After Dinner Walks

We became Sub-Lieutenants  on  01  July  1979  and  our  course  comprising  of about  65  officers  were divided  into  two  lots  and  posted  to  various  Training Establishments  in  Kochi.  INS  Venduruthy  is  located on  the  scenic  Wellingdon  Island  of  Kochi  and  is  the  training  Establishment  of  the  Navy.  The  Base  offers  a perfect  setting  for  under-trainees  with  its  rows  of  spacious  cabins  and  facilities  like  swimming  pool, tennis,  squash,  movie hall,  etc.  The Officer’s  Institute  is  also  just a  stone’s  throw  away  for a  quick evening drink.
I  wasn’t  rich  enough  to  buy  a  bike  so  I  chose  a  cabin  close  to  the  dining room  to  cut short  the  time taken to  walk  for my  meals.  These  cabins  were  available  at  a  premium  and  given  on  sharing basis  between  two officers.  My  cabin  orderly  was  a simpleton and we had no  choice  but  to  speak to each other with a combination of sign language and English,  since  I  didn’t  know  Malayalam and  he  didn’t  know  Hindi.
The  first  night  after  returning  from dinner I  met  him  at  the  entrance  of  our block  and  enquired whether  the other  officer  was  in  the  cabin  or  had  gone  for dinner.  His  reply  was  “Saab  is  playing  with  the balls.”  The  thought  of Saab  ‘playing  with  the  balls’  ran  through  my  head  and rolled  over me  like  a  tidal wave rolls  over hills  and  valleys  and  flattens  everything  it  hits.  My  first  thought  was  that  saab  had  gone bananas,  ‘playing  with  the  balls’  in  plain  sight  of  the  orderly.  So  I  decided  to  go  for a long  walk  and  give saab  enough  time  to  finish  with  what  he  was  doing, before  returning to  the  cabin. The  second  evening,  the  incident  repeated  itself when  he  told  me  “Saab  is  playing  with  the  balls.”  Another long  walk  followed.   I  couldn’t  take  this  anymore.  I  decided  to  launch  my  own  tactical surge  and  tell  saab  to  keep  his  affairs private and out  of  sight of the public domain.
So  on  the  third  night  I  confronted  the  saab  before  going to  dinner  and  started  a conversation. “You  ought  to  visit  the  Reading Room  after  dinner.  Its  open  till  late  in  the  evening. You  could  indulge yourself with some light reading after dinner, before finally crashing into bed.”
Saab  frowned  at me  and  seemed  to  roll  the  thought  around  his  mind  “I  don’t  like  reading  magazines” he said  matter-of-factly.
 I  tried  a  more  egalitarian  approach  “I  go  for  evening  walks  to  soothe  my  nerves,  why  don’t you?”  I blurted.
Saab  leant  back  on  his  chair with  his hands  folded behind  his  head  and  looked  infuriatingly  pleased  with  himself.  “I had  a  wonderful  evening,  for  your  kind  information.  Also  I  don’t  need  to  soothe  my  nerves”  he  said, looking  relaxed  and  ready  for a little  callousness.
I  stared  at  him  as  muddy  thoughts  moiled  around  in  the  murky  depths  of  my  muddled mind.  
I  was  about  to  pull  the  plug  on  the  whole  incident  when  the  civilian  bearer walked  into  the  cabin  and started  looking  backwards  and  forwards  between  Saab  and  me as if he were watching a tennis match  and  finally  said  “I  told  you  sir,  I  saw  Saab playing  with  the  balls  in  the  Billiard  room.” It  all suddenly  made  sense to  me  in  flash,  as  I  burst  out  laughing!!!

Breakfast with the Admiral

On 1^st July 1979, I was promoted to the rank of sub-Lieutenant and with the single stripe on my shoulders began carrying the burden of the President’s Commission for the next 26 glorious years. Back then I didn’t even have money to stitch my uniforms, so my mother paid for my first set of uniforms. For a penurious naval officer, I was quite well off when I stitched a pair of Ceremonial uniform with mess shirt (Dress No 2), a pair of working uniform (Dress no 8A) and a pair of the ubiquitous Navy shorts and shirt (Dress no 8). And I bought a pair of stripes and shoes with white stockings.
I was hardly a month into my Subs Courses when they decided to have a Ceremonial Parade and by cast of lots two other Sub-Lieutenants and I were chosen to attend the Parade. That morning I woke up late and just about made it for the Parade in time, after quickly changing into my new uniform with the Mess Shirt. For arriving thirty seconds late on parade, one of the senior officers made me run a round of the Parade ground before taking up rank and file in the Platoon. This was a mean thing to do, especially before the start of the parade. The summer weather was sultry and oppressive and I began sweating excessively in the stifling atmosphere, having run a full one Kilometer in the presence of junior sailors. I was cursing myself for wearing the mess shirt inside my uniform, as I noticed a large number of officers were wearing plain vests. There was little I could do about it, except grumble to myself.
Soon the parade began and Admiral Oscar Stanley Dawson, the Flag Officer Commanding-in-Chief began inspecting the parade. The Direct Entry Officer standing next to me was light years smarter than me and very quickly gave me a lesson about the Admiral’s name and decorations and names of all the other senior officers in the Command. Admiral OSD was known to be a hard task Master. He was a bachelor and had led a life of ambition and anguish, the difficulties of which bred in him an iron will and a deep resentment for anything that was not up to the highest standards of military perfection. He saw things as black and white and spoke in blunt terms. If ever he had doubts about anything, he never revealed them, possibly for fear of looking weak. He had a fine mind and a biting wit. From the little I knew or heard about him, whatever he did, he seemed to do with a sense of duty and pleasure, with a methodical and unhurried air of a rich man demolishing a plate of tasty food.
When the Admiral began inspecting my Platoon, I noticed that he was in a jolly good mood and inviting officers to bring their better halves along for breakfast soon after the parade was over. I was hoping he would pass me by, but when he stopped in front of me I went into a funk. He wasn’t a big made man but he looked me in the eye and said “Young man, you are sweating profusely. Have you been up to some mischief? I’m sure you’d like to share your little secret with me, won’t you?” It was a good trick question and was designed to make me choose, on the spur of the moment, on making mischief and confessing about it.  I should have answered in sequence “No sir” and “Yes sir”. But I answered in the opposite, in a most sanctimonious voice – “Yes sir” for the mischief and “No sir” for the confiding in him. The Admiral was taken aback.  His tone unbelievably became more saccharine “Well then, I’m inviting you to breakfast at the Navy House soon after the parade is over.” His words were a wonderfully warm sentiment, until I thought about it later and my gut instinct, built over three years of training at NDA, told me otherwise.
Soon after the parade was over, the officers who had been invited began pouring into the Navy House with their good ladies for breakfast with the Admiral. After shaking hands with everybody and warming up to the invitees, the Admiral ushered us to the open grass lawn where the breakfast was laid out. Then he said “Gentlemen, it’s a very hot day today, I invite you all to take off your tunics and leave your mess shirts on.” Everyone, barring the brand new sub-Lieutenants, was in a fix. Amazingly, none of the senior officers were wearing mess shirts. Some were not even wearing vests and the ones that wore vests had holes, the size of potatoes. Some vests were stained yellow with age. Some vests looked like kitchen rags. Looking at the officers hesitating, the Admiral stood foursquare behind his earlier order “Gentlemen, I insist you take off your tunics.”
The Admiral didn’t have to say very much thereafter – the laughter from the ladies said it all. Some of the bigwigs of the Command, who used to bully the Sub-Lieutenants, scurried to the remote corners of the lawn, in their tattered under garments, some bare chested and some in stains, with their plates in hand. That morning some senior officers ate breakfast as if they were attending a funeral service, as the Admiral spoke to the three sub-Lieutenants, like heroes who had just returned from war.
For me, just as it was for some of the ladies present that day, it was one of those priceless moments when the sunshine takes away all life’s shadows.

The Strange Case of the Stolen Keys

June 1986

Sometime in 1982, under the Stewardship of Admiral Oscar Stanley Dawson, the Navy decided to revamp Operation Awkward and Exercise Gemini of WWII vintage and rename these contingencies Operation Barracuda and Exercise Piranha. Old wine in new bottles. These Naval exercises were designed to protect ships from the threat of underwater saboteurs, surprise raids and terrorist attacks. Detailed orders were documented in a Classified Document, which we used to page muster every day religiously and put back into the safe like gold earrings in a jewelry box, lest the enemy found out our directives and quickly copied them! Eventually the unclassified version was published in the new edition of INBR 1524 and the Junior TAS Manual in 1986.
As in every Organisation, every event in the Navy began with a meeting. So the FOCEF (Flag Officer Commanding Eastern Fleet) held a meeting and reprimanded his Fleet for slacking during night hours and on weekends thus compromising the ship’s security. Commanding Officers held meetings on board their ships and went one step ahead by ordering their OODs to be present on the gangway round the clock, in addition to a quartermaster and the side-boy. (Thus effectively cutting their efficiency by half the next day). Some over-zealous ones insisted on a jetty patrol (consisting of two sentries with whistle, baton and torch) additionally. One Commanding Officer reprimanded his officers for growing thick in the pants because they were watching too many blue movies over the weekend and paying less attention to the security of the ship.
In short the seafarers were being trained for a call they were hoping would never come. But in truth, these highly trained personnel were being forced to spend most of their duty hours looking out for Flag cars and blowing the still pipe – ceremonies which the Royal Navy and the USN discarded decades ago.
I was careering on bravely on INS Androth as Senior Watch-Keeping Officer with two other watch-keeping officers, thereby putting myself on a 24-hour duty cycle every third day at the gangway, with a separate roster for Sundays and holidays. I don’t remember doing very much else except stand at the gangway waiting for time to pass. I now sometimes weep at the thought of having one-third of my life excised in this fashion. Each ship also had two Sub-Lieutenants, who were learning the ropes on board.
Then things took a curious turn. It soon came in vogue to steal another ship’s boat or gangway books at night and return them the next day. The intention was to keep the other ship’s gangway staff alert during silent hours, which in turn would lead to improved security and safety of the whole Fleet. Captains of ships actually encouraged their young guns to show their smartness and perhaps get even with a competitor as a last laugh. With so much time at hand (doing gangway watches) it wasn’t impossible to dream up schemes of daring, deceit, and dacoity.
We used to hold elaborate cloak-and-dagger meetings on board to discuss our weekend strategy.  The last two weekends we had collected a case of beer each from INS Andaman and INS Amini. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to shell out beer to some ship for this weekend’s sloppiness. That Sunday morning the gangway QM sheepishly reported to me that our ship’s keys had been whacked from the gangway. SLt Shiv Bhagwan had buzzed him at 2 a.m. and told him to check the rat traps in the galley. Before leaving the gangway, he had secured the books under lock and key but unknown to him the keys were kept on a nail above his head with a prominent signage ‘KEYS’, which the neighboring ship had obviously seen. What was he to do, poor chap? He was a simple village beatnik. In a manner of speaking it was all Bhagwan’s fault!
I looked across the finger jetty and saw the OOD on INS Arnala waiving my ship’s keys at me and gesturing with his thumb and little finger at his ear to talk on the telephone. Then he began to rock his hips in a lewd mimicry of a sexual act, indicating that I was screwed. This really got my juices flowing. Soon the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and he said “Good morning. I am the Captain speaking”. I replied knowingly “Good for you! And I am the Fleet Commander, you Son-of-a-Bitch. Stop fornicating and return my keys, else I’ll come over there and kick you in the gonads!”
A quick intake of breath on the other end of the line followed by a long pause alerted me to the fact that it was really my Ship’s Captain on the telephone line. I held the phone in one hand and instinctively brought the other hand to my stomach, where fear and dread were twisting together. My stomach pole vaulted over my spleen and the light bulbs in my head began to dim rapidly.
After recovering from this rather unusual Sunday morning greeting the real Captain went on to give me instructions for the day with all the enthusiasm of a terminally ill patient. I was halfway through a polite excuse, when I realized that he had hung up. He hadn’t even given me a chance to explain my virtuosity. That morning I was hoping that some merciful tidal wave would sweep me out to sea for a day. I had no alternative, I was already dead! I figured that I had to do something to secure my moorings on board.
The more I thought, the more I felt that confusion had ambushed me! At lunch time, I doddered to the wardroom bar, and in deference to the temperature outside, got myself a glass of chilled Heineken beer and dropped a depth charge of Old Monk rum in it. Then I sat in a corner and drank deeply from this brutal mix. I guess every boss deserves to be kicked in the pants once in a while, but the irony of my having to spell out it out to my boss would not be lost on him for sure. How could I even tangentially defend such an action? The hollow feeling in my stomach grew more pronounced. My thoughts swirled and mixed, just like the deadly cocktail that I was drinking.
The following morning, when the Captain came on board, my knees were clanking like castanets. His response to my “Good morning sir” was visceral. He walked up the gangway and barked “TAS! In my cabin – NOW! I entered his cabin full of apprehension. “It appears to me that you’ve lost the OOD keys to some ship and you’ve threatened to kick your Captain in his private parts!  You better have a damn good reason for both your actions, tough guy.”
Having said this, he slid off the edge of the desk and stood up ready to deflect any physical assault if need be. Then he folded his hands in a V-shape in front of his body, as if bracing against a kick from me. Soon he felt a tightness in his throat and chest, as a feeling of claustrophobia and confusion began descending on him like a shroud, when he saw me standing meekly at the door.  Eventually he pulled up a chair and sat down.
I could see the sharp edges of anger in his eyes. I took a couple of moments to answer while I watched him sitting there letting the anger work out of him like the heat from the grill of a radiator. His cheeks appeared as pale as recycled paper plates. In psychology this behavior is known as the ‘mad minute’. It is a way of describing a violent outburst that has its roots in several pressures on an individual. It builds up and is released in a quick moment – usually violently, and often against a target not wholly responsible for the pressure.
I took a deep purifying breath. Basically, I was simply waiting for the sails of his anger to lose the wind. “May I sit down, sir? I asked politely. “No, you may not!” came his curt reply. He was certainly suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, as if he had just returned from war, where he was a frontline contender in the crisis, and now he had a bogus job to contend with. I decided to give it my best shot after two more seconds.  “Sir, every time you build a better mouse trap, the mice get smarter!” I said. It was a damp squib, but at least it was a start. “What on earth are you talking about – mouse traps and mice?” he replied. His eyes had widened as if trying to soak up more information from me.
I now had his complete attention, so I got down to the explanation. “Sir, believe me, we run a tight ship. What actually happened was this – The bunch of keys was a fake set. We had set ourselves up to use the same tactics the Army uses ‘Maneuver and Defend’. At least, that was the theory and it worked perfectly well. The fake keys were used to draw the Sub-Lieutenants and QM from INS Arnala to our ship, while our boys were getting hold of their OBM[1] and the ship’s binoculars from their Bridge. So in effect we gave them a fake set of keys and breeched their citadel and took two very important equipment from under their noses. In the evening we traded both items for a case of beer. Like I said sir, we set up a classic rattrap and rang the bell to catch the rats.”
The Captain drummed his pencil on the table before taking up the slack. “Hmmm” he said after several moments. My explanation made him feel confused, guilty and a bit relieved, all at the same time. He nodded as if our ship had scored a point in a game he wasn’t sure how to play. Sometimes, the less you know the better. Then he furrowed his brow. “So what you’re telling me is that our boys were not sleeping and that you used a ruse to fool Arnala and everything is okay on our ship?”
There was a pitch of triumph in my voice. “Exactly sir”, I replied while making a mental note of his quick assessment of the whole situation. His cheeks regained colour. I took it as a sign of declining stress levels. I smiled and flicked my eyes at the only other pair of eyes looking at us in the cabin (The President of India, stuck in a framed portrait). I wanted the Captain to realize the value of Anil Gonsalves and Associates to his ship! This was not the last time he as learning something for the first time on his ship!
“The part relating to knocking you in the nuts can be put down to friendly fire or fratricide or collateral damage. I was actually on the phone with OOD Arnala when we got cross connected. I spoke in Punjabi as friendly banter for my friend across the jetty. Sorry about that sir. ”
He chided me “You’re a saint, buddy. You really are the best. Your skills at deception are only exceeded by your ability to work miracles and then convince me of things even my wife can’t.” I was hoping he would remember this when he wrote my report. And then to lighten the mood he continued “At least I know my heart is strong now. Otherwise I would’ve dropped from a coronary. One thing I haven’t figured out though – if I was fornicating, why would I be calling you?”
Just then the Steward walked in with two cups of tea. “Please sit”, my boss said. “Have a cup of tea”. It was a peace offering, which he pushed across the table. He then smiled at me for the first time that day and said “I liked the term ‘gonads’! Actually I’ve been wanting to improve my own Punjabi for a particular reason. You see, my upstairs neighbor washes his balcony every day and the dirty water falls into my house and creates a mess. I want to call him that… that…, but in a friendly sort of way. Do you have any suggestions?
For a brief second I was taken aback. “Yes sir. I would recommend ‘Dickhead’. You could shout from your window ‘Who is that dickhead who is throwing water into my house? “
“That sounds good TAS.” and he dismissed me.
“Sir, would you care to join us for a beer in the wardroom, at lunch time?” I asked enthusiastically. “We could fill you with the details of our heist.” “Will do. Thanks.” He replied.
Well, it’s not every day that your boss thanks you for threatening to kick him where it hurts the most, and then raises a toast to it!
That weekend CO INS Arnala, who was also the Senior Officer 31^st Patrol Vessel Squadron and the Fleet Captain, held a meeting of all Commanding Officers on board his ship and called for a truce. They concluded that the junior officers were allowed to watch their Blue movies or do whatever it was that they did on weekends.
This was an agreement that could be sold on both sides as a success!

Lord Yamraj's Transport

May 1998 – May 2000

After completing the 49^th Staff College Course at Wellington, I was posted as Chief Instructor at the Institute of Anti-Submarine Warfare at Kochi, followed by three tenures on the Staff of the Fleet Commander, Eastern Fleet, as Fleet Anti-Submarine Officer. Both appointments were considered ‘hot’.  Having served directly under three Admirals in succession, I was expecting to go in command of a missile corvette in the least. Most successful officers did just one tenure on the Fleet Staff and moved onto commanding frontline ships. Since three successive (or should I say successful) Admirals had written my reports, I used to sleep walk with cutlass in hand and began having grand nocturnal visions of leading my own personal Fleet into battle! My wife used to bring me back to Terra Firma with her ordinary 20-20 vision “Go back to sleep, Lord Nelson!”
I never imagined that my personal prognostication was so much off the mark. When the command list was promulgated, I began by looking at the top of the list and as I went further down my heart began missing beats. There at the bottom of the list, in very smudged print, as if as an after-thought, where the rust-buckets are generally listed, my name figured prominently against Lord Yamraj’s transportation vehicle – the Water Buffalo or INS Mahish. What can I say: ‘Kismet, Hardly!’
Mahish was a Polish ship, of WWII vintage design, built in 1985 in Gdansk during the Soviet era by Soviet Naval architects with brains in their backsides. India had acquired four ships in exchange for bananas. The ship was about 60 meters in length and had a large ‘Tank space’ to carry BMP tanks and a Company of Troops. Of course with our Indian ingenuity of ‘much more with much less’, we used to carry the much bigger T-72 tanks, Arty field guns, Troops and assorted paraphernalia. The ship was so awkwardly built that in the calmest weather it would roll a good 20 degrees and in order to keep my balance I had to self-induce a counter-roll of 20 degrees to achieve gyro stabilisation. There were times when I reached home after hardly a day’s work and unconscientiously continued with the 20 degree anti-roll, much to the consternation of my wife and kids. “Mum, why is Pa waltzing around in the house?”
While most warships on our planet sail with both engines in the ahead mode, Mahish had to sail with one engine ahead and the other engine in astern mode!  This was because, the engines were designed without reverse gears, so when you needed to go astern, you had to stop the engines and propellers and fire the engines in the astern mode! Since there were limited air bottles on board to kick start the engine, (and also there was no guarantee the engines would fire with the first salvo of air) it became a practice to handle the vessel with one foot forward and one foot backwards.
What can you expect from dishing out bananas, anyway!
The good thing about Mahish was that she was born to be a beach bum! You could beach Mahish time and again and she would never fail to leave bottom every time you wanted to withdraw (from the beach, ofcourse!). Ships are designed to float and sail on water and the thought of deliberately grounding a ship is the nightmare of every mariner. While, putting her on the beach can be done by any landlubber, taking her out of the beach is the key to the whole operation. To do this, the beach is surveyed by physically measuring depths with hand-lead-line and carefully charting the results, calculating the tide for secondary ports and reducing it to chart datum, establishing the gradient of the beach, then adjusting the trim and list of the ship by water ballasting the tanks to match the gradient, before you can even think about beaching the ship. Don’t forget, the tide is constantly changing. So, if you’ve calculated to beach / un-beach at a particular time, you can’t change the time without going through the entire procedure. Remember ‘Operation Overlord’ of WWII, Landing at Normandy, D-Day and H-Hour on 06 June 1944?  There was a method in the madness for so many days of preparation.
On the issue of beaching, Mahish stole a march over the other Landing Ships of the squadron. I can proudly say that I was so confident of hitting the beach at any time of the night or day that the Fortress Commander would dispatch me to give live demonstrations to all the dignitaries visiting Port Blair. When the time came to embarking the 108 Mountain Brigade with their Tanks and field Arty guns during the Kargil episode, Mahish under my command was the only LST at short notice that set sail for a landing on the Makaran coast. Unfortunately, the cabal of party elders in the Government decided to keep the Navy and AirForce out of the skirmish. In frivolous pursuit of a very vacuous mind, I used to think that the disinclination of other Landing ships to prove their beach-worthiness used to border more on ennui than anything else. After Anand Kulkarni (54/B) left, I took over as
L-19, Squadron Commander of the 19^th Landing Ship Squadron. Sadly, during my deliberations with the young Commanding Officers, they would be indulgently dismissive of my efforts to get them to beach their babies.
Mahish was designed to suffer from multiple personality disorders. The ship was built to withstand a nuclear holocaust and so had very small portholes, the size of saucers. We had to navigate the ship from the open bridge. The wireless sets were valve operated with one operator fanning it desperately, and the other transmitting in short bursts to prevent the valves from heating up. The radar worked on cutting edge technology of 1937, when the first maritime radar was fitted on HMS Sheffield and paved the way for all future radars in the world. One usually had to look out of the porthole to confirm a target acquired on the radar.
I can say with confidence that we operated Mahish with a remarkable combination of sloth and caution. The bower anchor on board was non-operational because the gypsy sprockets had worn out, and likewise for the Scotchman’s plate and links and kenter shackles of the anchor chain cable.  With the unbeatable ingenuity of the Naval Repair yard, they had kept replacing bits and pieces of chain cable, windlass drum, brake liners and bushes from decommissioned vessels till it became difficult to estimate which exactly were the original parts of the original windlass. This left us with only the stern sheet anchor (designed for beaching operations) to anchor our vessel. So, during Formation beaching, while every other ship of the Fleet reverentially pointed to the tide at anchor, we showed our backside in utter disregard. It was bottom’s up, without the Gin pennant!
The ship could do very little apart from beaching, but that didn’t stop us from patrolling the Western entrance of the Malacca Straits and challenging every Merchant vessel that passed that way. Mahish would boom on the wireless “Ahoy, what ship, where bound?” and the big Car-Carriers, Tankers, Bulk Carriers, Passenger vessels and Container ships would salute us by lowering their Red ensign to half-mast.
Mahish had a top speed of 6 knots which strangely coincided with its bottom speed of 6 knots. We had a contingency plan when the Flag was embarked for beaching exercise. With binoculars around my neck and braided sea-cap, I would take position behind the compass pinnacle and holler “Ring on Main Engines”, the Chief Quarter Master would repeat “Ring on Main Engines”, the Side Boy would pick it up and pass it down the voice pipe “Ring on Main engines” and the Engineer Officer in the Engine room would smartly put the engine telegraph to ‘Standby Engines’, with all the toots and whistles accompanying the order. Then we would work our way from, ‘Dead Slow Ahead’ to, ‘Slow Ahead’ to ‘Half Ahead’, to ‘Full Ahead’ and ‘Battle Speed’ in same fashion, without moving even half a knot faster. The Admiral would look at the ship’s wake and smile without saying a word.
Once in a while he would tease me by saying “Up two turns, Captain.” Now to a layman this may sound like “Up yours, Captain!”, but in naval parlance it simply means ‘can you rev up your engines a bit to give us more speed? I would oblige with all the seriousness of an English butler “Sir, request permission to hoist the foxle awning on the main mast and use it as a sail.” The Admiral would graciously wave me off and say “Belay the last order, Captain.”
Apart from high speed manoeuvers of this nature, we executed our signal telegraph messages very seriously. Flag Echo on the halyard meant ‘Senior Officers are having lunch and will thereafter retire for a small snooze’, which was designed to totally confuse the enemy because in the International Code of Signals, Flag Echo stands for ‘I am altering course to stbd.’ Incredible!
Since the mascot for our ship was the water buffalo, one fine day I instructed my Executive Officer to have one brought and tied at the gangway for one of our parties. “Chief, Isn’t it a good idea to get a mascot for the evening’s party?” I said. The ExO replied “I don’t think so sir.” “Just do it, dammit!”, I barked (Like the Admirals I had served with). And it was done. That evening as the party progressed, the ExO came to me “Sir, the mascot has shat all over the entrance to the ship and the guests will have to wade through a pile of dung to get to their cars.” From that day there was no talk of the mascot in my presence, though I was keenly aware of all the wardroom jokes that eventually must have found their way to the Reader’s Digest.
At this point I must narrate a very interesting episode that got the establishment knickers in a twist. My coursemate, Anand Kulkarni (54/B), was commanding INS Kumbhir (another Mahish class of ship). Kumbhir was beset with bigger problems than Mahish. After working very hard with the Naval Repair Yard at Port Blair, Anand got the ship to move its bottom and leave the moorings at Haddo wharf. One Sunday morning, Kumbhir set sail with all gusto at a top speed of 3 knots for her machinery trials. It was a fine Sunday morning and the 108 Brigade Commander was settling down to a-hole-in-one-shot on the golf course when he noticed thick black smoke bellowing out from the funnel of INS Kumbhir in the far distance. Not knowing what to make of it, he called the Fortress Commander and reported that one of his ships was on fire!
The Fortress Commander was taken aback but called up the Operations room and told them to get in touch with Kumbhir on the wireless to check it out. Probably the radio set on Kumbhir wasn’t working too well (valve set and what not of WWII vintage), but when the Ops room didn’t get a reply they panicked and launched a helicopter to investigate the matter.  Meanwhile the Commanding Officer and his brave men on board were sorting out  a few in house issues in the engine room (that’s what they are supposed to do), quite oblivious to the outside world. The Officer on watch in the Bridge saw the chopper, but decided it was a routine flight and didn’t think much about it. When Kumbhir finally made way into harbour about 4 hours later, she was welcomed by a very concerned Three Star Admiral, his staff officers, personal retinue and dog, not to mention of an entire Flotilla of Officers and sailors, who had been pressed into service with a red alert and recall messages to sail out immediately. Anand Kulkarni walked down the gangway of his ship to a rousing reception of rabbling ratio!
In school I used to take part in the 4 x 100 meters relay race. The best runner in a relay is invariably given the last leg and has the advantage of having the whole stadium rise in applause. The second best runner gets the first leg, while the third best runner gets the third last leg, leaving the second leg for the weakest of the four runners. Harold Sir, our sports teacher in school had for some inexplicable reason put me in the second leg, when I deserved to be put on the first leg. Our school was run by the German Jesuits. When I reported the matter to Fr. Oesch, he smiled and said “use this as an opportunity to win the race”.
When the race began and the baton was passed to me, all four first leg runners were more or less neck-to-neck. Since I had a definite edge over all the second leg runners, I took off and gave a huge lead to my team, which continued and we eventually won the race and saved the day for the school.
I remembered this great lesson when I took over command of Mahish.

Mysore Musings

June 1978 – Dec 1978

 

They say, one’s first job, first salary and first love are never forgotten. When we passed out from NDA in the Spring Term of 1978, the naval cadets were instructed to report to INS Mysore at Bombay on 18 June 1978. After a very short break at home, I packed my trunk and boarded the train to Bombay and to my delight found a couple of course mates (Ashokan, SS Chandran, SamT, etc) on the same train. We arrived at VT Station and were bundled into a waiting 3-Tonner, which took us via Tiger gate into the Naval Basin. That morning as the sun was kissing the tops of the Bombay skyline, quietly bobbing in the water, lay the leviathans of the seventh largest Navy in the world.

 

On Cruiser Wharf lay the Submarine Depot ship, Submarine Rescue Vessel and passenger ferries (Elsie, Marie and Nancy). On Barrack wharf were row upon row of Missile Boats (The same ones that decimated Karachi Harbour in 1971) and Seaward Defence Boats. Further up came the submarine Flotillas, the Frigates (both anti-aircraft and anti-submarine) including some rather old-fashioned British hand-me-downs (Kirpan, Kuthar). Then we passed the Torpedo and Duncan docks (built 1779). On the Inner Breakwater stood the Mine Sweepers and a couple of Landing Ships (Tank). The Petya Class ships looked most handsome and deadly with their menacing silhouettes. Next came the Cruiser Drydock on our way to the South Breakwater jetty on which the giants were tied up. There was Vikrant (the Flag ship), the huge Fleet Tankers and the Goliaths Delhi and Mysore. Pinnaces, Captain’s Cutters and Whalers worked their way, criss-crossing each other in the water. I was seeing these magnificent beasts for the first time, but some of the guys were rattling off names and pointing out features, which were hitherto unknown “See those torpedo tubes.”, “That’s an anti-aircraft turret.” and “That flag is the naval ensign.”

 

Meet the Mysore

The 3-Tonner deposited us unceremoniously in front of INS Mysore, with the famous court of arms (the two-Headed Phoenix, symbol of the Mysore Maharajas). Mysore was a monstrosity, the T-Rex of the Indian Navy, the ship that had taken two torpedo hits in WWII and survived. It was a battleship cruiser with a full roster of guns – the three six-inch triple gun turrets (which gave it its diabolical look) that could pulverise a city like Mumbai, the anti-aircraft turrets covering all possible angles and the smaller Gatling guns for close-up action. Up close it looked like a giant Godzilla insect with its numerous tentacles working near its belly. But it was actually a city within the city of Bombay, which came to life every day at 0800 hrs with its own rush hour, when about 600 officers and sailors would begin climbing up the gangway. Mysore’s gravitational pull not only pulled its ship staff but also hundreds of dockyard workers and plenty of visitors including film stars for evening parties. It had its own magical wall separating the cadets from the rest of the ship. Imagine commanding a battleship the size of three city blocks. Mysore was so big and resplendent that it didn’t need a street address, it stood majestically on South Break Water.

 

As we began sidling up the gangway, I began to wonder – ‘the cadets of the 54^th course were ready to enter the Mysore. Question was whether the Mysore was ready to receive the cadets?’ We soon learnt that Mysore was also a safe haven for cadets to get lost in its labyrinth of compartments, hatches, citadels, accommodation, machinery areas, stores and alleyways. It had its own bakery, barber’s shop, dhobi ghat, dental centre, canteen, and Admiral’s cabin. The ship had a lot of redundancy built into it. It had two Bridges with two steering posts, two Operations rooms, Two Captain’s cabins, etc. The kitchen was called the galley, the Cadet’s quarters – the Chest Flat, the ante-room – the gun room, the raised deck- the poop deck, the front deck – the forecastle or foxle, the weather deck hatches – booby hatches, the bilges (where the bare bones of the ship reside) and so on and so forth. Mysore’s portholes were warm and jewel like, her alleyways thrummed with life and the indefatigable permanence of her aged weather deck fittings softened by the catwalk lights became strangely reassuring. But it wasn’t designed to accommodate 75 cadets, most of whom (the NDA lot) excelled in high athletics and hilarious drama. Life at the bottom rung of the Navy had its own share of discomfort, delusion and disparity, as we were soon going to find out.

 

Later on I met up with Ajay Mehta, Banerjee, Aiyappa, Kulkarni, Ganesh, Bhaskar and others. That evening the Sub-of-the-Gun (SLt Sandeepan Banerjee, H/50) enlightened some of us about the Navy. “You will become sub-lieutenants after about a year and Lieutenants in 2-3 years thereafter. But then you’ll be stuck as Lieutenants for about 8 to 10 years till your next promotion.” Eight to ten years!” I thought to myself privately – my dream of becoming Admiral fading rapidly!

 

I noticed to my absolute delight that the Navy did everything ‘bottom’s-up’ style. Remember the Nazi-style drill we learnt on the Drill square at NDA, where we had to bang the soles of our boots, feel the electric shock travel upwards, shout ‘ek-do-teen-ek’, and continue stomping around till our brains were comfortably numb?  Well, all that was down the hatch! I passed the Navy drill in about 15 minutes, with brain intact. For some it took a considerable length of time to unlearn what we learnt at NDA and re-learn it the Navy way.

 

The self-proclaimed leader of the NDA bunch was ‘Bollard’. (To me he looked like a towing bollard with moustache twirled upwards like staghorn.)  He was dumb enough to carry two six-inch shells for punishment, while most of us struggled with one. Bollard could best be described as bull-headed, wacky and totally up his own alley. Many of his tantrums were brought on when it became apparent to him that nautical sciences of any sort was beyond him, forever. He was normally kept on a leash but once in a while some idiot would unleash him to do devastating deeds “Oye, Kuch kar ke dikha yaar!”

 

Bollard would frequently display cognitive deficiency, delusional behaviour and loss of memory. He would wake up early every morning, stand on the ramparts of the Chittorgadh fort and yell at the top of his voice:  ‘Jago, Jago, Mevado, Jago’ much to the consternation of his sleeping course mates. Then he would ride on his imaginary horse ‘Chetak’ and bring everyone to life by poking and prodding them. In NDA he had become infamous for breaking one window pane in his squadron for every exam he flunked in. When he passed out, most of the windows had broken panes. He used to be rather kicked about his own brand of lunacy.

 

Unknown to the Naval Authorities on board, the marriage of NDA and Direct Entry cadets was solemnised by a very strange ritual. The DEs happened to join the ship two days after the NDA baddies reported. Under the leadership of ‘Bollard’, the Baddies mustered the DEs and gave them a thrashing of their lives. They were made to hop, skip and jump. Bollard had six planets orbiting around him in various gymnastic poses. Their meagre six months of training at impeccable Naval Academy hadn’t prepared them for this scurrilous act of chicanery   – which they never forgot, and which they understandably view with considerable trepidation and disgust to this day. For the next four weeks they were made to sweep and swab the Chest Flat and serve meals to their NDA brethren. It was only later that they came to their senses and began demanding equal rights among half-brothers.

 

The cadets were incarcerated in the Chest Flat and the Gun Room. Any thoughts of upgrading from the NDA style of cabins were quickly dispelled. By day we would have classes on the tables and at night we would sleep on and under the same tables, benches, chairs, etc. When the heavens above turned indigo, the Chest Flat became a jamboree of talking, laughing, studying, shouting (not to mention Bollard bench-pressing a mal-nutritioned DE) loquacious brand ambassadors from various parts of the country. Finally, we would fall asleep – but how?  To experience first-hand pipe-down on board Mysore try this: Take a bed sheet and pillow, spread it on the dining table after dinner. If the table has dirty plates, spread the cloth under the table and go to sleep. Have your wife and kids pretend they are watch keepers and enter the room every two hours at night to put on the lights and make screechy noises by opening and closing cupboards and lockers. In the morning ask your friendly neighbour to shout “Jago, Jago….”

 

The ubiquitous uniform of the sea cadets was a navy blue short and navy blue shirt. Supply officers preferred to call it ‘Shorts cotton blue ready-made with buckles two numbers for cadet’s use of’. To anyone else it would look like a boring uniform, worn by boring cadets. But the uniform and NDA style haircut provided excellent anonymity and self-sufficiency. Mysore had a huge teakwood deck, which had to be holy-stoned every day and kept spotlessly clean, enough to make any germ reconsider warfare. And we had to spend our salad days doing exactly this. To holystone, one had to genuflect on one’s knees and scrub the wood with limestone brick and sea water till the wood turned white, then mop it with fresh water and finally wipe it dry. For evening parties, we would have to rig up a huge awning to cover the quarterdeck and dress it up with garlands of lights, red bunting and ‘Answer Pennants’ of red and white. In the evening, officers in their splendiferous dress No 6As would escort gracious ladies and have a whale of a time.

 

In a typical case of ‘Na rahegi baas, na bajegi basuri’ someone came up with the brilliant idea of disposing one stone per day into the water, before returning them to the store keeper on completion of job. The trick paid off. Soon the store was practically depleted of holy stones before the store keeper got a handle on it. He couldn’t find anyone to blame because everyone looked alike.

 

As with any other naval supply, to indent more holy stones, the Storekeeper would have to make an in-house indent on the Ship’s Supply Officer on Form 52, who would wait till the end of the month to consolidate the list on Form 152 with other requirements before putting it up for CO’s approval on Form 252. The list would leave the ship the following month to Base Stores Officer on Form 352, who would analyse, dissect and generally cut it to size before forwarding it to the Material Superintendent on Form 462, who would place an order on the Supplier on Form 562 asking for six quotations on Form 662, who would supply it after six month and the item would finally reach the ship a full year after the requirement was first discovered. Try following this procedure at home when your wife asks you to get a new cell phone for her!

 

The Baby Blue uniform also proved to be a survival kit for me. The Fleet Commander rarely missed his morning walk on the jetty that Mysore was made fast to. One morning when I was mopping the deck with a squeegee, he shouted from across the jetty “Cadet, push the squeegee AWAY from you, not towards you!” Standing on the jetty he gave me a dummy demonstration. I nodded in acknowledgement and tried doing it his way. After a few tries I found it easier and more efficient to complete the job my way. So I waited for him to walk a little ahead and began pulling the squeegee towards me. What followed was serendipitously waiting to happen.  To my amazement the Ol’ man turned around and came running back towards the ship screaming ‘Cadet, cadet!” I almost fell over the ship side. I quickly realised that he would make me walk the plank, so I did what prudence dictated. I dropped the squeegee and ran into the bowels of the mighty Mysore and was consumed completely out of his sight. It took about an hour to muster the 75 cadets from the nooks and crannies of the ship, but to his dismay nobody owned up! The uniform and haircut had saved me, not to mention the training at NDA, which preserved me from getting gobbled up by a very large sized Admiral!

 

Shortly thereafter, the same Fleet Commander decided to carry out the Annual Inspection of INS Mysore. As he approached the Cadet’s Platoon, the first thing I noticed was that he was looking for someone suitable to ask a question. The second thing I noticed that he asked a question which I couldn’t answer “Who is your Commander-in-Chief?” (I knew the name but I couldn’t recall V Adm Chesty’s numerous decorations.) The third thing I noticed (and this completed my disintegration) was that he was zeroing in on me. I briefly toyed with the idea of falling on my bayonet and pretending to be dead. However, to my relief the chap standing next to me gave the correct answer and saved my day. For the next 26 years of my service, I would always look up the name and decorations of the incumbent C-in-C and commit them to rote.

 

We were lucky to witness the last sailing of Mysore, before it was decommissioned. For this, the ship had to embark victuals, stores, ammunition, etc. Who better to do it than the cadets? It was a daunting task. Everybody pepped up Bollard and he was quite happy to carry double the load, while the rest of us dealt with the lighter stuff. When it came to loading the provisions, a couple of cartons of fruit-cocktail tins, packets of cheese slices, tins of biscuits and milk tetra packs were quietly whisked away into the Chest Flat as personal reward. From then onwards, the private rum sessions that went on late into the night on the poop deck were richer with a new variety of small eats.

 

During one ceremonial parade on board, Bollard got caught wearing pink underwear, which showed through the white terricot material of his uniform. After the parade all cadets were made to strip their trousers on the quarterdeck for inspection. Unbelievably, there were some who were not wearing anything at all, some wearing green, brown and red submarines and only a handful wearing white innerwear. The Ship’s Commander nearly died of fright when he bent down to inspect the bottoms of his unwieldy warriors. Accordingly the defaulters were excused shore leave. The duty watch at the gangway was informed and everyone retired to their respective jobs. Not to be outdone, in the evening a couple of defaulters decided to monkey-crawl on the aft hawser from ship to jetty, go on French leave, see a movie and get back to the ship by nightfall. After decking up suitably, they monkey-crawled on the rope from ship to shore. Unknown to them, the engine room had begun pumping out effluence and bilges into the water. The water surrounding the ship was thick with untreated poop and sludge. Bosun lost his grip on the rope and fell straight into the goo. When he walked up the gangway, the duty staff could only see the whites of his eyes! It was simply hilarious.

 

Before we finally wound up with Mysore, it was Motivala’s (A/54) idea (I think) to put on our cadet’s uniform and tear the shirts off each other’s back, while swearing eternal friendship for the rest of our lives. On the whole, our courtship with INS Mysore had a high dose of adventure. However, the bond of ‘course-mate-hood’ survived the individual counter-personalities, numerous cock-fights, not to mention the late night drinking sessions and the boisterous acts of vandalism of breaking into the officer’s pantry for food stuff late at night.

 

When we finally signed off from Mysore, the Indian Navy was waiting for us to join other ships of the Fleet, waiting with our names written all over it.

A Chronicle of Khalistan

Aug 1983

My sister got married in 1983. I was then posted on board a Landing Ship (Tank) in Visakhapatnam on the East Coast. Far away in a distant land, one Mr Bhindranwale was making a bid for Khalistan and had gathered considerable media attention and disdain. I had no particular opinion or say in his affairs, but for some inexplicable reason I got linked to him and almost landed in jail.  This was also a time when the detritus of my imperial adventures was in full throttle. It happened like this.

At the start of the year, the ExO dutifully collected the leave forecast of all officers, with a promise to give everybody his full quota of annual leave, subject to service exigencies. I had asked for 20 days leave starting about 15 days before my sister's marriage and made my rail booking for Pune well in time. As luck would have it, my ship had to take part in an exercise and returned just two days before the wedding date. I was left with no choice but to board the train a few hours after the ship returned to Vizag , without a ticket or reservation on a journey lasting nearly 48 hours.

My Dad was very fond of the naval uniform and wrote to me saying that I should attend the Church ceremony in my ceremonial dress with ceremonial sword, peak cap and medals. I figured that if I carried only my uniform without additional encumbrances, I would be okay sitting in the passage way of the second class Sleeper bogie, on my small suitcase. Armed with a bottle of rum (for the TC), my suitcase with ceremonial rig, and my ceremonial sword wrapped in newspaper, I boarded the Minar Express at 0200 hrs that morning. The TC finally agreed to allow me to sit in a corner of the passageway for the bottle of rum and all the cash that I was carrying in my wallet (about 500 bucks). In my bachelor days, when travelling I always lived in the hope that I would find myself seated next to the most beautiful girl. It never happened. Usually it was a mid-fifties man who would spread himself over my seat and eat peanuts, while dropping the shells on the floor. In the present case I was given a small square on the floor, outside the lavatory.

It was the summer season. After having spent about 36 hours I was beginning to suffocate in the sweltering heat and also dose off. So I took off my shirt and shoes, made a temporary bed with newspapers and decided to take a brief nap. I had used the suitcase as a pillow and clutched on to my sword while sleeping. The train arrived at Pune Station at 2 AM. When I woke up, I discovered to my horror that my shirt and shoes had been stolen. The sword and suitcase were safe. I soon got off the train bare footed, but couldn't leave the platform because the TC was checking tickets at the main gate. So I cut across the broken fence in the far side of the station and hailed a rickshaw. Seeing me exit from the broken fence, barefeet and sword in hand, the rickshawalla stopped and looked at me curiously.

Rickshaw: "Yeh kya hai?

Me: "Talwar hai"

Rickshaw:  "Baal katwaye ho kya?"

I thought it was a strange question to ask, but I replied "Haan ji"

(Naval officers keep cutting their hair every now and then for no apparent reason.)

Instead of taking me home, he drove me straight to the police station that was down the road from my house, ran inside to fetch the cop and began yelling at the top of his voice "Khalistani hai! Khalistani Hai! Talwar lekar ghoom raha hai!" I was totally taken aback.

The cop on duty was a potbellied man and was wafting around in his own personal cloud of 'Mosambi' fumes. He ordered me out of the rickshaw and when I stepped out, the rickshawalla took off like the breeze, without demanding his fare. The cop then jaywalked back into the Police Station and began questioning me. The line of questioning went something like this:

Cop: "Kaun Ho?"

Me: "Main Fauji hu. Navy mein officer hu."

Cop: "Kaunse Navy Ka?"

Me: "Indian Navy Ka"

Cop: "Apne aap ko dhekha hai? Peir nanga hai, badan nanga hai, haat me talwar hai, aur apne aap ko navy aaficer boolata hai?"

He had a point! After three days of misery, I was teetering on the edge of a beard and not looking my romantic best. Something had to be done to get this monkey off my back, I thought. Not only was I looking bad, I was also feeling completely emasculated.   I suddenly realised that I had my I-card firmly secured around my neck. So I showed it to him.

Cop: Ye Kya? Ye nahin chalega. Jail me jaana padega!

I then explained to him that I was robbed enroute to Pune and was returning home on official leave. But he insisted on a bribe. In a country that invented the 'Baksheesh' and Chai-paani ka paisa, the Cop was fully within his jurisdiction to demand compensation to resolve any non-issue. I reasoned to myself that if I didn't create a propitious environment now then the prospect of reaching home in time and making this the maddest-merriest day in my life, would be lost forever. I had nothing to give him so I made him an offer that would put a grin on his stupid face. I decided to upend the royal tradition of the Gonsalves aristocracy of arriving home fully dressed (as any naval officer in his right mind should do) and instead report in the buff.

Me: "Theek Hai! Mein apna pant utaar kar yehi chod deta hoo aur nange badan ghar chale jaata hu"

And I began to undress. NDA teaches you a great deal of bravado.

Cop: (Absolutely shocked): "Nahi, Nahi. Lekin kal aake paise jaroor chod dena!"

This clinched the deal. The cop let me off, with a promise to compensate him the next day. That day I had an unforgettable homecoming.   That little walk home, in the middle of the night, from the police station to my house, may not make it to the history books, but it did make it into my little book and hopefully into the hearts and minds of people who read this script, to have a hearty laugh.

Before the Forth Pay Commission young Lieutenants like me were as poor as church mice.  Senior Officers would regularly motivate us to work for honour, prestige, pride and other abstract entities. Things have vastly improved in the Services now. A lieutenant can well afford to catch a flight while proceeding on leave. Also, bookings can be done via the internet. More importantly, Commanding Officers should realise the importance of better organisational planning so that personal planning doesn't always take a hit.

Watch-keeping Worries

Jun 1979-Jun 1980

After completing our Midshipman's time, we shipped our Sub-Lieutenant stripes and were rewarded with a paid holiday lasting a complete year- unbelievable but true. The Navy sent us to practically all the various naval establishments across the length and breadth of the country for short courses in various subjects ranging from Diving to Electricity and Navigation to Supply duties. Those were perhaps the happiest days of my career.

Jun 1980 - Jun 1981

Having completed our Sub-Lieutenant courses we were posted to various ships for the first time in our individual capacities as under-trainee watch-keeping officers. I was directed to report on board INS Amba, at Bombay by 12 Jun 1980. The moment of truth had arrived as I set foot on the gangway of Amba, late in the evening. I said to myself "This is it! I'm now on my own. My career in the Navy has finally started."  S Lt NS Rao (53/NDA) was on duty at the gangway to receive me. He welcomed me with a warm smile and a hearty hand-shake which did much to de-congeal the chilling apprehension that had descended upon me as I approached the ship. He showed me to my cabin and said "I'll meet you in the Wardroom at dinner time."

At the Elbow-Bender two morose, middle-aged bar-flies in 6A's were having a drink. One was at the bar collecting his drink, while the other was seated in a corner on a piece of furniture. I guessed they were SD Officers. The one at the bar had a dark pudginess about his neck and a very definite bulge at his waistline. He stood no more than five feet four inches from the ground. His kamarband was below his waistline and both the laces of his shoes were untied. I was at the door making an entry into the room when he collected his drink and having stepped on his own shoe laces, catapulted across the room straight into my arms. After adjusting his turban which had trained to 90 degrees on his head, he began shouting "Oye, dekh nahin sakta!" (Watch where you’re going) But he was a jovial Khalsa and offered me my first drink "Ek double large whiskey Saab ke liye", he thundered to the barman, while cautioning me "on this ship we don't stand drinks for each other - everybody signs for his own drink. Second drink onwards is yours" The drink tasted like rubbing alcohol, but it had broken the ice and we began talking. When NS Rao and I sat down to dinner, I noticed that both his shoe laces were still untied, as he continued to prattle with his counterpart.

The next morning I went to the Ship's Office and handed over my reporting Gen-Form to the Master-At-Arms. He took me to meet the First-Lieutenant of the ship. The 1^st Lt had a strange sense of humour. He gazed at me with vague alarm as I snapped off my best NDA salute in Navy style. "Well", he said at last. "What can I do for you?" "Sub Lt Gonsalves reporting on board, sir", I said with a smile.  The MAA prompted him "We have to assign him some duties sir." The 1^St Lt looked at me and asked "Any preferences?"  "Er, Hmm, Well ….No sir, anything will do", I said after clearing my throat. "Then you'll be Assistant Gunnery Officer, Assistant Canteen Officer, Assistant Supply Officer, Assistant Shipwright Officer, Assistant Mess Officer, Assistant …" Then he went on to ask the MAA "Anybody on defaulter list?"  "Nobody sir", replied the MAA "But the LSA reported two bags of Aatta and one tin of Cooking oil missing - He says he'll make it up by next month" "Woh  Kaise?" he asked. The MAA replied "Bhagwan Jaane!"

The MAA then marched me to meet The Ship's Commander. Like snakes and ladders we wended our way up and down various decks, up and down companion ways and across rows of cabins. The old sailor set a rapid pace and between keeping up with him and proudly answering meticulously the first salutes ever thrown in my direction, I arrived panting at the Commander's Office. The Ship's Commander shook hands and after a brief introduction said "The Fleet Athletics Championships are going on. We are faring pretty badly. I want you to take charge of our water polo team and win a couple of matches. Can you do that for me son?" Flattered by his faith in me but alarmed by his poorly developed sense of timing and training for athletics, I distinguished myself with a smart reply "Yes sir, certainly sir", without having the faintest idea of what I was getting into. When I left his cabin I had a feeling of cement in my stomach but I continued to waddle about exuding confidence. Soon the Captain's coxswain came up to me and bellowed at the ceiling "Captain's compliments sir"

I stood at the entrance of the Captain's cabin and announced myself "Sub Lt Gonsalves sir". Before I could lose my salute the Captain walked across with his hand extended and said "Welcome on board."  The Captain of Amba was a tall man with a charming personality.  At first he appeared a bit shy and soft spoken (endearingly so) but was warm and affable and exquisitely courteous. He cut a lean and youthful figure at 45 and could easily pass off as ten years younger. He had an avuncular gentleness, a great sense of humour and instant wit but all fenced with an immoveable will and a strong determination. He was a Helicopter pilot. (Later he became C-in-C and VCNS). Many years later as Fleet Commander, he would often surprise everybody by speaking fluent Punjabi and Urdu. When the Captain finished with me about 45 minutes later, I felt pretty confident of going to battle under his command, if ever I had to. He continues to be in my private Hall of Fame.

That evening I marshalled a ragtag bunch of unwilling volunteers for the water polo event. As I held a council of war, they were standing at the swimming pool looking at me like pall bearers at a funeral. Unbelievably none of them could float for more than 3 minutes, let alone swim. After about one hour of serious practice (mainly me giving instructions like a demented Admiral going into battle) I asked if anyone knew the rules of the game (how many players in each team, method of counting the score, etc.) - no one had the slightest clue, including me. "Never mind, just listen for cues from me during the game", I said very bravely. 

In our very first match, we were pitted against the CCDT team (Diving team of the Navy).  The match started and I got hold of the ball, swam across a few lengths and jumped up high to pitch it at the opposite goal.  One of the divers caught hold of my swimming trunk with an improvised hook on his ring finger and ripped it in two pieces. Before I knew it, the trunk was hanging at half-mast and in the shape of a Commodore's Burgee. Having 'Kargilled' me successfully, the bunch of Hariyana Jaats who made up the opposite team, were giggling away like school girls and had eyes twinkling with mirth. For me, the match had ended even before it started.  It was incredible how easily I had fallen into this trap.

I ran back to the dressing room with whatever was left of the trunks and with my family jewels firmly encased in both hands, much to the amusement of all the spectators. Even my team mates, realising the full possibilities of the situation, started vibrating uncontrollably and making spastic movements of eyes, mouth and body - a condition brought about by a mixture of concern for me, suppressed laughter and keen anticipation of impending doom.  I dressed in about 10 seconds and with my shoes on the wrong feet left the scene of my naval defeat as fast as my legs could carry me. I don't remember the match thereafter, but I believe that I had acquitted myself honourably and done my best for ship, Fleet, Navy and country.

The following Saturday the Commander decided to exercise action stations. When the Action Alarm was pressed I ran to NSR and asked him "what am I supposed to do?" "I don't know" he replied "Just put on your helmet, anti-flash gear, life jacket and report to Gunnery Officer." I was made coxswain of the life boat. I managed to lower the boat into the water in three minutes flat, which was noticed by the Captain. Action having being completed and the ship saved, Action Stations were called off. Later the Captain called me and told me that I would be taking over duties of Captain's Secretary after NSR left the ship on transfer.

When the time came for NS Rao’s transfer, he let me onto a small secret. He said "When the Old Man takes too much time rummaging through the mail after evening secure, I ring his wife and inform her that Captain will be late from work. She promptly calls up the Captain and within a few minutes the Old Man packs up and leaves the ship." I thought this was a brilliant idea. The following Monday I wanted to go into town early, so I rang up the wife to try the trick. A little later the Old Man called me to his cabin and said "For God’s sake man, it's only 5 PM, could you be so kind enough to give me till 5:30 before calling her up?"

Rumours were constantly afloat that Amba would sail to all the ports on the Western and Eastern Coast. But nothing happened for the first three months and after each flurry of excitement the ship and its crew settled down further into its torpor. Before I left the ship, Amba made one valiant effort and sailed to Okha, Porbandar, Ratnagiri and Goa. We had the most marvellous time visiting Gir sanctuary, Bapu's house, eating Haphus mangos and freaking out on Goan (not Goanese!, as many people say) fish curry and rice. While at Goa we visited Anjuna beach, where a few Third Class European nudes were strutting their stuff. The SD officers were most enamoured with what they saw. One of them got a slap for making a close examination of a hippie woman's vital statistics. But our Romeo was heartbroken and grief-stricken "Aay, hai, kya Kudi thi!  Mazaa aa gaya!” To smoothen his nerves, the jilted lover downed a couple of feni shots in quick succession at a nearby pub. Having left his lady-love (of ten seconds) back on the beach, he kept cannoning and ricocheting into us like a goods train at Pune Junction, till we reached the ship.

I was awarded the watch keeping ticket without much fuss, since I wanted to do the diving course at Cochin. After passing the preliminary test I reported to Diving school and was doing pretty well for the first two weeks when disaster struck. I had a loose stomach and accompanying low grade fever from wolfing down some pungent roadside food at the convivial House-of-Commons the previous evening, near Cochin Harbour terminus. Instead of buying some Digene or Furoxone medicine, I reported sick. The quack on evening duty frightened the hell out of me and booked me for Typhoid, much to my dismay. I was admitted in INHS Sanjeevani for about two weeks (nothing came out of it), by which time the diving course was coming to an end and with it my dreams of making some tax-free pocket money every month went down the hatch.

 

Eventually, I spent about ten months on board Amba. I was given two full months leave before my next posting came to a new construction ship at Calcutta. I actually quailed at the thought of leaving Amba, which had become a second home to me. But the other officers were quick to point out that only the best are selected for new construction ships "Go for it- you won't regret it!"  I didn't have the faintest idea of what was waiting in store for me in my next appointment.