried to remain cool as a cucumber since it was but the mundane that I was experiencing, namely receiving my Boss! This, in any walk of life, would have been an important matter of protocol, but in this unit, it was mundane!
The MP {Military Police} opened the car door and the Brigadier's bulk descended on the porch, beaming from cheek to cheek in a most controlled, though uppity manner, of contrived bonhomie.
The party was organised both in the lawns and in the Mess. I would have preferred the lawns since Ferozpur could be very stuffy in summer. I reckon the Brigadier preferred the better-lit anteroom, perhaps to make sure that he was being served whisky that had been matured in oak in bonny old Scotland - the traditional offering that he was used to being proffered at parties in homage and tribute. Since he did not offer the same at home, I realised that this was not his preference under the domestic portals. I wanted to make him 'feel at home' especially since the Officers' Mess is supposed to be a 'home'. So, I instructed the PMC [much against his counsel that it was tantamount to sacrilege] to offer a good old Indian whisky, preferably Peter Scot, which in those days was considered a premium whisky.
This must have got the Brigadier's goat. To be fair, he never insisted on Scotch. Nonetheless, with the first sip, he made a face as if he were choking on cyanide! His lips had become so contorted that it seemed a swig of Tik 20 [a cockroach killing pesticide] might have elicited a more pleasant reaction.
"Interesting whisky", said good man. It appeared that he had no intentions to take that horrible grimace off his rather huge jowled double chinned face. Possibly, he felt that sewerage gulch had been served. He wore a look as if he was waiting anxiously for a slow death or something equally horrible and painful to strike him.
I cared to ignore the Brigadier's curled lips and contracted stomach. I was in no temperament to use the magic antidote i.e. Scotch on the rocks or on salt petre, if you wish or whatever.
"Ah, yes sir. Jolly interesting. It is Peter Scot and I am told that it is the best Indian whisky. One must try the Indian stuff. Be Indian, Buy Indian and all that. Keeps the national economy in fit shape. What ho, sir?" said I, with a straight face. In fact, I was pleased with myself for having invoked the Nation to my rescue. It always worked. Army blokes may be odd fishes, but their loyalty to the Nation could not be contested.
"Yep". He had this penchant for Americanism. "Is the Nation having some hassles?" he asked. As though he could do anything about it on the measly pay we got!
"Fledging economy. Third World and all that. Things can always get better. All of us have to tighten our belts, sir" was my reply as if I were an MP {Member of Parliament and not Military Police} speaking to the media. Vague stuff, but very hard to dispute.
The waiter arrived as if on cue. A '555' or maybe it was a 'B&H' cigarette that was offered to the good man. Whatever it was, it brought some cheer and untwisted, to some extent, the huge body till then convulsing in 'excruciating pain'. The '555' sop must have convinced him imagine that I genuinely wanted him to try Indian whisky to shore up the national economy. Fortunately for me, he, as a rule, did not read the newspapers enough in detail to know if the economy was in dire straits or not.
Alcohol is a great social leveller. With the dosage being imbibed, the party got happier by the hour. All, including the Brigadier, appeared to be enjoying themselves.
Then, suddenly the lights went out! Whether it was load shedding or an electrical short circuit, one does not know.
Coincidentally, the band was playing the song, 'The lights went out in Massachusetts'. I thought this was another of the deliberate mundane acts that I was not supposed to be bothered with. The gimmicks were getting my goat since it was contrary to the way I had been groomed in the Army.
SP Singh came into view on cue. 'The Ferozpur electricity has failed', he whispered in his sombre best.
There was a controlled pandemonium. Some officers 'unobtrusively' rushed to get the standby generator started. Others were generally taking it easy but looking busy, taking full advantage of the ensuing darkness to be their actual self, except when they spotted me, their Commanding Officer, in their vicinity.
Those in the lawn had moved in since some candles had been lit within the Mess.
I gravitated towards the veranda with the fervent, though irrational hope, that by moving out I could somehow 'will' the generator into operation.
Suddenly there was a yelp, the tenor being more of astonishment than hurt. It came from the far corner of the lawn, where there was a large mango tree. In the darkness, I could vaguely discern that something large had fallen on the lawn.
I hotfooted towards this site to investigate.
The Brigadier and Major J lay sprawled on the lawn.
It transpired that the Brigadier tried to take advantage of the dark and use the lawn as a public toilet. Being immensely full of bladder, he took the easy way out, rather than grope in the dark for the toilet. Swift in his pursuit for instant relief and determined to find the 'corner' and possibly a trifle disconcerted by this illegal methodology for relief, he must have been less than aware of his surroundings. Thus, there was this immense collision with the gigantic Major J, to lie crumpled in the horizontal on the lawn with all his blubber bouncing in mighty glee!
J had been 'invisible' to the bladder crazed Brigadier because of his natural hue [those repeated dabs of powder were in vain] and his Zorro outfit!
The Brigadier was 'mighty' angry obviously having been 'caught in the act'.
So, because J was in black, I felt blue the next day, when I was summoned to the Brigadier's office!
This is about the interesting 'chemistry' between Major J, Brigadier N [my Boss] and the human Bladder.
It happened in Ferozpur, a one-horse frontier dusty town in the Punjab. The period was in the late 1980s.
Major J was one of my Company Commanders. He was massive, fat and immensely swarthy. Shakespeare's Othello, near bred to the burnished sun, was fairer in complexion.
Major J had a fetish for wearing things in Black. This may have been a fallout from his days in the ranks {Sepoy} when possibly he did not have time to wash his clothes and it was practical to wear black; black rarely looked dirty. The Tamil politicians, who wore dark glasses ['cooling glasses' as they call them in the South] even at night, could have also influenced his fetish for black. He was also known as the 'Midnight Cowboy' by the irreverent.
On the other hand, Brigadier N, the Brigade Commander, was a polished person, but a trifle officious and highly conscious of his rank and station. Notwithstanding his polish, he was still nonetheless, a 'true blue' from the Land of the Five Rivers!
I had just recently taken over the Battalion and I was totally at sea. I had come from a 'pure' Mahar [one class Maharastrian composition] unit while the unit I was commanding was an All India mix. The ethos obviously was different. My new unit did not do anything in half measures. Everything here gave the impression that the Moguls were back in business. Providentially, the harems were not.
Brigadier N enjoyed parties and if his social rota was unoccupied, gentle hints by his staff ensured that the evening became 'occupied'. One such evening was organised by my unit. I really do not know the reasons why it was organised, but then the President Mess Committee {PMC} must have had his ears to the ground and so he played by the nose! I was still finding my feet in the Battalion and did not want to upset the 'style' of the unit. The army man management pamphlet had wisely advised us to 'Take it Easy and look Busy'!
N, I was informed, liked good food, exquisite liquor and rather expensive though 'light in tar' imported cigarettes. I was 'educated' by the PMC that such delicacies were always available with the unit and the Mess and that the unit was trained to 'know their onions'. He added that as per the traditions of the unit, COs {Commanding Officers} were never bothered with the mundane; one of the 'mundane' issues being when parties are to be organised. The CO was expected to merely arrive and 'grace' such occasions!
Since I was never to be bothered with the mundane and instead had to only 'grace' such occasions, I decided to be just another guest. In my previous unit, the CO was not just a ceremonious figure. Although I wasn't too happy, it was too early to enforce my views.
I was living in a room adjacent to the Mess as my wife had not yet joined me. To be in time for the Party was no great shakes. The dress code was to be 'Shirt and Tie' [trousers were assumed to be worn] and the time given was 7.30 PM . I was in a position to saunter in, just before the brigadier arrived and simply 'grace' the mundane, such as the arrival of the Brigadier!
I got ready and considering that I had time to kill, I was halfway through a whisky in my room, when the Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant SP Singh arrived to inform me that the Brigadier had just left his residence and would be at the Mess in exactly three minutes! This was interesting. Such was the 'taped up' drill of the unit that a minute-to-minute progress of persons who mattered was always available! I thanked him and as casually as I could, I walked out of my room. SP Singh followed in my wake with the deference of a tug in the wake of QE II entering the New York harbour.
As I walked out, I saw the red dome light of the Brigadier's vehicle flashing on the roof as it passed along the wall of the Mess. The car entered the gate. I took up my position as nonchalantly as I could, to receive the guest. I tried to remain cool as a cucumber since it was but the mundane that I was experiencing, namely receiving my Boss! This, in any walk of life, would have been an important matter of protocol, but in this unit, it was mundane!
The MP {Military Police} opened the car door and the Brigadier's bulk descended on the porch, beaming from cheek to cheek in a most controlled, though uppity manner, of contrived bonhomie.
The party was organised both in the lawns and in the Mess. I would have preferred the lawns since Ferozpur could be very stuffy in summer. I reckon the Brigadier preferred the better-lit anteroom, perhaps to make sure that he was being served whisky that had been matured in oak in bonny old Scotland - the traditional offering that he was used to being proffered at parties in homage and tribute. Since he did not offer the same at home, I realised that this was not his preference under the domestic portals. I wanted to make him 'feel at home' especially since the Officers' Mess is supposed to be a 'home'. So, I instructed the PMC [much against his counsel that it was tantamount to sacrilege] to offer a good old Indian whisky, preferably Peter Scot, which in those days was considered a premium whisky.
This must have got the Brigadier's goat. To be fair, he never insisted on Scotch. Nonetheless, with the first sip, he made a face as if he were choking on cyanide! His lips had become so contorted that it seemed a swig of Tik 20 [a cockroach killing pesticide] might have elicited a more pleasant reaction.
"Interesting whisky", said good man. It appeared that he had no intentions to take that horrible grimace off his rather huge jowled double chinned face. Possibly, he felt that sewerage gulch had been served. He wore a look as if he was waiting anxiously for a slow death or something equally horrible and painful to strike him.
I cared to ignore the Brigadier's curled lips and contracted stomach. I was in no temperament to use the magic antidote i.e. Scotch on the rocks or on salt petre, if you wish or whatever.
"Ah, yes sir. Jolly interesting. It is Peter Scot and I am told that it is the best Indian whisky. One must try the Indian stuff. Be Indian, Buy Indian and all that. Keeps the national economy in fit shape. What ho, sir?" said I, with a straight face. In fact, I was pleased with myself for having invoked the Nation to my rescue. It always worked. Army blokes may be odd fishes, but their loyalty to the Nation could not be contested.
"Yep". He had this penchant for Americanism. "Is the Nation having some hassles?" he asked. As though he could do anything about it on the measly pay we got!
"Fledging economy. Third World and all that. Things can always get better. All of us have to tighten our belts, sir" was my reply as if I were an MP {Member of Parliament and not Military Police} speaking to the media. Vague stuff, but very hard to dispute.
The waiter arrived as if on cue. A '555' or maybe it was a 'B&H' cigarette that was offered to the good man. Whatever it was, it brought some cheer and untwisted, to some extent, the huge body till then convulsing in 'excruciating pain'. The '555' sop must have convinced him imagine that I genuinely wanted him to try Indian whisky to shore up the national economy. Fortunately for me, he, as a rule, did not read the newspapers enough in detail to know if the economy was in dire straits or not.
Alcohol is a great social leveller. With the dosage being imbibed, the party got happier by the hour. All, including the Brigadier, appeared to be enjoying themselves.
Then, suddenly the lights went out! Whether it was load shedding or an electrical short circuit, one does not know.
Coincidentally, the band was playing the song, 'The lights went out in Massachusetts'. I thought this was another of the deliberate mundane acts that I was not supposed to be bothered with. The gimmicks were getting my goat since it was contrary to the way I had been groomed in the Army.
SP Singh came into view on cue. 'The Ferozpur electricity has failed', he whispered in his sombre best.
There was a controlled pandemonium. Some officers 'unobtrusively' rushed to get the standby generator started. Others were generally taking it easy but looking busy, taking full advantage of the ensuing darkness to be their actual self, except when they spotted me, their Commanding Officer, in their vicinity.
Those in the lawn had moved in since some candles had been lit within the Mess.
I gravitated towards the veranda with the fervent, though irrational hope, that by moving out I could somehow 'will' the generator into operation.
Suddenly there was a yelp, the tenor being more of astonishment than hurt. It came from the far corner of the lawn, where there was a large mango tree. In the darkness, I could vaguely discern that something large had fallen on the lawn.
I hotfooted towards this site to investigate.
The Brigadier and Major J lay sprawled on the lawn.
It transpired that the Brigadier tried to take advantage of the dark and use the lawn as a public toilet. Being immensely full of bladder, he took the easy way out, rather than grope in the dark for the toilet. Swift in his pursuit for instant relief and determined to find the 'corner' and possibly a trifle disconcerted by this illegal methodology for relief, he must have been less than aware of his surroundings. Thus, there was this immense collision with the gigantic Major J, to lie crumpled in the horizontal on the lawn with all his blubber bouncing in mighty glee!
J had been 'invisible' to the bladder crazed Brigadier because of his natural hue [those repeated dabs of powder were in vain] and his Zorro outfit!
The Brigadier was 'mighty' angry obviously having been 'caught in the act'.
So, because J was in black, I felt blue the next day, when I was summoned to the Brigadier's office!
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COLONEL RUM AND SODA AND THE MORNING PRAYER
I was an instructor in the Junior Command Wing at the premier military institution, College of Combat. The irreverent used to call it College of Kambakht [Hopeless]. I always wondered whom they meant by kambakht – the students or the instructors? I think it is wise to leave the interpretation a rahasya [mystery].
The JC Wing, as the faculty was popularly known, imparted instructions to officers of the rank of Majors in the command of Companies and its equivalent of other Arms and Services in various operations of war. Since the Wing taught the employment of the complete array of organisations, the instructors were drawn from all Arms and Services i.e. Infantry, Armoured Corps, Artillery, Engineers, Signals and so on. It was a real mixed bag and was most educative, not only for students, but also for instructors. I was the rare Lieutenant Colonel instructor amongst Colonels. However, there was no rank pulling since in the Wing we had what is known as 'protocol' seniority i.e. he who came to the Wing earlier was 'senior'. JC Wing instructors were also known as the Soviets! Since there was no seniority, I reckon the alluding to the Communist policy making conglomerate was apt.
To ensure the standardisation of training, every morning we had what was known as the 'morning prayer'. During these sessions before classes, the Basic DS (Directing Staff) enunciated the modus operandi of how the lesson had to be conducted as also amplified the 'pinks' [the officially approved Lesson Plan]. It also assisted the instructors to clarify doubts they might have had, if there were any. This was done for each subject for the day.
One-upmanship before their seniors is natural where peers congregate. Hence, the tendency to 'impress' the Commander [head of the JC Wing] with nuggets gleaned from foreign pamphlets which could be termed 'future trends' was not unnatural. These 'future trends' were most exasperating and time wasting since much of it, though educative, was more for effect..
The Morning Prayers were presided over by Brigadier C, the Commander JC Wing and everyone's boss. I had served with him earlier in Hyderabad. He was a most unusual Army Officer. He chewed pan [betel leaf] which was a taboo as per the British traditions the Indian Army followed. Notwithstanding, I used to fascinate myself watching Brigadier C during the Morning Prayers and hoping like hell that the red dribble of pan would come out embarrassingly like Kishore Kumar in film Padosan. His pan chewing activities made the dull Morning Prayers a trifle interesting.
Amongst the instructor was Colonel Raman Choda. He was an Artillery Aviator. He was a nice man, too. In fact, when I was new to the JC Wing and I had to take the class on Artillery Fire Planning [the 'inside' technicalities of which I knew very little], he helped me out. However, I was always shy of pronouncing his name since, as a Bengali, I could not pronounce the name correctly. Instead, my pronunciation emerged as something immensely embarrassing in Hindi, akin to sexual activity. Therefore, I would just call him 'Colonel' and look at him whenever I wanted his attention or speak to him. This equation was going fine.
Colonel Raman Choda physically was very fair, small and a slightly built man with a fairly weather beaten face. He was much older than most of us. He liked his drinks. It was a talking point amongst us. His favourite drink was Rum. Interestingly, his pose on the bar was also interesting. He would rest his head on the Bar Counter or keep his head real low, just over the rim of the glass. It was not that he was in his cups; it was just his style.
To get back to the story.
There was this day when we were at the Morning Prayer and one of the subjects was Air Observation Post Units and its role in the Operations of War. Johnny Gautam was the Basic DS.
Colonel Raman Choda did not relish that Johnny Gautam was the Basic DS on Aviation. He was the senior aviator and thought this lesson was his birthright. Thus, he kept on interrupting with questions that were of no use to general interest and were instead purely technical, applicable not to field commanders but to aviators alone.
While this was going on, the other Basic DS' who also had to amplify their subjects were looking at their watches and were getting impatient. Brigadier C was an instructor who had seen many a summer. He calmly sat chewing his pan sitting at the head of the room looking on amusedly at the 'game'.
I was amongst the junior most instructors in rank. I was known as a prankster who could organise a practical joke anytime and anywhere like Parvez Musharraf wanting to talk to India anytime and anywhere. I could not help playing pranks since it was immensely dull amongst these fuddy duddies. The negative side was that I was also famous for dropping bricks. My value was most appreciated by others when they wanted to disrupt anything that was getting boring.
This Morning Prayer was getting boring and so many an appealing faces veered in my direction. Being a soldier, I realised that I had to sacrifice myself for the sake of the country.
Everyone knew that Colonel Choda loved his rum. The 'intellectual' discussion was still on very stridently between Colonel Choda and Colonel Johnny Gautam with Brigadier C chewing his pan like a contended bovine in an English pasture. He had his chin in his hand and one eye closed in total concentration.
The Colonels were trying to explain to each other the aviation technicalities involved in the 'Nap of the Earth' flying techniques. The interpretation of the US Field Manual [none had one, amusingly] and the Indian aviators' appeared to be different. In actuality it mattered not since the Indian aviation safety rules were so strict that let alone flying Nap of the Earth, the fact that they were allowed to take off was a feat in itself!
By this time I was also immensely bored.
Theatrically and loudly I cleared my throat and said, "Now, Now, Colonel Rum and Soda". It must be remembered I could not pronounce his name without sounding obscene and so this was the nearest I could get without pronouncing something obscene. "Since you are so well conversant with US aviation techniques, do tell us what you did when you were with them in Vietnam so that I can authentically tell the class of the superior techniques of the US Aviation or were you with the Marines?"
There was a pin drop silence.
Raman Choda was furious. He forgot that Brigadier C was still in the Chair. "Now listen here, you punk, what do you mean by Colonel Rum and Soda? I am Raman Choda. Do you get me? " The silence was very loud. Then everybody broke into titters. Brigadier C choked on his pan or was it a ploy to not interfere and watch the fun go on. He had a funny bone anyway.
"Sorry, sir, I can't pronounce your name and it comes out as Rum and Soda. Notwithstanding, I get you" I said with feigned and hurt sincerity.
"And anyway your name is no better" he said triumphantly, "it is Chodri ", he yelled giving all the emphasis for where even a cretin required no interpretation.
Since the Morning Prayer had been wrecked, I thought it was worth my while to continue till the time ran out. "True sir, but it's not so explicit or is it?"
Johnny Gautam chimed in for the coup de grâce, "Choda, sir, what's in the name? At our age, it only remains a dream."
There was pandemonium. Everyone was on his feet and pretending to calm the three of us down! Just like the Indian Parliament, except that none of us, as yet, had a penal conviction to flaunt. Chairs also could not be flung, even if only to exercise our biceps.
Johnny turned to Brigadier C and said, "I have finished, sir" amidst the unending loud guffaws and the bell simultaneously rang"¦...The Morning Prayer was over.
Raman Choda menacingly approached Johnny and me. I scooted to avoid his wrath as other senior instructors held on to Raman cooing placating stuff that I was only but a youngster and that indeed being a Bengali it was better that I pronounced the way I did rather than make a mess of it – especially amongst ladies at our regular JC parties.
Since Raman Choda did not thrash me, then or thereafter, I reckon he heeded the advice. Or was he his usual magnanimous self?
.
I was an instructor in the Junior Command Wing at the premier military institution, College of Combat. The irreverent used to call it College of Kambakht [Hopeless]. I always wondered whom they meant by kambakht – the students or the instructors? I think it is wise to leave the interpretation a rahasya [mystery].
The JC Wing, as the faculty was popularly known, imparted instructions to officers of the rank of Majors in the command of Companies and its equivalent of other Arms and Services in various operations of war. Since the Wing taught the employment of the complete array of organisations, the instructors were drawn from all Arms and Services i.e. Infantry, Armoured Corps, Artillery, Engineers, Signals and so on. It was a real mixed bag and was most educative, not only for students, but also for instructors. I was the rare Lieutenant Colonel instructor amongst Colonels. However, there was no rank pulling since in the Wing we had what is known as 'protocol' seniority i.e. he who came to the Wing earlier was 'senior'. JC Wing instructors were also known as the Soviets! Since there was no seniority, I reckon the alluding to the Communist policy making conglomerate was apt.
To ensure the standardisation of training, every morning we had what was known as the 'morning prayer'. During these sessions before classes, the Basic DS (Directing Staff) enunciated the modus operandi of how the lesson had to be conducted as also amplified the 'pinks' [the officially approved Lesson Plan]. It also assisted the instructors to clarify doubts they might have had, if there were any. This was done for each subject for the day.
One-upmanship before their seniors is natural where peers congregate. Hence, the tendency to 'impress' the Commander [head of the JC Wing] with nuggets gleaned from foreign pamphlets which could be termed 'future trends' was not unnatural. These 'future trends' were most exasperating and time wasting since much of it, though educative, was more for effect..
The Morning Prayers were presided over by Brigadier C, the Commander JC Wing and everyone's boss. I had served with him earlier in Hyderabad. He was a most unusual Army Officer. He chewed pan [betel leaf] which was a taboo as per the British traditions the Indian Army followed. Notwithstanding, I used to fascinate myself watching Brigadier C during the Morning Prayers and hoping like hell that the red dribble of pan would come out embarrassingly like Kishore Kumar in film Padosan. His pan chewing activities made the dull Morning Prayers a trifle interesting.
Amongst the instructor was Colonel Raman Choda. He was an Artillery Aviator. He was a nice man, too. In fact, when I was new to the JC Wing and I had to take the class on Artillery Fire Planning [the 'inside' technicalities of which I knew very little], he helped me out. However, I was always shy of pronouncing his name since, as a Bengali, I could not pronounce the name correctly. Instead, my pronunciation emerged as something immensely embarrassing in Hindi, akin to sexual activity. Therefore, I would just call him 'Colonel' and look at him whenever I wanted his attention or speak to him. This equation was going fine.
Colonel Raman Choda physically was very fair, small and a slightly built man with a fairly weather beaten face. He was much older than most of us. He liked his drinks. It was a talking point amongst us. His favourite drink was Rum. Interestingly, his pose on the bar was also interesting. He would rest his head on the Bar Counter or keep his head real low, just over the rim of the glass. It was not that he was in his cups; it was just his style.
To get back to the story.
There was this day when we were at the Morning Prayer and one of the subjects was Air Observation Post Units and its role in the Operations of War. Johnny Gautam was the Basic DS.
Colonel Raman Choda did not relish that Johnny Gautam was the Basic DS on Aviation. He was the senior aviator and thought this lesson was his birthright. Thus, he kept on interrupting with questions that were of no use to general interest and were instead purely technical, applicable not to field commanders but to aviators alone.
While this was going on, the other Basic DS' who also had to amplify their subjects were looking at their watches and were getting impatient. Brigadier C was an instructor who had seen many a summer. He calmly sat chewing his pan sitting at the head of the room looking on amusedly at the 'game'.
I was amongst the junior most instructors in rank. I was known as a prankster who could organise a practical joke anytime and anywhere like Parvez Musharraf wanting to talk to India anytime and anywhere. I could not help playing pranks since it was immensely dull amongst these fuddy duddies. The negative side was that I was also famous for dropping bricks. My value was most appreciated by others when they wanted to disrupt anything that was getting boring.
This Morning Prayer was getting boring and so many an appealing faces veered in my direction. Being a soldier, I realised that I had to sacrifice myself for the sake of the country.
Everyone knew that Colonel Choda loved his rum. The 'intellectual' discussion was still on very stridently between Colonel Choda and Colonel Johnny Gautam with Brigadier C chewing his pan like a contended bovine in an English pasture. He had his chin in his hand and one eye closed in total concentration.
The Colonels were trying to explain to each other the aviation technicalities involved in the 'Nap of the Earth' flying techniques. The interpretation of the US Field Manual [none had one, amusingly] and the Indian aviators' appeared to be different. In actuality it mattered not since the Indian aviation safety rules were so strict that let alone flying Nap of the Earth, the fact that they were allowed to take off was a feat in itself!
By this time I was also immensely bored.
Theatrically and loudly I cleared my throat and said, "Now, Now, Colonel Rum and Soda". It must be remembered I could not pronounce his name without sounding obscene and so this was the nearest I could get without pronouncing something obscene. "Since you are so well conversant with US aviation techniques, do tell us what you did when you were with them in Vietnam so that I can authentically tell the class of the superior techniques of the US Aviation or were you with the Marines?"
There was a pin drop silence.
Raman Choda was furious. He forgot that Brigadier C was still in the Chair. "Now listen here, you punk, what do you mean by Colonel Rum and Soda? I am Raman Choda. Do you get me? " The silence was very loud. Then everybody broke into titters. Brigadier C choked on his pan or was it a ploy to not interfere and watch the fun go on. He had a funny bone anyway.
"Sorry, sir, I can't pronounce your name and it comes out as Rum and Soda. Notwithstanding, I get you" I said with feigned and hurt sincerity.
"And anyway your name is no better" he said triumphantly, "it is Chodri ", he yelled giving all the emphasis for where even a cretin required no interpretation.
Since the Morning Prayer had been wrecked, I thought it was worth my while to continue till the time ran out. "True sir, but it's not so explicit or is it?"
Johnny Gautam chimed in for the coup de grâce, "Choda, sir, what's in the name? At our age, it only remains a dream."
There was pandemonium. Everyone was on his feet and pretending to calm the three of us down! Just like the Indian Parliament, except that none of us, as yet, had a penal conviction to flaunt. Chairs also could not be flung, even if only to exercise our biceps.
Johnny turned to Brigadier C and said, "I have finished, sir" amidst the unending loud guffaws and the bell simultaneously rang"¦...The Morning Prayer was over.
Raman Choda menacingly approached Johnny and me. I scooted to avoid his wrath as other senior instructors held on to Raman cooing placating stuff that I was only but a youngster and that indeed being a Bengali it was better that I pronounced the way I did rather than make a mess of it – especially amongst ladies at our regular JC parties.
Since Raman Choda did not thrash me, then or thereafter, I reckon he heeded the advice. Or was he his usual magnanimous self?
.
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TAKE ME TO YOUR OFFICERS MESS
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 the society and yet the negative aspects of the society at large make its visitation as the cultural stock remains the same.
My unit ardently endorsed Darwin and performed like the Pavlovian dogs with their conditioned reflexes, when the change of command was taking place. The unfortunate aspect was that none could foresee who would finally survive and be supreme, even though Darwin's hypothesis was well taken!
Lieutenant Colonel KS, the 2IC {Second in Command} of another unit was replacing Lieutenant Colonel H, our Commanding Officer. Salutes to the Rising Sun ruled the day. I am not too sure if the Fading Sun sulked at this disproportionate attention profile. Such is Fate. Sceptre and Crown will finally tumble down!
Who were these gentlemen that it warrants attention?
One was responsible till now, and the successor would be responsible thereafter concerning the fate of the unit and more importantly the fate of the officers! Therefore, they had their value to the proceedings of the unit and the officers.
Lieutenant Colonel H, the one 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. 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.
Saintly or otherwise, he would, however, to be with the Jones, especially when senior officers graced our Mess, partake in water with lemon 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 spring to its original symmetry, curled at the rims like contented overfed Cobras.
On the other hand, Lieutenant Colonel KS was dissimilar. As dissimilar as chalk to cheese. KS 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.
KS was worldly wise and 'fancy' as we later discovered. He was Nirad C Chaudhuri to his bowler hat! He spoke with clipped curtness. There was a touch of the North Indian accent, yet 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' !! He would never be seen at the table without lightly starched damask napkin and he contemptuously rejected Indian Made Foreign Liquor as 'gutter water'.
KS was more at home with English and H with the vernacular. In fact, KS would have been more at home in England, while H would have taken like a duck to water in the pinds {villages}, preferably one from the Mand [a comparatively poor area of Punjab].
Our Battalion was a new raised battalion and this was our first 'peace station' at Allahabad. Being a new unit, we were poor as 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 was 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 Lieutenant Colonel H 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 of the pastoral fold. They were most uncomfortable with KS.
The rituals and ceremonies of handing and taking over done, we all went to 'see off' Lieutenant Colonel H 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 is that '2/Lieutenants were to 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 won the God given gift to accompany the CO, I could never discover, since it was a riot. These glimpses at the attempts to curry favour of 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, Lieutenant Colonel KS 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 naturally were 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 called B – an ideal mismatch. We, at that time, did not know KS and his tastes. It was expected that a North Indian would gorge earthy North Indian food supercharged with all the ghee available in the world!
KS'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 youngster had named it the 'eat to live' joint.
KS arrived. As he arrived, again there was this melee. 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. Lieutenant Colonel KS, 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.
KS walked measuredly 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 it 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. KS was acting as if he were King George V and the hurly burlies, the fawning natives. 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.!
Major M, 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 KS's stomach, his chin at the belt and looking pathetically upwards as if for forgiveness. Seeing this, Major S, a Company Commander, pretending to help Major M, plucked him off KS's lean stomach and practically threw him out like the WWF wrestlers do when they chuck the opponent off the ring.
"Sirjee, wealcaum" {Sir, Welcome}, Major S chirped breezily. He was as 'breezy' as the first swallow in Spring.
If looks could freeze, then KS's look could have frozen a full-blown sea turtle in the heat of summer in the Arabian Sea!
KS walked into the anteroom. He stopped abruptly. He rocked forward and then backward with his feet bolted as if afflicted with 'instant paralyses'. Some of the hurly burlies also rocked in unison as if this was a 'disco' bhangra and just to be 'with the KSs', so to say.
KS's gaze had rested on the cane chairs of the anteroom and on some paintings that were possibly the effort of the unit barber.
KS turned on his heels. He choked. Getting his breath back, he squawked, "Take me to your Officers' Mess".
Major S, the Officiating 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."
Turning on his heels, KS departed. The disgust of KS 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 KS's cultural shock!
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 the society and yet the negative aspects of the society at large make its visitation as the cultural stock remains the same.
My unit ardently endorsed Darwin and performed like the Pavlovian dogs with their conditioned reflexes, when the change of command was taking place. The unfortunate aspect was that none could foresee who would finally survive and be supreme, even though Darwin's hypothesis was well taken!
Lieutenant Colonel KS, the 2IC {Second in Command} of another unit was replacing Lieutenant Colonel H, our Commanding Officer. Salutes to the Rising Sun ruled the day. I am not too sure if the Fading Sun sulked at this disproportionate attention profile. Such is Fate. Sceptre and Crown will finally tumble down!
Who were these gentlemen that it warrants attention?
One was responsible till now, and the successor would be responsible thereafter concerning the fate of the unit and more importantly the fate of the officers! Therefore, they had their value to the proceedings of the unit and the officers.
Lieutenant Colonel H, the one 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. 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.
Saintly or otherwise, he would, however, to be with the Jones, especially when senior officers graced our Mess, partake in water with lemon 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 spring to its original symmetry, curled at the rims like contented overfed Cobras.
On the other hand, Lieutenant Colonel KS was dissimilar. As dissimilar as chalk to cheese. KS 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.
KS was worldly wise and 'fancy' as we later discovered. He was Nirad C Chaudhuri to his bowler hat! He spoke with clipped curtness. There was a touch of the North Indian accent, yet 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' !! He would never be seen at the table without lightly starched damask napkin and he contemptuously rejected Indian Made Foreign Liquor as 'gutter water'.
KS was more at home with English and H with the vernacular. In fact, KS would have been more at home in England, while H would have taken like a duck to water in the pinds {villages}, preferably one from the Mand [a comparatively poor area of Punjab].
Our Battalion was a new raised battalion and this was our first 'peace station' at Allahabad. Being a new unit, we were poor as 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 was 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 Lieutenant Colonel H 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 of the pastoral fold. They were most uncomfortable with KS.
The rituals and ceremonies of handing and taking over done, we all went to 'see off' Lieutenant Colonel H 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 is that '2/Lieutenants were to 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 won the God given gift to accompany the CO, I could never discover, since it was a riot. These glimpses at the attempts to curry favour of 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, Lieutenant Colonel KS 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 naturally were 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 called B – an ideal mismatch. We, at that time, did not know KS and his tastes. It was expected that a North Indian would gorge earthy North Indian food supercharged with all the ghee available in the world!
KS'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 youngster had named it the 'eat to live' joint.
KS arrived. As he arrived, again there was this melee. 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. Lieutenant Colonel KS, 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.
KS walked measuredly 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 it 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. KS was acting as if he were King George V and the hurly burlies, the fawning natives. 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.!
Major M, 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 KS's stomach, his chin at the belt and looking pathetically upwards as if for forgiveness. Seeing this, Major S, a Company Commander, pretending to help Major M, plucked him off KS's lean stomach and practically threw him out like the WWF wrestlers do when they chuck the opponent off the ring.
"Sirjee, wealcaum" {Sir, Welcome}, Major S chirped breezily. He was as 'breezy' as the first swallow in Spring.
If looks could freeze, then KS's look could have frozen a full-blown sea turtle in the heat of summer in the Arabian Sea!
KS walked into the anteroom. He stopped abruptly. He rocked forward and then backward with his feet bolted as if afflicted with 'instant paralyses'. Some of the hurly burlies also rocked in unison as if this was a 'disco' bhangra and just to be 'with the KSs', so to say.
KS's gaze had rested on the cane chairs of the anteroom and on some paintings that were possibly the effort of the unit barber.
KS turned on his heels. He choked. Getting his breath back, he squawked, "Take me to your Officers' Mess".
Major S, the Officiating 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."
Turning on his heels, KS departed. The disgust of KS 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 KS's cultural shock!
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So far the following stories have been put on this thread
Op Vijay and the Feathered Battle Casualty
Samne Dekh (Eyes Front)
THE MOVING MEDICAL MIRACLES
THE QUARTERMASTER AND THE BONDAS (Indian Savoury)
MY FIRST DAY IN THE NATIONAL DEFENCE ACADEMY THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON
MY FIRST DAY IN THE NDA GERMAN UNDERWEARS
FOREWORD
THE CORPS COMMANDER AND THE GASPING FISH
THE TELEPHONE AND THE WHORE
THE BLACKBEARD
BLADDER BEDLAM
MADHO AND THE BBC
WHO SAYS A ROSE IS NOT A ROSE AND ONE CAN CALL IT BY ANY NAME?
ALL HOLES OPEN
THE KNUCKLE DUSTER AND LONG KNIFE GENERAL
THE CADET AND THE POSTERIOR
GANAPATI, THE ELEPHANT GOD AND HANUMAN, THE MONKEY GOD
GENERAL P's NEPHEW
THE IMPORTANCE OF HAVING BREAKFAST
COLONEL K AND THE PARTRIDGE SHOOT
FICTION WRITERS
THE COLONEL, THE BATTALION HAVILDAR MAJOR AND THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT
THE COCK IS TOUGH
THE CLOCK RAY LANDMARK
TAKE ME TO YOUR OFFICERS MESS
THE GURKHA AND THE STAFF COLLEGE
I AM HAPPY, SIR
ONLY PLAYED THE DAMROO (Rattle to make monkeys dance)
THE FRENCH DELICACY, 'BURNTE MOUTTONE'
DISCIPLINED LOGIC
PAGAL KHALSA (The Crazy Sikh)
'BALLE, BALLE'
CAN YOU HEAR ME THERE?
THE HUKAH (Hubble Bubble)AT THE MESS
THE MIRACLE OF THE WIRELESS SET 31
AND THEN FELL THE RAIN!
THE FEAT OF GOD
COME AGAIN!
GIRLS FALL AT MY FEET
THE GOC's BOTTOM
AND THEN GREW APPLES IN MEERUT
THE FLORAL MAGIC
COLONEL RUM AND SODA AND THE MORNING PRAYER
Sorry some of them have been repeated since I don't visit the thread and so it happened.
My apolgies!
Op Vijay and the Feathered Battle Casualty
Samne Dekh (Eyes Front)
THE MOVING MEDICAL MIRACLES
THE QUARTERMASTER AND THE BONDAS (Indian Savoury)
MY FIRST DAY IN THE NATIONAL DEFENCE ACADEMY THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON
MY FIRST DAY IN THE NDA GERMAN UNDERWEARS
FOREWORD
THE CORPS COMMANDER AND THE GASPING FISH
THE TELEPHONE AND THE WHORE
THE BLACKBEARD
BLADDER BEDLAM
MADHO AND THE BBC
WHO SAYS A ROSE IS NOT A ROSE AND ONE CAN CALL IT BY ANY NAME?
ALL HOLES OPEN
THE KNUCKLE DUSTER AND LONG KNIFE GENERAL
THE CADET AND THE POSTERIOR
GANAPATI, THE ELEPHANT GOD AND HANUMAN, THE MONKEY GOD
GENERAL P's NEPHEW
THE IMPORTANCE OF HAVING BREAKFAST
COLONEL K AND THE PARTRIDGE SHOOT
FICTION WRITERS
THE COLONEL, THE BATTALION HAVILDAR MAJOR AND THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT
THE COCK IS TOUGH
THE CLOCK RAY LANDMARK
TAKE ME TO YOUR OFFICERS MESS
THE GURKHA AND THE STAFF COLLEGE
I AM HAPPY, SIR
ONLY PLAYED THE DAMROO (Rattle to make monkeys dance)
THE FRENCH DELICACY, 'BURNTE MOUTTONE'
DISCIPLINED LOGIC
PAGAL KHALSA (The Crazy Sikh)
'BALLE, BALLE'
CAN YOU HEAR ME THERE?
THE HUKAH (Hubble Bubble)AT THE MESS
THE MIRACLE OF THE WIRELESS SET 31
AND THEN FELL THE RAIN!
THE FEAT OF GOD
COME AGAIN!
GIRLS FALL AT MY FEET
THE GOC's BOTTOM
AND THEN GREW APPLES IN MEERUT
THE FLORAL MAGIC
COLONEL RUM AND SODA AND THE MORNING PRAYER
Sorry some of them have been repeated since I don't visit the thread and so it happened.
My apolgies!
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2009
- Messages
- 43,132
- Likes
- 23,835
THE SAFAIWALA
My battalion, after a stint in Operation Intrusion Dalunang in the Kargil High Altitude Sector had come down to Hyderabad in 1990. Obviously, the officers were rather keen to get married accommodation at the earliest. It took us about four months before we could get some accommodation in spite of having 'field seniority'.
We were lucky that we got the accommodation in four months, that too spanking new! We were in such a hurry that even before the contractor could clean up the rooms, we accepted in as they do in an 'as is where is' auction.
No matter how much our safaiwalas [janitors] had washed the floors of the dust and grime, they remained stacked with unending layers. I am not the one to give up and so the next Sunday, I got bare bodied and in a lungi [sarong] started washing the floor, ably assisted by my man Friday/
The orderly had swilled the floor of the drawing room with pails of water and had gone somewhere. I was mopping the floor with a long handled mop, when the door bell rang.
I went to the door and opened it. Outside, stood a person, who appeared to be an officer. I was not too pleased. It was a Sunday and whoever it was, should have telephoned me before coming. I would have at least got dressed appropriate for an officer, that too, a Commanding Officer.
Before I could say any thing, the officer most haughtily said in Hindi, "Sah'b ghar men hai? (Is the sahib at home?]"
I was dying to say, 'No'. I was a Commanding Officer [CO] and I was a bit surprised at the overbearing attitude from someone who looked a junior officer. I had forgotten that I was bare bodied and in a lungi.
Yet one cannot be rude. Therefore, I told him purposely in Hindi and not in English as one would have normally done, "Ap andar aiye [Please come in]".
The officer entered and was a trifle befuddled at finding the drawing room in a mess with chairs strewn all around and water over the floor. Obviously, such a shamble could not be a Commanding Officer's house.
Seeing his disorientation, I politely said in English, "Do sit down"'
"Kamaal ke baat. Agrezi bolta hai! Kya Yeh kia CO sah'b ke ghar? {Extraordinary. Talking in English! Is this the CO Sahib's house]", queried the officer of me, looking mostly sceptically around the room.
I was still oblivious that I was bare bodied and in a lungi. I always imagined that I had a personality which instantly indicated that I was a person of authority. Obviously, this person was just being obtuse and that too on a day when I had no time to poddlefake.
"Indeed, this is the CO's house and I am the CO", I said rather pompously, thinking that would put him in his place.
"Angrezi bolta hai?!! Kia bakwas, aj kal sab hi apne ap ko CO soch ta hai [Speaking in English?!! What tommy rot. These days, every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks he is the CO]."
That really shook me.
"No, I am the CO", I said in an insisting and defensive tone.
"Bakwas band karo. Apna aukat bholo nahin. Ajib ke baat hai ki safaiwala log aj kal apne apko CO soch rahe hai. [Don't talk rubbish. Don't forget you station. It's extraordinary that these days sweepers consider themselves as COs]"
The officer looked at his watch as if in a hurry and ordered me, "Andar jao aur memsah'b ko bola ke lao [Go inside and call the lady of the house]." It is then that I comprehended that I was bare bodied and in a lungi.
I realised that it was futile to argue with this officer and so I went inside and explained the situation to my wife.
My wife came out and introduced herself and then both of us sat, side by side, on the sofa, out of sheer habit.
The officer was thunderstruck! He gulped a couple of time and then blurted out in sheer disbelief, "Madam, how is the safaiwala sitting next to you? These chaps are getting real audacious these days. This egalitarianism will lead us to our doom as far as discipline is concerned"
I had not briefed my wife that the officer had been persistently mistaking me for the safaiwala. Hence, she looked confused.
"What safaiwala? Where is he?" my wife asked thoroughly bewildered, looking around herself.
"Madam, I am meaning the safaiwala sitting right next to you now."
She burst out into peals of laughter. "Oh him?! He is no safaiwala. He is my husband and he is the CO of the unit. Anyway, it serves him right. He is a cleanliness faddist. I told him to leave it to the safaiwala but he wanted to do it himself and that too in a lungi with nothing on top!! Serves him right."
It may have thrilled my wife that I had been sorted out, but the officer turned pale. He had called me a safaiwala and I turned out to be a CO!
"Sorry, sir. I did not realise that you are the CO. You must forgive me. My confusion is but genuine. After all, a self respecting CO normally does not wear a lungi and is bare bodied, let alone clean the floor himself!"
He had now really had me. Indirectly, he told me that I was not self respecting and not fit to be a CO. I was also sure that if I quizzed him more, he would say, as they always do when they make a faux pas, that their English is poor.
He realised that he should not have used the words 'self respecting' and so, dot on target it came. "Sorry sir, my English is poor. What I meant was that no CO would be in the state of dress, if indeed we can call it dress, as you, sir." Again, he had me! Before further damage, he continued in the same breath, "I must say that you are a 'hands on' CO."
I will confess I was not terribly thrilled with what this officer said. In the meantime, tea and sandwiches were served by my wife to the officer.
I wanted to get rid of this officer and get on with my floor cleaning.
"Right, how can I help you this Sunday?" I said, emphasising on 'Sunday', with the implicit message that he was wasting the day for me.
"Nothing, sir. I have just been posted to the unit and so I thought I should pay my regards to you." That surprised me. We had no official intimation.
"Sure? We know nothing of this", I said.
"I don't know about that, sir. I have given the movement order to the office this morning. I came here personally so that before you heard it on the grapevine I thought I must tell you myself. My last CO initiated the AFMSF 10 [the form for psychiatric check] on me. I requested a posting out and so I have been posted out to your unit." This demoralised me further. As it is, I had my hands full with all sorts of chaps and here comes the coup de grâce, so to say!
I made light of it. If a CO did not dress like a CO, with his suit and bow tie on, whether he was cleaning the floor or not, what difference did it make if a psychiatric officer was posted in or not.
To make light of the affair and to put the officer at ease, I said, "Not to worry, old chap. It's great that you are a psychiatric case. You have come to the right place. I am also psychiatric, though not officially declared. We will have a ball."
"I know that, sir, that you are also a little odd. Your last Brigade Commander, who is a relation of mine, told me so. He said that I would be in the right company."
That really floored me and I forgot all about cleaning the floor!
My battalion, after a stint in Operation Intrusion Dalunang in the Kargil High Altitude Sector had come down to Hyderabad in 1990. Obviously, the officers were rather keen to get married accommodation at the earliest. It took us about four months before we could get some accommodation in spite of having 'field seniority'.
We were lucky that we got the accommodation in four months, that too spanking new! We were in such a hurry that even before the contractor could clean up the rooms, we accepted in as they do in an 'as is where is' auction.
No matter how much our safaiwalas [janitors] had washed the floors of the dust and grime, they remained stacked with unending layers. I am not the one to give up and so the next Sunday, I got bare bodied and in a lungi [sarong] started washing the floor, ably assisted by my man Friday/
The orderly had swilled the floor of the drawing room with pails of water and had gone somewhere. I was mopping the floor with a long handled mop, when the door bell rang.
I went to the door and opened it. Outside, stood a person, who appeared to be an officer. I was not too pleased. It was a Sunday and whoever it was, should have telephoned me before coming. I would have at least got dressed appropriate for an officer, that too, a Commanding Officer.
Before I could say any thing, the officer most haughtily said in Hindi, "Sah'b ghar men hai? (Is the sahib at home?]"
I was dying to say, 'No'. I was a Commanding Officer [CO] and I was a bit surprised at the overbearing attitude from someone who looked a junior officer. I had forgotten that I was bare bodied and in a lungi.
Yet one cannot be rude. Therefore, I told him purposely in Hindi and not in English as one would have normally done, "Ap andar aiye [Please come in]".
The officer entered and was a trifle befuddled at finding the drawing room in a mess with chairs strewn all around and water over the floor. Obviously, such a shamble could not be a Commanding Officer's house.
Seeing his disorientation, I politely said in English, "Do sit down"'
"Kamaal ke baat. Agrezi bolta hai! Kya Yeh kia CO sah'b ke ghar? {Extraordinary. Talking in English! Is this the CO Sahib's house]", queried the officer of me, looking mostly sceptically around the room.
I was still oblivious that I was bare bodied and in a lungi. I always imagined that I had a personality which instantly indicated that I was a person of authority. Obviously, this person was just being obtuse and that too on a day when I had no time to poddlefake.
"Indeed, this is the CO's house and I am the CO", I said rather pompously, thinking that would put him in his place.
"Angrezi bolta hai?!! Kia bakwas, aj kal sab hi apne ap ko CO soch ta hai [Speaking in English?!! What tommy rot. These days, every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks he is the CO]."
That really shook me.
"No, I am the CO", I said in an insisting and defensive tone.
"Bakwas band karo. Apna aukat bholo nahin. Ajib ke baat hai ki safaiwala log aj kal apne apko CO soch rahe hai. [Don't talk rubbish. Don't forget you station. It's extraordinary that these days sweepers consider themselves as COs]"
The officer looked at his watch as if in a hurry and ordered me, "Andar jao aur memsah'b ko bola ke lao [Go inside and call the lady of the house]." It is then that I comprehended that I was bare bodied and in a lungi.
I realised that it was futile to argue with this officer and so I went inside and explained the situation to my wife.
My wife came out and introduced herself and then both of us sat, side by side, on the sofa, out of sheer habit.
The officer was thunderstruck! He gulped a couple of time and then blurted out in sheer disbelief, "Madam, how is the safaiwala sitting next to you? These chaps are getting real audacious these days. This egalitarianism will lead us to our doom as far as discipline is concerned"
I had not briefed my wife that the officer had been persistently mistaking me for the safaiwala. Hence, she looked confused.
"What safaiwala? Where is he?" my wife asked thoroughly bewildered, looking around herself.
"Madam, I am meaning the safaiwala sitting right next to you now."
She burst out into peals of laughter. "Oh him?! He is no safaiwala. He is my husband and he is the CO of the unit. Anyway, it serves him right. He is a cleanliness faddist. I told him to leave it to the safaiwala but he wanted to do it himself and that too in a lungi with nothing on top!! Serves him right."
It may have thrilled my wife that I had been sorted out, but the officer turned pale. He had called me a safaiwala and I turned out to be a CO!
"Sorry, sir. I did not realise that you are the CO. You must forgive me. My confusion is but genuine. After all, a self respecting CO normally does not wear a lungi and is bare bodied, let alone clean the floor himself!"
He had now really had me. Indirectly, he told me that I was not self respecting and not fit to be a CO. I was also sure that if I quizzed him more, he would say, as they always do when they make a faux pas, that their English is poor.
He realised that he should not have used the words 'self respecting' and so, dot on target it came. "Sorry sir, my English is poor. What I meant was that no CO would be in the state of dress, if indeed we can call it dress, as you, sir." Again, he had me! Before further damage, he continued in the same breath, "I must say that you are a 'hands on' CO."
I will confess I was not terribly thrilled with what this officer said. In the meantime, tea and sandwiches were served by my wife to the officer.
I wanted to get rid of this officer and get on with my floor cleaning.
"Right, how can I help you this Sunday?" I said, emphasising on 'Sunday', with the implicit message that he was wasting the day for me.
"Nothing, sir. I have just been posted to the unit and so I thought I should pay my regards to you." That surprised me. We had no official intimation.
"Sure? We know nothing of this", I said.
"I don't know about that, sir. I have given the movement order to the office this morning. I came here personally so that before you heard it on the grapevine I thought I must tell you myself. My last CO initiated the AFMSF 10 [the form for psychiatric check] on me. I requested a posting out and so I have been posted out to your unit." This demoralised me further. As it is, I had my hands full with all sorts of chaps and here comes the coup de grâce, so to say!
I made light of it. If a CO did not dress like a CO, with his suit and bow tie on, whether he was cleaning the floor or not, what difference did it make if a psychiatric officer was posted in or not.
To make light of the affair and to put the officer at ease, I said, "Not to worry, old chap. It's great that you are a psychiatric case. You have come to the right place. I am also psychiatric, though not officially declared. We will have a ball."
"I know that, sir, that you are also a little odd. Your last Brigade Commander, who is a relation of mine, told me so. He said that I would be in the right company."
That really floored me and I forgot all about cleaning the floor!
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CAPTAIN RK CHAUDHURI AND CAPTAIN PK CHAUDHURI
Colonel Chaudhuri was commanding an Engineer Regiment in the Kargil War. The war was over. The wives were being allowed a short visit to meet the husbands. His wife had come to the field area and they called me over for a drink for old time's sake at their 'basha' .
His wife was a sophisticated person with an amazing sense of humour. They were at their usual hospitable best. Colonel Chaudhuri was likewise at his Bacchanalius pre-eminence. Meeting her, in the current circumstance of having a drink with them, flooded me with memories of an incident when they were just married.
It was in Poona this happened.
Colonel Chaudhuri, a young Captain, had just got married. He was doing the Degree course at the College of Military Engineering. Old habits die hard, marriage or no marriage. He liked to make his evenings a social event and right as rain he stuck to his habit to do so his bachelor friends. He did not like imbibing alone. Therefore, what was the harm if a few friends joined him?
Mrs Chaudhuri, on the other hand, did not relish the idea that Captain Chaudhuri's friends dropped in daily. Not only the friends had their drinks, they also did not hesitate in polishing off 'whatever was in the house'. Being newly married she was also averse to 'sharing' Chaudhuri, with a motley crowd of noisy bachelors.
And so, life went on as usual"¦"¦ till one day.
It was a working day and it was in the morning.
Mrs Chaudhuri heard the doorbell jangle. She wasn't too pleased. She was at her daily chores. It was too early for the ladies to drop in and 'chat', as most of the army officers' wives do when their husbands are in the office or classes.
She answered the door in her nightgown, duly covered with a shawl.
She had the surprise of her life! There was no lady outside. There was a well dressed man "¦..and looking quite harried. He had the normal cockiness associated with army officers. Therefore, he had to be an officer. She could not imagine an officer poodle faking during office or class hours.
It did not please her a bit.
"Yes, anything I can do?" said Mrs Chaudhuri as pleasantly as she could; as pleasantly as would a lady whose daily chores had been interrupted. Those who know women will understand what I mean.
"Are you Mrs Chaudhuri?' asked the man.
It was obvious. Why else should there be a woman in a dressing gown in Chaudhuri's house?
The question irritated her. She had enough of men barging in uninvited. Barging in, in the evening, was one thing, but if they wanted to make it a habit to come also during the morning, it was a bit too thick. She could be her cutting best when required. This was an opportunity she could not let pass to vent her spleen.
"Well, actually Captain Chaudhuri's mother is rather older and his sister in law isn't expected till the next month". She was at her sarcastic best.
This confused the man. He was one of those simple chaps. He had come from out of town and wanted to meet Chaudhuri. He did not know Chaudhuri well enough and had but brought a message from another friend. With difficulty, he had located the apartment and had merely pressed the doorbell. This hostility for no fault of his was jarring!
Given Mrs Chaudhuri's apparent hostility, a nagging doubt in his mind did arise.
He may have come to the wrong house. After all, people named Chaudhuris were a dime to a dozen. This could have been another Chaudhuri's house.
"To be sure M'aam," said the man. "Is this the house of Captain PK Chaudhuri?"
He was so confused and shaken that he forgot that it was RK Chaudhuri and not PK Chaudhuri that he was looking for.
"Not quite really, sir," said the lady.
That confused the man more.
The lady continued, "this is the house of Captain RK Chaudhuri". She paused and as an after thought said, "but come after 7 o'clock in the evening"¦"¦"¦.at that hour he embarks on his journey to becoming Captain 'Pee Kay Chaudhuri'. Till then, sir, may I bid you goodbye?"
Colonel Chaudhuri was commanding an Engineer Regiment in the Kargil War. The war was over. The wives were being allowed a short visit to meet the husbands. His wife had come to the field area and they called me over for a drink for old time's sake at their 'basha' .
His wife was a sophisticated person with an amazing sense of humour. They were at their usual hospitable best. Colonel Chaudhuri was likewise at his Bacchanalius pre-eminence. Meeting her, in the current circumstance of having a drink with them, flooded me with memories of an incident when they were just married.
It was in Poona this happened.
Colonel Chaudhuri, a young Captain, had just got married. He was doing the Degree course at the College of Military Engineering. Old habits die hard, marriage or no marriage. He liked to make his evenings a social event and right as rain he stuck to his habit to do so his bachelor friends. He did not like imbibing alone. Therefore, what was the harm if a few friends joined him?
Mrs Chaudhuri, on the other hand, did not relish the idea that Captain Chaudhuri's friends dropped in daily. Not only the friends had their drinks, they also did not hesitate in polishing off 'whatever was in the house'. Being newly married she was also averse to 'sharing' Chaudhuri, with a motley crowd of noisy bachelors.
And so, life went on as usual"¦"¦ till one day.
It was a working day and it was in the morning.
Mrs Chaudhuri heard the doorbell jangle. She wasn't too pleased. She was at her daily chores. It was too early for the ladies to drop in and 'chat', as most of the army officers' wives do when their husbands are in the office or classes.
She answered the door in her nightgown, duly covered with a shawl.
She had the surprise of her life! There was no lady outside. There was a well dressed man "¦..and looking quite harried. He had the normal cockiness associated with army officers. Therefore, he had to be an officer. She could not imagine an officer poodle faking during office or class hours.
It did not please her a bit.
"Yes, anything I can do?" said Mrs Chaudhuri as pleasantly as she could; as pleasantly as would a lady whose daily chores had been interrupted. Those who know women will understand what I mean.
"Are you Mrs Chaudhuri?' asked the man.
It was obvious. Why else should there be a woman in a dressing gown in Chaudhuri's house?
The question irritated her. She had enough of men barging in uninvited. Barging in, in the evening, was one thing, but if they wanted to make it a habit to come also during the morning, it was a bit too thick. She could be her cutting best when required. This was an opportunity she could not let pass to vent her spleen.
"Well, actually Captain Chaudhuri's mother is rather older and his sister in law isn't expected till the next month". She was at her sarcastic best.
This confused the man. He was one of those simple chaps. He had come from out of town and wanted to meet Chaudhuri. He did not know Chaudhuri well enough and had but brought a message from another friend. With difficulty, he had located the apartment and had merely pressed the doorbell. This hostility for no fault of his was jarring!
Given Mrs Chaudhuri's apparent hostility, a nagging doubt in his mind did arise.
He may have come to the wrong house. After all, people named Chaudhuris were a dime to a dozen. This could have been another Chaudhuri's house.
"To be sure M'aam," said the man. "Is this the house of Captain PK Chaudhuri?"
He was so confused and shaken that he forgot that it was RK Chaudhuri and not PK Chaudhuri that he was looking for.
"Not quite really, sir," said the lady.
That confused the man more.
The lady continued, "this is the house of Captain RK Chaudhuri". She paused and as an after thought said, "but come after 7 o'clock in the evening"¦"¦"¦.at that hour he embarks on his journey to becoming Captain 'Pee Kay Chaudhuri'. Till then, sir, may I bid you goodbye?"
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'SHABASH BETE'.
This resounds in my head even now, even though so many years have past.
It was a swipe that was total insubordination, yet, I escaped!
1991 was it? My memory fails. All I remember is that I was Colonel GS (Trg) in HQ Southern Command at that time.
There was this Major General, General Staff (MGGS). He was a Punjabi, tall, lean, fair and handsome, but a true blue Calcuttan. Nothing wrong with that. What was wrong was this one odd habit – he addressed all juniors as 'bete' (son or child). Even if the 'bete' was on the wrong side of 50, it did not matter.
This 'Bete' business was contagious. Unconsciously all our juniors and peers, too, became 'Bete'. It was a 'Bete' galore. Something like Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade'. 'Betes' were everywhere – in front, on the side and in the rear – all volleying and thundering!
So obsessive it was that instead of listening to the MGGS during Conferences, we were busy counting the 'Betes' and even having side bets as to whose count would be the nearest!
Soon we stop noticing the 'Betes'. It has become a method in its repetition.
Two years passed.
We were busy in the middle of a Wargame . Chaos reigned since everything said was hotly contested. And within this confusion, the MGGS received his promotion order to a Lieutenant General. This news scintillated briefly to become like a dying ember. Buzz. Calm. Buzz. Calm. Even the MGGS, being too busy, did not seem to have the Cheshire Cat grin as those have who receive their promotion order.
The Wargame entered a lull period.
In the relative peace, it suddenly dawned on the BGS (Brigadier General Staff), who was the next junior head of the General Staff Branch that we had forgotten to congratulate the MGGS! Such faux pas were career shattering!
Gathering his wit, the BGS ruled that we would all go to the MGGS together and congratulate him during the coming longish break.
That decided, back we went to our tasks assigned for the Wargame.
The break in the Wargame came. The BGS called us all and we trooped into the MGGS' Office.
"Hello Betes" (note: plural of 'Beta' in Hindi is 'Bete', but our premier school educated MGGS spoke, ate and dreamt in English. So, the plural of 'Beta' obviously required only an 's' for the plural form!)
"What brings you all here? Some Union problems?" A true Calcuttan. Always sensitive to gheraos and Union hassles. And like any Calcuttan, superciliously confident of his superior sense of humour!
Of course, he knew why we were there, but he was trying to act smug! But then acting smug is a General's prerogative.
"No, Sir", said the BGS, "We have come to congratulate you on your approval to the next rank".
No sooner had he said that, the eager beavers all in unison congratulated him rushing as if the floodgates had been opened! And then again, weaving through the mass of humanity, to pump the MMGS hand, lest his exhubrance was not noted by the MGGS. Career was after all an important issue in life. The delightful glee on the faces after pumping the General's hand bettered that of anyone pumping the Queen's hand.
I stood aloof.
I was from Calcutta and from the blueblood of schools there. Head and shoulder above the MGGS's School. I knew I had to congratulate him but I was averse to the hoi polloi custom of jostling and shoving.
I continued to stand apart.
The BGS, realising that the General had to get back to his work said, "OK chaps. Let's leave"
So we all trooped out. Orders are, after all, orders.
The MGGS was a sharp cookie. Nothing escaped his hawk eye.
"Hey Roy, you did not congratulate me. Not happy that I made it?" He could be sarcastic and did have an eye for detail too. He had observed that I did not congratulate personally.
I turned back.
The MGGS was a friendly sort and being from Calcutta, I did take the occasional liberty with him.
"Of course I am pleased and I wanted to congratulate you, Sir. After all Lieutenant Generals are not made every day, sir. But then, being the scrawny Bengali, I just couldn't manage to push my way through the doodh (milk) and ghee (kio in Punjabi) crowd, sir. I sure wanted to congratulate you."
"Then go ahead, who is stopping you?"
"But what I would actually like to say, may not be appropriate"
"Not appropriate?" He was confused and rather intrigued.
"How so, Bete?" asked the MGGS.
I did a quick think.
"Well, sir, no offence meant. What I would have said was, 'Shabash Bete', and you can't say that to a General, can you, Sir?"
The MGGS chucked a paper weight at me as I ducked and scurried out of the door!
This resounds in my head even now, even though so many years have past.
It was a swipe that was total insubordination, yet, I escaped!
1991 was it? My memory fails. All I remember is that I was Colonel GS (Trg) in HQ Southern Command at that time.
There was this Major General, General Staff (MGGS). He was a Punjabi, tall, lean, fair and handsome, but a true blue Calcuttan. Nothing wrong with that. What was wrong was this one odd habit – he addressed all juniors as 'bete' (son or child). Even if the 'bete' was on the wrong side of 50, it did not matter.
This 'Bete' business was contagious. Unconsciously all our juniors and peers, too, became 'Bete'. It was a 'Bete' galore. Something like Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade'. 'Betes' were everywhere – in front, on the side and in the rear – all volleying and thundering!
So obsessive it was that instead of listening to the MGGS during Conferences, we were busy counting the 'Betes' and even having side bets as to whose count would be the nearest!
Soon we stop noticing the 'Betes'. It has become a method in its repetition.
Two years passed.
We were busy in the middle of a Wargame . Chaos reigned since everything said was hotly contested. And within this confusion, the MGGS received his promotion order to a Lieutenant General. This news scintillated briefly to become like a dying ember. Buzz. Calm. Buzz. Calm. Even the MGGS, being too busy, did not seem to have the Cheshire Cat grin as those have who receive their promotion order.
The Wargame entered a lull period.
In the relative peace, it suddenly dawned on the BGS (Brigadier General Staff), who was the next junior head of the General Staff Branch that we had forgotten to congratulate the MGGS! Such faux pas were career shattering!
Gathering his wit, the BGS ruled that we would all go to the MGGS together and congratulate him during the coming longish break.
That decided, back we went to our tasks assigned for the Wargame.
The break in the Wargame came. The BGS called us all and we trooped into the MGGS' Office.
"Hello Betes" (note: plural of 'Beta' in Hindi is 'Bete', but our premier school educated MGGS spoke, ate and dreamt in English. So, the plural of 'Beta' obviously required only an 's' for the plural form!)
"What brings you all here? Some Union problems?" A true Calcuttan. Always sensitive to gheraos and Union hassles. And like any Calcuttan, superciliously confident of his superior sense of humour!
Of course, he knew why we were there, but he was trying to act smug! But then acting smug is a General's prerogative.
"No, Sir", said the BGS, "We have come to congratulate you on your approval to the next rank".
No sooner had he said that, the eager beavers all in unison congratulated him rushing as if the floodgates had been opened! And then again, weaving through the mass of humanity, to pump the MMGS hand, lest his exhubrance was not noted by the MGGS. Career was after all an important issue in life. The delightful glee on the faces after pumping the General's hand bettered that of anyone pumping the Queen's hand.
I stood aloof.
I was from Calcutta and from the blueblood of schools there. Head and shoulder above the MGGS's School. I knew I had to congratulate him but I was averse to the hoi polloi custom of jostling and shoving.
I continued to stand apart.
The BGS, realising that the General had to get back to his work said, "OK chaps. Let's leave"
So we all trooped out. Orders are, after all, orders.
The MGGS was a sharp cookie. Nothing escaped his hawk eye.
"Hey Roy, you did not congratulate me. Not happy that I made it?" He could be sarcastic and did have an eye for detail too. He had observed that I did not congratulate personally.
I turned back.
The MGGS was a friendly sort and being from Calcutta, I did take the occasional liberty with him.
"Of course I am pleased and I wanted to congratulate you, Sir. After all Lieutenant Generals are not made every day, sir. But then, being the scrawny Bengali, I just couldn't manage to push my way through the doodh (milk) and ghee (kio in Punjabi) crowd, sir. I sure wanted to congratulate you."
"Then go ahead, who is stopping you?"
"But what I would actually like to say, may not be appropriate"
"Not appropriate?" He was confused and rather intrigued.
"How so, Bete?" asked the MGGS.
I did a quick think.
"Well, sir, no offence meant. What I would have said was, 'Shabash Bete', and you can't say that to a General, can you, Sir?"
The MGGS chucked a paper weight at me as I ducked and scurried out of the door!
bhramos
Senior Member
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- Mar 21, 2009
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nice thing,
but didnt what are this indigrents called in South Indian or Desi Languages...
1 md. shallot, finely chopped
2 ripe plum tomatoes, skinned, seeds removed and chopped
1/2 cup full cream milk
4 free range/organic eggs
2 tbsp. best butter
Salt to taste when eggs are added
Ground black pepper on top when dish is presented
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CAPTAIN C AND THE TANDOORI CHICKEN
Captain C was a nice boy. He was the Adjutant of the unit. He was smart and could be immensely impressive. Being a Delhi boy, he was what they call 'worldly wise', given their penchant to lavish lifestyles and acquiring possessions, sometimes beyond their means, just to be with the rich and the famous.
We were then in Hyderabad, having just come from the field area after the 1971 War.
C had recently got married. The wife was very simple and was not used to the ways of the Army. Her attitude was like a breath of fresh air. There were no guiles in her way and that was quite surprising since she was also from Delhi; not that all Delhi folks are the wheeling dealing type.
C always wanted to keep up, if not with the Jones, at least with the Birlas and Tatas . There was nothing irrational about this. One should have ambition after all.
He bought a Standard Herald car, which on his pay, was an extravagant toy. It pleased him as Punch. The car was so modern that it stopped in the centre of the narrow gate of the main office. This proved an embarrassment. The Commanding Officer refused to enter the office from the rear since it would puncture his ego, Instead, he had to squeeze through the gate pillar and the car, sucking in his breath and tucking in his rather over dimensioned stomach. The result was obvious – he was furious for the day.
Being newly married and since accommodation was limited, C and his wife were temporarily staying in the Officers' Mess. It was not for long. He managed to get a government accommodation out of turn through some skulduggery. That way, C was what they call a real 'guru' man.
Wise that he was, he even got residential accommodation just opposite the Commanding Officer. This excellent move permitted him and his wife to regularly visit the Commanding Officer and the first lady on some pretext or the other.
The Commanding Officer had a weakness. He was very fond of good food. This was no secret. The unfortunate part was that Mrs C was not yet an accomplished cook and C didn't want to risk an upset stomach of the Commanding Officer, his car having already done much damage by stalling in the Main Office gate.
It was customary for the newly married to throw dinner parties as unit officers could not attend the marriages because of exigencies of service. Since we had been in the operational area for four years, the large band of bachelors commenced tying the wedding knot in quick succession. C, too, had joined the bandwagon.
C decided to give his wedding bash. Naturally, it had to be different and grand. He and his wife went to town, bought expensive curtains, ordered upholstering of the government sofas, bought the best of snacks that money could buy and a whole lot of other stuff that was ostentatious and unnecessary.
Having done their purchases, they came home. C immediately went to the Commanding Officer for some urgent 'official' work, leaving the lady behind.
Two days later, the Commanding Officer called all of us for dinner. It must be said that while the CO loved good food and parties, he also organised many himself. We were enjoying at his place with the Commanding Officer being a good host with the drinks and his wife with the hors d'œuvrés.
The party was warming up. Mrs C, not being used to the Army crowd, was sitting on one side and was being engaged indifferently in small talk by the other 'senior' ladies. In fact, they were definitely being catty.
The Commanding Officer, seeing the huddle and the cackle of the ladies in one corner, was drawn to the side. After a bit of small talk, he suddenly recalled that the poor lady, Mrs C, had cooked and sent a sumptuous tandoori chicken a few days back. The Commanding Officer rarely forgot the morsels that were always being sent by the ladies to grace his table. This time he forgot, even though it was sumptuous!
"Mrs C, ap to bahut zabardast khana banane jante hain. Woh tandoori chicken jo ap bheja, who to la jawab tha (You are a fabulous cook. That chicken was beyond compare)", said the Colonel as he simultaneously indicated to the Mess waiter to send another Rooh Afza Mrs C's way, out of sheer gratitude.
Mrs C remained blank.
The Commanding Officer was distinctly uncomfortable. He wracked his brains if indeed it was Mrs C or somebody else who had sent the chicken. After all, the flow of dishes was so regular that one forgot who sent what, unless of course it was terrible to the palate.
"Kia ap bhul gaye? Wo chicken jo apne bheja tha jis din ap curtain kharidne gaye the? [What, have you forgotten? That chicken you sent, the day you went to buy the curtains]."
Mrs C surfaced. Enlightenment hit her.
"Nahinjee, wo Chicken maine kahan banaya tha? Wo to Captain C market se kharid ke laye the. Unhone ne mujhe bataya tha ke ap khane ke bahut shokeen hain. Isi liye woh chicken kharid ke le aye, sirf ap ke lie {No sir, who said I had made the chicken? C had bought that chicken from the market. He said that you loved to eat. That is why he bought the chicken for you. Just for you".
C could have killed her for that!
The damage was worse than that done by his car!
Captain C was a nice boy. He was the Adjutant of the unit. He was smart and could be immensely impressive. Being a Delhi boy, he was what they call 'worldly wise', given their penchant to lavish lifestyles and acquiring possessions, sometimes beyond their means, just to be with the rich and the famous.
We were then in Hyderabad, having just come from the field area after the 1971 War.
C had recently got married. The wife was very simple and was not used to the ways of the Army. Her attitude was like a breath of fresh air. There were no guiles in her way and that was quite surprising since she was also from Delhi; not that all Delhi folks are the wheeling dealing type.
C always wanted to keep up, if not with the Jones, at least with the Birlas and Tatas . There was nothing irrational about this. One should have ambition after all.
He bought a Standard Herald car, which on his pay, was an extravagant toy. It pleased him as Punch. The car was so modern that it stopped in the centre of the narrow gate of the main office. This proved an embarrassment. The Commanding Officer refused to enter the office from the rear since it would puncture his ego, Instead, he had to squeeze through the gate pillar and the car, sucking in his breath and tucking in his rather over dimensioned stomach. The result was obvious – he was furious for the day.
Being newly married and since accommodation was limited, C and his wife were temporarily staying in the Officers' Mess. It was not for long. He managed to get a government accommodation out of turn through some skulduggery. That way, C was what they call a real 'guru' man.
Wise that he was, he even got residential accommodation just opposite the Commanding Officer. This excellent move permitted him and his wife to regularly visit the Commanding Officer and the first lady on some pretext or the other.
The Commanding Officer had a weakness. He was very fond of good food. This was no secret. The unfortunate part was that Mrs C was not yet an accomplished cook and C didn't want to risk an upset stomach of the Commanding Officer, his car having already done much damage by stalling in the Main Office gate.
It was customary for the newly married to throw dinner parties as unit officers could not attend the marriages because of exigencies of service. Since we had been in the operational area for four years, the large band of bachelors commenced tying the wedding knot in quick succession. C, too, had joined the bandwagon.
C decided to give his wedding bash. Naturally, it had to be different and grand. He and his wife went to town, bought expensive curtains, ordered upholstering of the government sofas, bought the best of snacks that money could buy and a whole lot of other stuff that was ostentatious and unnecessary.
Having done their purchases, they came home. C immediately went to the Commanding Officer for some urgent 'official' work, leaving the lady behind.
Two days later, the Commanding Officer called all of us for dinner. It must be said that while the CO loved good food and parties, he also organised many himself. We were enjoying at his place with the Commanding Officer being a good host with the drinks and his wife with the hors d'œuvrés.
The party was warming up. Mrs C, not being used to the Army crowd, was sitting on one side and was being engaged indifferently in small talk by the other 'senior' ladies. In fact, they were definitely being catty.
The Commanding Officer, seeing the huddle and the cackle of the ladies in one corner, was drawn to the side. After a bit of small talk, he suddenly recalled that the poor lady, Mrs C, had cooked and sent a sumptuous tandoori chicken a few days back. The Commanding Officer rarely forgot the morsels that were always being sent by the ladies to grace his table. This time he forgot, even though it was sumptuous!
"Mrs C, ap to bahut zabardast khana banane jante hain. Woh tandoori chicken jo ap bheja, who to la jawab tha (You are a fabulous cook. That chicken was beyond compare)", said the Colonel as he simultaneously indicated to the Mess waiter to send another Rooh Afza Mrs C's way, out of sheer gratitude.
Mrs C remained blank.
The Commanding Officer was distinctly uncomfortable. He wracked his brains if indeed it was Mrs C or somebody else who had sent the chicken. After all, the flow of dishes was so regular that one forgot who sent what, unless of course it was terrible to the palate.
"Kia ap bhul gaye? Wo chicken jo apne bheja tha jis din ap curtain kharidne gaye the? [What, have you forgotten? That chicken you sent, the day you went to buy the curtains]."
Mrs C surfaced. Enlightenment hit her.
"Nahinjee, wo Chicken maine kahan banaya tha? Wo to Captain C market se kharid ke laye the. Unhone ne mujhe bataya tha ke ap khane ke bahut shokeen hain. Isi liye woh chicken kharid ke le aye, sirf ap ke lie {No sir, who said I had made the chicken? C had bought that chicken from the market. He said that you loved to eat. That is why he bought the chicken for you. Just for you".
C could have killed her for that!
The damage was worse than that done by his car!
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1 md. shallot, finely chopped -> 1 medium spring onion / hara pyaz
2 ripe plum tomatoes, skinned, seeds removed and chopped -> 2 tamatar
1/2 cup full cream milk -> doodh
4 free range/organic eggs -> anda
2 tbsp. best butter -> makhan
Salt to taste when eggs are added --> namak
Ground black pepper on top when dish is presented -> kali mirch
sangsharma
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THE GENTLEMAN CADET'S INTERPRETATION OF LIDDEL HART'S THEORY OF 'EXPANDING TORRENTS'
I was a Gentleman Cadet (GC) in the Indian Military Academy, Dehra Dun, at that time. Life was hard and it was a continuous whirl with hardly any time for relaxation. It was also our final term and one had to be on one's toes as errors would mean relegation. Relegation meant becoming an officer six months later than one's contemporaries, carrying the baggage of shame to have been left behind. Military men, after all, are trained to win! There is no time for losers!
We are on an outdoor exercise (training), being put through our paces in the various operations of war. The phase that we were in at that moment was Advance to Contact and Quick Attack.
This was a two sided exercise, where we the attackers were from One Company, while the 'enemy', who were practising the Defence operation of war, was from Another Company of another Battalion.
To supervise us we had one Captain of our Company as the Directing Staff (DS). He was also in charge of our Platoon. He was a prize twat (idiot) and a sadist, who thought all GCs were untermenschen and to be treated as such. In particular, he detested the two of us, whom he promptly assigned as Scouts for the exercise.
So, I got designated as the scout of our Platoon along with the other GC.
Scouts, as you are aware, operate in pairs. Their task was to see the enemy first and observe him undetected. The scouts then achieved a number of tactical goals i.e. retain the initiative, bring indirect fire to bear on the enemy, help larger units to manoeuvre and destroy the enemy, and if necessary, use direct fire to kill the enemy.
We were in the jungles of Raiwala which has fairly thick undergrowth and what lies below them cannot be seen. One had to move with caution and care.
The other chap with me as the Scout was a flamboyant chap. He has stuck a feather in his jungle cap. I did not know whether it was for fashion or he thought he could outwit the 'enemy' by masquerading as a rather scrawny crow that has come out of a crow fight. Be that as it may, we proceeded with our task while the Platoon followed at the prescribed distance as per the Pamphlet behind us. Technically, it should have had eyeball contact, but in a jungle that was not feasible and so it was on a guess and sound of movement of the Scouts.
We were moving in to where the 'enemy' was. Given the thick foliage and undergrowth, it was assumed that the enemy would have their OPs (Observations Post) well ahead of their defences so as to raise a timely alarm. Therefore, we had to move extra cautiously so as to avoid them, or catch them unaware and make them 'prisoners' before they could raise the alarm.
It was heavy going pushing the foliage gently and at the same time taking measured steps to not crackle loudly the dry twigs and dry leaves. We knew we were close to the 'enemy'.
Being a Scout is very arduous and tiring and so the two Scouts who work in pair, interchange positions so that one can ease off a wee bit, even though remaining sharp.
And so, we the pair of Scouts were inter changing our positions as and when required or desired by the Lead Scout.
At that moment, the other chap was the Lead and I was Number 2 Scout. We were plodding through and very carefully searching ahead and keeping our ears cocked and our eyes sharp. Nothing unusual could be detected so far, though we knew we were close.
The weather was hot and humid. Apart from the acidic sweat rolling down from the forehead burning the eyes, the invisible insects were also making things tiresome. It was not a happy scene.
The Number 1 Scout signalled me that I should take over. I closed in a quietly as feasible to take over.
When we changed Scouts, we also halted, which also halted the Platoon behind us. At this halts, we also used our ears to listen via what was known as the 'listening drill'. In actuality, it also gave us a break to overcome fatigue, more so for the Platoon following who were carrying the heavier equipment like the heaviest Radio Set ever made in history – the 31 Set!
As we were about to change the Scout, what happened? Lo and behold, who do we see coming in? You guessed wrong! Not the 'enemy', but that despicable twat, checking to see if we had gone off to sleep 'at the post'! Merrily crackling the dry twigs and dry leaves he came barging in like a Bull in a China shop! We were seething inside, but were helpless to tell this buffalo that he was waking the dead, let alone the enemy!
He was furious. What were we halting for? He thought he was talking in whispers but if that was whisper, then in comparison, Mount Vesuvius erupts most silently!
I could not help it, but subconsciously, my finger when to my lips – the symbolic movement that signifies 'silence'. The man nearly burst a blood vessel! He got close to my ear, his bushy moustache ticking the membranous labyrinth of my ear, where the fibres of the auditory nerve connect the ear to the brain. Fortunately, the ear cannot laugh when tickled! With bated breath furiously erupting like a Vesuvius, he used the most colourful language that only Punjabi can boast and told me to get a move on or get shafted!
Under such excellent circumstances that 'motivated' me immensely, I moved on. And so did the column in my wake, while the DS went to roast and harangue someone else, in his most despicable way, in the rear of the Platoon.
And so we plodded on for the next half hour.
The humidity was getting our goat. And yet, with this long walk, tedious and time consuming, my bladder seemed to be bursting. I would have stopped normally and try the 'listening drill' and relieve myself of the burden and extra weight, but it would be too horrifying an experience to have visitation once again by our Platoon's pet buffalo, euphemistically called DS.
So, I started emptying my bladder on the move, taking care to positioning the emitter 60 degree to the perpendicular so as to not soil my pants with the droplet drifting in the air! The Scout No 2 watched in amazement and amusement, but neither missed the pace of our movement! The pet buffalo's visitation was hauntingly fresh!
Suddenly, there was a horrifying yell from the undergrowth to the left where a sizeable amount of water, if you will, seemed to have descended!
We (both the Scouts) rushed to the source of the audio disturbance. We rummaged the undergrowth and what do we see? It was the 'enemy' OP who had thought it was an ideal job to 'goof away' or sleep it out after a hard nights task of digging defence! He was still dazed. We clapped his mouth so that he could not shout.
The Scout No 2 rushed back to inform the Platoon to take action and attack since we had got a fair idea of the enemy defence from the sleeping OP.
However, there is honour amongst GCs as also there is honour amongst thieves. The poor GC's pathetic eyes begging for mercy got the best of brotherhood out of me. So, while I calculated the time by which our Platoon would be ready to launch an attack, the leading section having taken up a firm base which I could see, I gave a chance to the sleeping enemy OP to alert his defence, by allowing him letting out a blood curdling yell.
And then all hell broke loose!
Out Platoon's war cry resounded, with many a feet running in the direction of the 'enemy defences' and the 'enemy' rushing into their trenches to face the 'onslaught'.
While this was on, the 'enemy' OP and I sat down to watch the 'fun' as spectators, the OP being good enough to share a banana with me and Scout No 2.
Till this day, Scout No 2 nor the 'enemy' OP, nor me ever opened our mouth to tell the 'Untold Story' of the miracle of Liddell Hart's military theory of 'expanding torrents' and it given an ingenuous and innovative GC's twist!
I was a Gentleman Cadet (GC) in the Indian Military Academy, Dehra Dun, at that time. Life was hard and it was a continuous whirl with hardly any time for relaxation. It was also our final term and one had to be on one's toes as errors would mean relegation. Relegation meant becoming an officer six months later than one's contemporaries, carrying the baggage of shame to have been left behind. Military men, after all, are trained to win! There is no time for losers!
We are on an outdoor exercise (training), being put through our paces in the various operations of war. The phase that we were in at that moment was Advance to Contact and Quick Attack.
This was a two sided exercise, where we the attackers were from One Company, while the 'enemy', who were practising the Defence operation of war, was from Another Company of another Battalion.
To supervise us we had one Captain of our Company as the Directing Staff (DS). He was also in charge of our Platoon. He was a prize twat (idiot) and a sadist, who thought all GCs were untermenschen and to be treated as such. In particular, he detested the two of us, whom he promptly assigned as Scouts for the exercise.
So, I got designated as the scout of our Platoon along with the other GC.
Scouts, as you are aware, operate in pairs. Their task was to see the enemy first and observe him undetected. The scouts then achieved a number of tactical goals i.e. retain the initiative, bring indirect fire to bear on the enemy, help larger units to manoeuvre and destroy the enemy, and if necessary, use direct fire to kill the enemy.
We were in the jungles of Raiwala which has fairly thick undergrowth and what lies below them cannot be seen. One had to move with caution and care.
The other chap with me as the Scout was a flamboyant chap. He has stuck a feather in his jungle cap. I did not know whether it was for fashion or he thought he could outwit the 'enemy' by masquerading as a rather scrawny crow that has come out of a crow fight. Be that as it may, we proceeded with our task while the Platoon followed at the prescribed distance as per the Pamphlet behind us. Technically, it should have had eyeball contact, but in a jungle that was not feasible and so it was on a guess and sound of movement of the Scouts.
We were moving in to where the 'enemy' was. Given the thick foliage and undergrowth, it was assumed that the enemy would have their OPs (Observations Post) well ahead of their defences so as to raise a timely alarm. Therefore, we had to move extra cautiously so as to avoid them, or catch them unaware and make them 'prisoners' before they could raise the alarm.
It was heavy going pushing the foliage gently and at the same time taking measured steps to not crackle loudly the dry twigs and dry leaves. We knew we were close to the 'enemy'.
Being a Scout is very arduous and tiring and so the two Scouts who work in pair, interchange positions so that one can ease off a wee bit, even though remaining sharp.
And so, we the pair of Scouts were inter changing our positions as and when required or desired by the Lead Scout.
At that moment, the other chap was the Lead and I was Number 2 Scout. We were plodding through and very carefully searching ahead and keeping our ears cocked and our eyes sharp. Nothing unusual could be detected so far, though we knew we were close.
The weather was hot and humid. Apart from the acidic sweat rolling down from the forehead burning the eyes, the invisible insects were also making things tiresome. It was not a happy scene.
The Number 1 Scout signalled me that I should take over. I closed in a quietly as feasible to take over.
When we changed Scouts, we also halted, which also halted the Platoon behind us. At this halts, we also used our ears to listen via what was known as the 'listening drill'. In actuality, it also gave us a break to overcome fatigue, more so for the Platoon following who were carrying the heavier equipment like the heaviest Radio Set ever made in history – the 31 Set!
As we were about to change the Scout, what happened? Lo and behold, who do we see coming in? You guessed wrong! Not the 'enemy', but that despicable twat, checking to see if we had gone off to sleep 'at the post'! Merrily crackling the dry twigs and dry leaves he came barging in like a Bull in a China shop! We were seething inside, but were helpless to tell this buffalo that he was waking the dead, let alone the enemy!
He was furious. What were we halting for? He thought he was talking in whispers but if that was whisper, then in comparison, Mount Vesuvius erupts most silently!
I could not help it, but subconsciously, my finger when to my lips – the symbolic movement that signifies 'silence'. The man nearly burst a blood vessel! He got close to my ear, his bushy moustache ticking the membranous labyrinth of my ear, where the fibres of the auditory nerve connect the ear to the brain. Fortunately, the ear cannot laugh when tickled! With bated breath furiously erupting like a Vesuvius, he used the most colourful language that only Punjabi can boast and told me to get a move on or get shafted!
Under such excellent circumstances that 'motivated' me immensely, I moved on. And so did the column in my wake, while the DS went to roast and harangue someone else, in his most despicable way, in the rear of the Platoon.
And so we plodded on for the next half hour.
The humidity was getting our goat. And yet, with this long walk, tedious and time consuming, my bladder seemed to be bursting. I would have stopped normally and try the 'listening drill' and relieve myself of the burden and extra weight, but it would be too horrifying an experience to have visitation once again by our Platoon's pet buffalo, euphemistically called DS.
So, I started emptying my bladder on the move, taking care to positioning the emitter 60 degree to the perpendicular so as to not soil my pants with the droplet drifting in the air! The Scout No 2 watched in amazement and amusement, but neither missed the pace of our movement! The pet buffalo's visitation was hauntingly fresh!
Suddenly, there was a horrifying yell from the undergrowth to the left where a sizeable amount of water, if you will, seemed to have descended!
We (both the Scouts) rushed to the source of the audio disturbance. We rummaged the undergrowth and what do we see? It was the 'enemy' OP who had thought it was an ideal job to 'goof away' or sleep it out after a hard nights task of digging defence! He was still dazed. We clapped his mouth so that he could not shout.
The Scout No 2 rushed back to inform the Platoon to take action and attack since we had got a fair idea of the enemy defence from the sleeping OP.
However, there is honour amongst GCs as also there is honour amongst thieves. The poor GC's pathetic eyes begging for mercy got the best of brotherhood out of me. So, while I calculated the time by which our Platoon would be ready to launch an attack, the leading section having taken up a firm base which I could see, I gave a chance to the sleeping enemy OP to alert his defence, by allowing him letting out a blood curdling yell.
And then all hell broke loose!
Out Platoon's war cry resounded, with many a feet running in the direction of the 'enemy defences' and the 'enemy' rushing into their trenches to face the 'onslaught'.
While this was on, the 'enemy' OP and I sat down to watch the 'fun' as spectators, the OP being good enough to share a banana with me and Scout No 2.
Till this day, Scout No 2 nor the 'enemy' OP, nor me ever opened our mouth to tell the 'Untold Story' of the miracle of Liddell Hart's military theory of 'expanding torrents' and it given an ingenuous and innovative GC's twist!
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