MY FIRST DAY IN THE NATIONAL DEFENCE ACADEMY (NDA)
THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON
My army life has been tumultuous. It couldn't be anything else. The day I was selected at the SSB (Service Selection Board) China attacked India! So, not unusually, my life has been one of interesting battles for (not 'in') life.
This story is about the first day of my military career when I joined the National Defence Academy (NDA) – the nursery of the Indian Army.
I joined the NDA on 5th January 1963. It happened to be my birthday too!
On the assigned date of joining, I steamed in on the 'Deccan Queen' (a prestigious train in those days) into Poona, and right into the arms of an officer and some overzealous jawans (troopers) forming the Reception Committee. Thereon, the rickety military Studebaker truck rattled us past the majestic Deccan plateau and into Khadakvasla.
The first glimpse of the NDA was awe inspiring. Majestic buildings unobtrusively dotted the immense green expanse of lush forestry. The signature dome of pink sandstone called the Sudan Block rose upwards as if in salute. The bountiful silence of the forestry blanketed us into a pleasant serenity of a world at peace and order.
We disembarked at the Cadets Mess – an imposing one storey building. We were convinced that there could be no better profession than being a soldier and an officer. After the preliminaries were over, the officer in charge there assigned me to 'Dalda' Squadron, as was conveyed to me by the hired help. That was my first shock. Imagine, Dalda (it was a popular hydrogenated oil brand) – hydrogenated oil! It was only later that I came to realise that the unlettered helps could not pronounce 'Delta' (the military phonetic for the letter 'D') and so they called it Dalda, being a name they were familiar with!
A civilian bearer (hired help) picked up my huge trunk and bedroll and cockily commenced leading me to my 'officers' quarters (as I had imagined), walking down the slope to 'A' Battalion.
Lo and behold, hardly had I entered 'A' Battalion when a chap in khaki half pants with spindly legs halted me. Like a jagirdar (feudal lord) talking to his serfs, he saucily ordered me to carry my trunk – all of its six feet length – on my head! Bloody cheek I thought, especially since he appeared a village bumpkin with a dreadfully unintelligible accent. Peter Sellers' rendition of 'Indianised' English would have easier on the ear than that of this bloke!
I was thoroughly baffled, perplexed and odd at ease.
I flatly refused carrying the trunk on my head. However, the menacing growl like a pit terrier emanating from this chap dawned on me that this was not the time to show valour; at least not on the first day of my military career! I tried to carry the trunk, but being the 90 lb weakling, I crumpled under the weight.
This bloke compressed with laughter and I was allowed to wend my way beyond. I felt like a worm.
A few moments later I reached 'Dalda' Squadron. By then I was quite deflated and ashamed of myself that I had wilted. Hardly the signs of being a soldier to save the country!
I entered the Squadron to be met by the most hairy thing that I ever saw in my whole life – Corporal AS! He was indeed huge and hairy. He was a Sikh and so it was natural that he would be whiskered and with beard. In fact, it took time to realise that through all that hair, there were eyes peering at me.
"What are you?" said this matchless thing, which I had mistaken for some exotic South Pacific tropical tree. It was getting queerer by the minute. Instead of 'who', this odd fish had used 'what'. What am I? Obviously, a human being! This was an observable fact.
Giving him the benefit of doubt, in a clear voice I replied "SK Raychaudhuri". Three times did he ask, as Anthony had asked of Caesar, and three times I replied the same!
This 'tree' turned pinker than his natural pink. At least he was turning pink in the areas that I could observe. "Are you a Bhangi?" asked Corporal AS. Now, while I knew passable Hindi I was not endowed with such technical Hindi. Naturally, I was confused. However, enlightenment dawned on me.
I surmised that most probably he was trying to say 'Bengi' as the Anglo Indians (in my school) called us Bengalis. I was getting used to the fact that fellows in the NDA had unusual English accents (this I later learnt was the upcountry inflections)
With a radiant smile I proudly said, "Yes".
Corporal AS recoiled as if he had seen the ghost of Caesar. He was incredulous! Keeping a safe distance, thrice (it was his habit of repeating himself thrice) he asked the same question and thrice and I answered the same – thrice.
"Do you know the meaning of Bhangi?" asked AS totally disbelieving.
"Why not? I presume you mean a 'Bengali'," said I.
Corporal AS buckled with the mirth, the laughter almost similar to a steam engine chugging away from a station with the wheels sipping on the rails. His belly fat quivered like Pompeii about to spew.
As his amusement faded like a wailing banshee, he bellowed, "Silly man Charlie bai (boy). It's not a Bengali, Bhangi means a scavenger. A sweeper. Are you a sweeper?"
George Washington could never lie. I too could not.
"No. I am not a scavenger."
Huge that he was, with avuncular kindness, he pronounced, "You no longer civilian. You now Cadet. Be prod (proud). You now 'Cadet Chodri' and add 'Sir' to all seniors."
While I had no objection to being a 'Cadet', I somehow could not reconcile to the pronunciation of my name since it had an obnoxious sexual connotation when said in Hindi. I, however, kept my counsel. It dawned on me that I was no longer a human being – instead I was a Cadet!!!!!!
I had barely walked two steps when another unique specimen of humanity accosted me. It was a 3rd termer. It was another inquisition about my antecedents I was subjected to, possibly worse than that experienced by Al Qaeda prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. I was careful to add the word 'Cadet' and suffixed sentences with a 'sir'. I thought he was satisfied and would allow me to proceed. But much to my chagrin, he instead asked me to start front rolling!
Catch me knowing what front rolling was. In deference to my wonderment, in the best of military curtness, he collared a 2nd termer for a demonstration.
The demonstration seen, I exclaimed, "Ah, I see what you mean, sir. A Somersault!"
This specimen, from the Bal Mukund belt (a vernacular school from Kiomandi (clarified butter wholesale market of an upcountry city), was furious. He had not understood what a somersault was. His face gave that away. For all I know, he thought it was some special salt that one took during summer to beat dehydration and that I was being blasted cheeky, it being winter now.
"O getting clavar (clever)? Al-rat (All right), you do five somersaults and eight wintersaults". It had to be done. In the process, I got terribly giddy because instead of rolling over forward or backward, I merely wobbled upside down, holding the pose involuntarily in a semi sirshashan (yogic headstand), to crumple like a deflating balloon, returning to terra firma with an all resounding thud.
Then more blokes arrived.
I was something like a new addition to a Zoo. I was about to say "Take me to your leader" as they say in the comic books when Martians land on Earth. But then, they didn't give me chance.
"Hop and Rotate."
What, in the name of Dickens, was that? My blank look encouraged a senior to collar yet another of the demonstration species – the 2nd termer. The demonstration was executed. It was asinine.
I hopped and rotated like some mentally depraved frog with a sexual fantasia. I am sure such a pose would be in the Kamasutra, but for frogs only. Having hopped and rotated adequately long, I thought I could now go.
No way. The next lot came.
This was like Chinese human wave attack tactics – one wave after the other. They watched me hopping and rotating and the way I was at it, I thought I could have won the figure skating in the Olympics for frogs and other deprived species! However, this new lot had other preferences. They wanted music accompaniment. I, therefore, found myself hopping and rotating, singing my name in 27 different tunes. Why 27? Ask these mental morons.
New 'murgas' (chicken: male and of the 1st term variety) arrived. They lost interest in me. God, where were you all this time?
The bearer (remember him? He had carried my luggage) read a list and ushered me to a ground floor room. These rooms they called as 'kebin' (Indianised version of 'cabin'). Hardly had I entered my cabin and put my things down when Corporal AS surfaced. He hauled me off to his 'kebin', where I found Cadets ASJ and KSR (both my coursemates and first termers) already there.
Astonishingly, I found them convoluted in the 'murga' position (squatting on the haunches and holding their ears, having put the hands through under the knees!). I was awfully amused. India had no Olympic gymnast and yet here they were hell bent in making us India's pride in the next!
I was asked if I could sing. I could. Corporal AS beamed. He excitedly thundered that I should sing 'Do hanso ka jora, bichar gaye re' (I learnt later it was a popular song of two swans separated and reunited). Funny guy, this Corporal AS. He knew that I knew no Hindi, let alone Hindi songs. Though fear crazed that this would lead to more callisthenic, I informed him it had to be only Elvis or Pat Boone.
"Bone? No picking of Bone. You sing. Sing anything, you silly English-boy. You bladi mane.". Corporal AS always ended every sentence with 'Bladi Mane' (Bloody Man). Even 'good morning' had this appendage.
He was dissatisfied with my rendition of Jailhouse Rock. He found it 'very noisy'. Imagine a Sardar ( Sikh Gentleman; though I could never fathom till date why the 'Gentleman' had to be added when describing a Sikh chap) finding Jailhouse Rock as 'noisy'! I wonder if he had heard the Punjabi song 'Main choot bolia koina, something kufartoliya koina, balle balle "¦.broooooo. Surely that is not melody. In fact, it was pure, unmitigated roar of an avalanche in the Himalayas! It was sheer cacophony! Imagine the temerity to call Jailhouse Rock, sung by the international heart throb, as noise!
By this time, KSR and ASJ were allowed to resume the vertical position and were in boisterous unison singing AS's favourite – Do hanso"¦.. It is a different issue that both these boys were more like wet murgis (chicken) by then; forget about their being hans (swan)!
After inane questions on our sex life and other mundane nonsense, we were allowed to go.
We peeked out and seeing the coast clear tried to scamper to our 'kebins'. But whom do you find waiting? It was none other than Cadet R. We didn't know his name then, but later, he became as indelible in memory as Hitler to Jews!
We walked into Cadet R's metaphoric embrace"¦"¦"¦"¦"¦"¦ but then it's another story.
Awesome narration ! I felt as if, I am not reading but seeing the things in front of me ! 
