Army was Olive Green Read online

  Chapter 7: John had passed the baton

  Yesterday, I met Varsha. She is the granddaughter of my unit’s first Commanding Officer (CO). Varsha is almost a Xerox copy of her father, John. The same shy smile, the same honest and open face. John played hockey well and he played football well. He brought alive a party with his wit and his soulful songs. He was as good a soldier as you will ever find. Most of all, he was a good human being. Suma, our first CO’s eldest, got married to him. There wasn’t a girl in the cantonment who hadn’t sighed when Suma got married to him.

  The men loved him. There wasn’t a problem that John couldn’t solve. There wasn’t a mission impossible. He never did have a to-do list, always had a have-done list. Those were such heady days as subalterns. As the years passed, each mission got more treacherous and more intractable. But John was always up to it; never gave an inch and he never ever flinched. He wouldn’t change his life for anything else. Home was where the unit was. His father, though never commanded our unit, officered the unit for long.

  We grew up together, John and I, in the same battalion. Then we went our ways. I got posted out of the unit and that was the last I saw of John.

  A country extracts a heavy prize from her most caring sons. One day, John did not come back from a mission. He fell while stopping bullets meant for his comrades. Good soldiers, much like dreams, die young.

  Many years passed and I met Suma in her house. John’s smiling photo was looking down at me. Suma caught me looking at him. She said to me, “There is one person in this house who never grows old.” The old adage had rediscovered itself; time and tide hang on for the martyrs.

  But others do grow old. Varsha grew up. I met her yesterday at the Command Hospital. She had come over from Officers’ Training Academy where she was undergoing training to become an officer. She had injured herself during training and needed hospitalisation.

  John had passed the baton to her.

  A teacher said, ‘Teachers are the children of a better God.’ If you can, join the teaching profession. If you can’t, join the Army. It will be worth your while.

  Chapter 8: Wish List

  There is a rumour that exNDAs (those who passed out of the National Defence Academy) can go back to the Academy and choose to do any of the following. This is a onetime offer. As a freebie along with this offer, the Academy will reset the Academy clock to the year you passed out:

  You are allowed to attend Comm's (Commandant’s) tea with foreign cadets

  Explanation: You only attend Comm’s tea if you are on Relegation Warning List (RWL for the initiated). You can be on RWL for a variety of reasons: you are weak in academics and have less than 3.75 CGPA, you are weak in Physical Training (PT) and have not passed any of the prescribed PT or swimming tests, and you are poor in discipline and have already done 38 Restrictions (a euphemism for torture). You can also be invited for Comm’s tea without any of the above caveats if you are a foreign cadet.

  You are allowed to take the NTT (Naval Training Team) short cut

  Explanation: The NTT shortcut cuts across a long and circuitous route from the movie hall to the cadets’ dining hall. If you just finished watching a movie in the weekend and want to reminiscence the song and dance of the movie in peace you had better take the NTT short cut. God knows which Sergeant would be lurking where and suddenly the word ‘THAM’ (Stop) ring out and the punishment routine starts. You roll on the road in mufti, and you do pushups and star jumps in mufti, till all the afterglow of the movie is obliterated. But you could avoid all this by taking the NTT short cut. The NTT has Chinese grass spread on manicured lawns. And in any other place save NDA it would be a great place for an evening stroll. But that’s not the reason for the advocacy of the NTT short cut after movies. You reach straight to the cadets’ Mess and have more time to eat your dinner. (God knows that in the NDA your stomach forever growls with hunger) But there is a catch! If you are caught taking the NTT short cut only God can help you through the rest of the term.

  You are allowed to walk off anytime during the movie

  Explanation: Now, isn’t that a luxury? Ordinarily, after a movie, first the instructors would leave, then the six termers would leave, then the fifth termers would leave… If you happen to be a lowly first termer you would probably reach the Mess when linen on the dining tables was being taken away: a hungry double march back to your squadron. And again, if you are a first termer, God knows what fate awaited you there. So, if you could walk away just when the ‘The End’ flashes on the screen, wouldn’t it be cool?

  You can throw any Sergeant's bike into Charlie squadron well.

  Explanation: Charlie squadron has a unused well behind its drill square. Many a Sergeant found his bicycle there. The more f*ker type Sergeant you are, the more chances there is that one day your bike will reach the bottom of that well. Ordinary cadets, fed up with the tyranny of the tyrants, had only one way to relieve their angst: throw the bike of the Sergeant into Charlie squadron well. Now, the Sergeant had work on his hands. Let us see how he fishes his bike out of the well!

  You can hijack all the pastries for the day

  Explanation: On certain days, the catering officer feels charitable and sends pastries along with cold coffee in the evening. Cold coffee and pastry is the nearest thing to heaven that you can ask as a cadet. There is one pastry for each cadet. Not so bad, if you think of the size of the pastries that the catering officer sends to the squadrons. But the problem is that the pastries are taken from the tea room in a term-wise hierarchy. Of course, it is the same everywhere. Let’s say you are a third termer and you are waiting for your turn to get your hair cut in the barber shop. You have been waiting for an hour. Saunters in a fourth termer. He gets to have his hair cut first; he jumps the queue with impunity because a fourth termer is always greater than a third termer. A third termer is always greater than a second termer… A similar thing happens in the tea room. The sixth termer comes first, always and every time. The fifth termer comes next…If you are a first termer and have dared to come to the tea room, you will probably get a glimpse of the empty pastry trays. So, it is bliss if you are able to hijack all the pastries for the day.

  You can watch the drill competition from outside

  Explanation: Drill Competition time is a time when the entire Academy is reverberating with sounds of Tham. The drill word of command Tham is the Indian equivalent of Halt. If you are marching to the cadets’ Mess before dinner in your squadron’s rank and file, you do a Tham before the portico of the Mess: the more bullet-shot-like the sound of the Tham is, the more scare you put into other squadrons. But such an awesome sound doesn’t come for free. You sweat from all your pores for days together in the drill square and in the squadron parade ground before you come close to even a disjointed staccato sound. All this is not counting the sweaty hours that you put in to get the polish on your brass. After a while, your hands perpetually smell of brasso and spit. Well, given all this, it’s not difficult to imagine why someone would want to watch the drill competition from the outside. For all its travails at the brass tacks end, it’s a great and keenly fought competition: a must see from the outside.

  You can ride up the rape hill in a Hummer

  Explanation: You have just turned the corner at the lone tree hill. You lungs are about to burst. You are in the midst of a frenetic cross country run. Now looms the rape hill, so-called because it is a hill with a 90 degree incline. You are expected to run up that 90 degree incline. You are wearing your squadron colours and that's as good a reason there ever will be to die panting than to give up. Obviously, it will help if you have a Hummer to take you up the slope.

  You can go up Singarh in a Jonga

  Explanation: It’s called a Singarh trek. It is actually a euphemism for a long, long march. You have done something silly and were stupid enough to get caught. Your squady (Squadron Commander) awards you one Singarh. Singarh is a fort near Pune. It is a fort perched on top of a hill. It is a fort that some very brave M
aratha warriors stormed from its blind side by hanging on to the tails of giant lizards, also called goh by the locals. You are allowed to take the road but it is long hard road to Singarh fort in Field Service Marching Order less 08 pack. It will definitely help if you were allowed to go up the Singarh fort in a Jonga. (Jonga was a wheeled vehicle used by the Indian Army for traversing rough terrain)

  You can use the ropeway to go up 2475

  Explanation: Those were the days of the inch maps. One inch on the map represented one mile on the ground. In the maps, the heights were given in feet and not in metres. 2475 is a hill abutting the boundary of NDA and is exactly 2475 feet tall. At the bottom of the hill is the firing range. At the bottom is also the start point of an arduous uphill climb. Isn’t that somewhat an idiotic statement? After all, isn’t the bottom of all hills the start point of their uphill climb? True. But here lies the rub. You are expected to run up 2475, again, again and again… till your lungs cry out for mercy. It will help if you are allowed to walk up the hill. And going up that hill in a ropeway will be absolutely a luxury.

  Chapter 9: 360 Degree Appraisals in the Army

  In the Indian Army, 360 degree appraisal would be sacrilege. Why? Because the Army truly believes that “The leader is always right; absolutely and without any reservations”. In fact, in the Army, 240 degrees are left uncovered; formal peer appraisal is absent too.

  But the leader and the peer do get to know his/her 360 degree ratings in subtle ways, more subtle than an elaborate filled up form. Now, the story…

  They had gotten together in a parachute commando Regiment (aka para commando Regiment) to hone their commando skills. These were a bunch of infantry officers and men who were being baptised under the commando agni pariksha1. They were a motley bunch, gathered from different units and organised into homogenous platoons. That is, as homogenous as could be imagined under the circumstances, given that each of their parent infantry unit fiercely declared its unique identity from the rooftops.

  They were a fairly tough bunch but few could hold a candle to the mental and physical toughness of the commandos. The aim of the exercise was to get them up there with the commandos.

  They were three weeks into the grind and had graduated from 8 kilometre speed march to 40 kilometer speed march with a whole lot survival and search and destroy missions thrown in. The search and destroy missions were tough and kept them awake and hungry most nights. But the speed marches were the killers. With 22 kilogram weight, not including ones weapon and ammunition, it was an effort to go 100 meters, let alone 40 kilometres.

  The 40 kilometres course was getting on. Grit was written all over the bunch. But grit was not enough; a type of mental and physical toughness was required that isn’t so common to find. The young lieutenants, leaders of their respective platoons, had a tough job at hand. Not only had they to keep their not-so-homogenous flock together but also needed to ensure that their platoon was among the lead platoons in the march. But that needed unflinching confidence of the troops in their leader. Three weeks isn’t quite enough to build that confidence. But you take what you get, don’t you?

  At the turning point –at the 20 kilometer mark, that is – in one of the platoons, a soldier rushed up to his leader, a young lieutenant, and offered water from his water bottle. As much as ammunition, water is the other most prized possession of a soldier. And if the soldier is parting with water then the recipient of this gift is as dear to him as his own life. In this case, the officer hadn’t even asked for water.

  The lieutenant had passed the test. His subordinate had appraised him and the officer had come out trumps.

  This is 360 degrees appraisal for you in the Army.

  Notes:

  1 agni pariksha: ‘Agn’i means ‘fire’ and pariksha means test. When put together, these two words in most Indian languages mean ‘a test under fire’.

  Chapter 10: A street with a name

  Arun and I were good friends then. We were in class six in a Government School in Narayanpur. Arun's brothers, Tarun and Varun, were also studying in the same school. Karun, the eldest of the siblings, had gone to the Indian Military Academy. The entire school prayed fervently that Karun would soon come out of the Academy with two glistening stars, one on each of his shoulders. After all, it wasn't that everyday that one of our schoolmates became an Army officer. We were in the times between the two Indo-Pak wars of 1965 and 1971. During that time it was heady to become an Army officer. I hadn't seen an Army Officer in flesh and blood out there in the public, much less one who had graduated from my own Alma Mater.

  So we waited with bated breath.

  Finally, one day Arun told me that he would not come to school the next day because Karun -read Second Lieutenant Karun- was coming home. Arun had to go and receive his brother at the Narayanpur railway station. I envied Arun. The next best thing to being an Army officer was to be his brother. Still I thought, the next best thing to that was to be the brother's friend. So I asked with some trepidation whether I could also be part of the welcoming committee.

  “Why not? After all, Tarun's and Varun's friends would be there too. So, why not you?” said Arun in his most patronising voice. “There will be an army out there to welcome him, but I guess we will be able to squeeze you in.”

  On the momentous day, I wore my best – which actually was my only one I had – and presented myself on platform Number 2 of Narayanpur railway station. A motley crowd had already gathered on the platform. I recognised some of the faces but I couldn't see Arun yet.

  So, self importantly I asked one out of the crowd, “Does the first class bogie come to a halt here?”

  “Yes, son. Have you come to receive Karun too?”

  “Yes sir! I have come to receive Second Lieutenant Karun,” I just couldn't resist the Second Lieutenant bit.

  “Ha, ha, ha... haven't we all! But here comes Karun's ... I mean, Second Lieutenant Karun's kith, ... ha, ha, ha! ”.

  I saw Arun strutting around in his Sunday best. He wouldn't come near me. He kept with his family. The bloody show-off! I would show him in school tomorrow!

  The train was taking its time to arrive and the conversation was becoming a little strained now. Congratulations for Karun's parents had gone round many times and there wasn’t much to talk about except the rising prices. Finally, one of the uniformed railwaymen struck the narrow, rectangular bell hanging from platform's bulwark, heralding the coming of the train. As the mighty leviathan chugged in, it sent a tremor through the platform. The first class came to rest just in front of the boisterous crowd. Arun, Tarun, Varun couldn't endure it anymore and jumped inside the train. Couldn't blame them though, I was feeling like that myself. I had never seen the insides of a first class railway compartment and I was dying to see one. But I was a nobody in that crowd and I patiently remained standing on the platform.

  Second Lieutenant Karun emerged from the train, resplendent in his uniform; peak cap on his crown, Sam Browne belt strapped across his shoulder, a Regimental cane in his hand and a shy smile on his handsome face. If ever there was a dashing young hero going out to war with trumpets sounding and pennons fluttering, Karun just looked like one. I kept looking at him for ages; talk of shock and awe! Karun dived down and did pranam to his mother and father. Handshakes followed. Karun's buddies from school had also come and there was a lot of back slapping as well. The welcoming ceremony went on and on. I, unfortunately, never got a chance to shake the hero's hand.

  The hero did a right about turn and went to the tonga stand. I am not sure if there was any taxi in Narayanpur in that age but even if there was one, I doubt if Karun and his family could afford one. So all the family piled up into the tonga and the horse carriage took off like a stone released from a catapult.

  The years rolled on. My family moved out of Narayanpur and slowly all links with the town got severed with time.

  Long after Karun's homecoming, I returned to Narayanpur for some official work. After I had done with my work, I had a few
hours before my train left from Narayanpur. As I made my way through Narayanpur bazaar, nostalgia came over me. I hungrily soaked in the sights and sounds from my childhood. Most things had changed. But some sights, I knew instinctively, would not change; Chotu Motu, the sweat shop, for example. Outside of Bengal, this shop sold the best rasgollas in India. Sure enough, there it stood in old Narayanpur, and business was as brisk as ever.

  But there was a place of pilgrimage that I had to visit - Arun's house. I hoped that Arun's family would still be there in their two-room rented apartment. I made my way to where I thought should be Arun's house. But everything had changed. I couldn't find any of the old landmarks. Where had Himmat-Singh-ka-dera gone? That couldn't have gone, I reasoned. It was a walled fortress. But it had gone. In its place were flats, flats and more flats. I couldn't find the old Benares paanwala. Here, Arun often stopped to listen to Hindi film songs over Vivid Bharathi, a popular Indian radio station. I couldn't find the Government Ration shop either. Here, Arun often joined the queue after school to fetch five litres of Kerosene. I was getting a little confused. Had I missed the neighbourhood completely and was I at some other mohala? The shops in the street had boards with addresses that didn't mean a thing to me. At least, I now knew that I was on KM Street. Not that this knowledge helped me in any way to get my bearings.

  I asked for the house of the four brothers Karun, Tarun, Arun and Varun to what must be a hundred people. “Here in KM Street?” they asked and then shrugged their shoulders.

  It was Akhateej season and the sky was full of kites. The kite fights filled the sky. Once a while a shout rented the sky, “Bho kaata!” It was a victory cry of the winner of the kite duel. The losing kite floated listlessly across the sky, adrift, severed from its tether. The loser pulled frantically at the fallen thread to salvage as much of it as he could. A pack of boys took off after the fallen kite with sticks and poles. Whoever reached the kite first and shouted “Kapar Lee” had the right over the fallen kite. Presently, a shout rang out, “Kapar Lee”. Someone had claimed the kite.