Having a Drink

Dylan Thomas once described an alcoholic as “Someone you don’t like, but who drinks as much as you do”

Navy people perhaps have an exaggerated reputation for disparaging today’s alcohol – free parties. However the other day I was trawling through the net and discovered some very amusing trivia regarding how serious drinking was once upon a time take. I am therefore, compelled to tell you the story of the Fathers of the American Constitution Convention in 1787.

The story goes that two days before they finished their work on framing the US Constitution, the delegates adjourned to a nearby tavern for some rest. They drank 54 bottles of Madeira, 60 bottles of Claret, 8 of whiskey, 22 of Port wine, 8 bottles of hard cider and 7 bowls of punch, which were so large that, it is said, ducks could swim in them! Then they went back to work and finished founding the Republic. Note that there were 54 bottles and 55 Founders – one delegate was slacking!

Partying in the Navy was not just about good food and Office Company – it was also about drink, which every sailor is infamously linked to. And drink mostly meant some form of liquor. But at sea, alcohol meant (and still means) a strict no-no. It was quite okay for junior officers to get tizzy once in awhile. However, as junior officers we soon realised that the problem with alcohol is that although it lowers one’s inhibitions, it could also make one sound like an absolute fool, if one had too much of it.

The very first time I got drunk, or rather the whole 54^th Course and Direct Entry Batch got drunk was on INS Brahmaputra as Midshipmen. The party was being given in honour of the Newly appointed Chief of Naval Staff, Adm Ronnie Pereira, who was visiting Cochin. The Mids were allowed to have just one can of beer each.  That day Brahmaputra was host to the top echelon of the Navy. We had Admirals Oscar Stanley Dawson, Vivian Barboza and a bunch of other senior brass, all bearing down on the Midshipmen with their tales of yore.

All through the party, the Midshipmen held their counsel. But by the time the party was over and the senior officers bid farewell, some ex-NDA guys had already pilfered a couple of bottles of gin, rum, whiskey, Martini, vermouth and whatever they could lay their hands on, by diverting the attention of the steward. Soon some very explosive cocktails of beer, gin, whiskey, rum and heaven knows what else was being passed around in beer mugs. By 4 am, the entire lot of about 55 Midshipmen had passed out in the Chest Flat and were bombed out of their senses. The hangover that came a couple of hours later was one of the worst I’ve ever had. I can count the times when I’ve been truly blotto or out of my senses, in my thirty years in the Services, but that day on Brahmaputra takes number one place.

Now-a-days I get a migraine if I drink anything more than two pegs of scotch and that too watered down into 5 glasses. In a way, I can now get drunk with just 2 pegs of whiskey or a bottle of beer, which is very economical to say the least and saves my host a lot of money when he decides to offer his good brand of drinks. By the way I recently found out that my favourite scotch blend  Black Dog gets its name form a fishing fly and not from the canine!

The other day I read an article that bartenders are using molecules from food items to make cocktails. Martinis like ‘Einstein Condensates’ are being sold in spray cans, with which you can spray mist in your mouth. The good old gin and tonic also comes with soda-bi-carb and citric acid. Wonder what Einstein would say after downing one of these? EEE= Emm Shee Shquarrre!

To end this article I would like to lend Zen’s wit, when it comes to alcohol – “Alcohol is only as good as the people you drink it with. An ordinary brew can taste like heaven, if you have it with your girlfriend. A middling brew will taste satisfactory with your wife. But even the most expensive brew will taste like vinegar, if you drink it with your Mother-in-Law

Storm in a Teacup

I don’t know the key to success but the key to failure is trying to please everybody. – Bill Cosby

 There can hardly be a doubt in anybody’s mind that the Indian Armed Forces have the singular distinction of being the only agency in the country to redeem it from the scourge of national and manmade calamities like Floods, Tsunamis, earthquakes, internal strife and whatever. Though the Navy did not play a prominent role in the recent Uttarakhand disaster (Navy divers did recover a large number of bodies and saved many lives that were marooned in the gushing waters), it does what it does best at sea.  However, it’s not “all work and no fun” in the Navy - the Navy has a lighter side and I thought of recording one such episode before it gets consigned to the dustbin of history.

 The Facts:

The Andaman Islands are usually ravaged by storms that cut across the South China Sea and hit the Nicobar group before moving towards Port Blair. In the late-eighties, Typhoon Gay, which was also called ‘Cyclone Kavali’ caused more than 800 fatalities in the Gulf of Thailand and was reported to be one of the worst typhoons to affect the Malay Peninsula in 35 years. Kavali originated from a monsoon trough and emerged into the Bay of Bengal, where it gradually reorganized itself and headed towards Andhra Pradesh as a Category 5–equivalent cyclone with winds of 260 km/h. After crossing the coast near Kavali, Andhra Pradesh, it rapidly weakened over land and died down less than 10 days later. The typhoon's rapid development took hundreds of vessels at sea by surprise, leading to sinking of some ships and damage to offshore facilities. The cyclone killed 588 people in mainland India and damaged or destroyed about 20,000 homes in Andhra Pradesh leaving about 100,000 people homeless. Surprisingly, Kavali crossed over the Andaman Islands as a light depression (called Catspaw) but a few days later became a modern-day Super Cyclonic Storm with swells of 6–11 m (20–36 ft) high.

Our Story

Mondays and Thursdays were days of high tension in the Fortress of Andaman and Nicobar. The Fortress Commander, Andaman and Nicobar (FORTAN) would poke and prod the Commanding officers about the week's misadventures. However all high sounding squabbles and CBMs seemed like diplomatic piffle compared to the gritty trauma suffered by the Met Officer who had the singular privilege of forecasting the unpredictable weather.

Storms at sea are generally as amorphous as market sentiments. It’s a standing joke in the Navy that when the weatherman rings the warning bells, it's usually safe to go on a cruise. The Met-Officer for the Fortress was a young inexperienced Lieutenant and he used to have a particularly hard time trying to predict the daily weather for the morning briefing conducted twice a week by the Fortress Commander (FORTAN). Having mastered the art of looking-back-marching-forward, he would read up the weather patterns of the previous years and confirm the same with a visual sighting from his cabin window. He would then prepare his presentation slides for the morning briefing. The FORTAN had recently taken over his assignment, and the Lt Governor, who happened to be an ex-Army man, was nearing the end of his tenure.  Both Faujis were keen on making a mark with good governance and decided to do something worthwhile during their tenure. But, whoever thought that the weather briefing by the Met Officer and the approaching end of the LG's term in office would create an incalculable dynamic of its own!

In the Chinese year of the Rat or Goat (I don’t remember which one), while the rest of the country was warming up to an early Winter, a storm began brewing in the South China Sea. The Met Officer decided to make capital of the announcement of the Storm in the local newspaper and began his presentation with the strum and drang of a tornado at sea. The hand-made slides had been hurriedly prepared with cut-and-paste pictures of some storm on the east coast of America to enhance his otherwise dull presentation. FORTAN was impressed, very impressed. He called for his staff car, bundled the Met Officer into it and took him straight to call on the LG.

The Met Officer repeated his presentation to the Lt Governor and took a back seat with the satisfaction of having excelled in his brief. To his utter amazement the LG directed FORTAN that he wanted to be briefed everyday till the storm hit the island and he would in the meantime badger New Delhi to pump additional funds for the catastrophe which was going to hit the islands. In the previous years, the Islands had been shaken with egregiously ugly storms that had left the top management in sixes and sevens. The poor Met Officer didn't know what he had got into – he had lit a spark that would lead to a prairie fire.

Amazingly, the storm, which had started showing signs of hitting the islands, began bypassing it completely - but strangely not for the FORTAN or the LG. The LG, in his extreme enthusiasm, had already forwarded a SOC to New Delhi for funds, with pictures of hurricane ‘Patricia’ hitting the coast of New Orleans, but modified to look like Severe Cyclonic Storm 'Kavali' with hurricane force winds hitting Choura island. Not to be outdone, the FORTAN issued orders for all operational ships of the Flotilla to prepare to set sail and set up relief camps with medical facilities, food and blankets and evacuation procedures. The 108 Mtn Bde Cdr recalled all his men, mustered all his gear and made arrangements to set up tents, bridges and refugee camps.

It is said that the world has a prurient appetite for conspiracy theories. So, while the senior brass was conjuring visions of Hurricane Katrina, in its earliest avatar, the junior brass was wondering in amazement how this episode would eventually pan out. Nobody had the guts to tell the LG to withdraw his SOC, least of all the FORTAN.  The Met Officer's facial furniture indicated that he wanted to cry in desperation, because every time he tried to scale down the strength of the storm, the CSO to FORTAN would boost it up with rain and wind and in turn the Admiral, till it reached the LG as a full-fledged storm.

Finally the storm passed the Islands as nothing more than a Catspaw, with tiny showers that actually brought some very pleasant weather to an otherwise bitter summer in the islands.

And if you’re wondering what happened to rest of the men in white uniform – Well, we had the most pleasant trip to the South islands, setting up medical camps and picnicking on the sandy beaches, drinking the local rice beer brewed by the tribals and enjoying what you call a Perfect Day in the Navy! The LG got his funds from New Delhi. FORTAN and the 108 Mtn Bde Cdr were able to come out of it with a steady moral compass and on an even keel and the Islanders were happy to have a free medical camp without battling  a storm for it.

For those seeking the elixir of a new life, I would suggest a visit to good old Chowra island would be a good place to start.

Lord Yamraj’s Transport

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.

Mind Your Language

 In a country with 28 States, 7 Union Territories, 216 languages and some thousand dialects, one can’t really blame anyone for looking but not seeing, hearing but not listening and talking but not saying. The problem is that in India we think in Hindi, talk in English, curse in Punjabi, sing in Bhojpuri, write in Malayalam & Tamil and translate everything into Hindustani

The other day my wife and I were visiting our neighbour, when in the course of our conversation the Dhobi rang the doorbell. The lady of the house opened the door and without batting an eyelid said “Tum andar jana, main kapde utarti hu!” (Go inside, I’ll remove clothes)

With my vivid seaman’s imagine I couldn’t help but think that the lady was expressing her desire to make it out with the Dhobi.  “What would be her husband’s stand on this position?” I thought to myself.   Thinking about ‘stand’ and ‘position’ my rather juvenile mind raced back to our NDA days, where every wooden piece of furniture had a ‘stand’ in an erotic ‘position’.  I often wondered, had someone even thought of auctioning these carvings and caricatures, it would send Stothby’s of London in rapture.  

A stern look from my wife brought me back to reality. What the lady had actually meant was “Go into the room, I’ll take the clothes off the washing line and hand them over to you.”  Later when my wife gave me this explanation I was sanguine and immediately heaved a sigh of relief.

A few years ago, a cat had attacked a Benguella Kite (large bird) and I rushed to rescue it from certain death. I handed over my cell phone to two school children standing nearby and instructed them to contact the Vetnary for help. The conversation went as follows “Eagle ko Cat ne mara hai. Eagle ke wing me hurt ho gaya hai. Eagle fly nahi kar sakta hai. Please jaldi aao!”

Now virtual vasectomy of the Indian language is not just performed by Army and Naval Public School children. Check this out this linguistic jousting of my Second Mate on board.

Myself, Adikrao Tukaram Gaikwad, reporting as 2^nd Officer on board sir.

(My name is Adikrao Tukaram Gaikwad and I am reporting for duty as 2^nd officer.)

I ae-gree that I hau nevher sade phaeew thirr-ty in my life

(I agree that I have never said five thirty in my life)

Remove my photograph

(Take my photograph)

Put the fan

(Switch on the fan)

Most of us have studied from the famous radiant reader series in school. There was one particular lesson about the Battle of Trafalgar, which Nelson’s Fleet had won. However, Nelson himself was felled by a sniper shot from the French battleship and while he lay dying in the arms of his Flag Lieutenant, is reported to have blurted out his last famous words “Kiss me, Hardy.” Apart from the shock and awe felt by his Flag Lieutenant, he probably would have got a slap from the dying Nelson if he had dared to kiss the Fleet Commander in open audience. I wasn’t quite satisfied with the alleged promiscuous behavior of Lord Nelson, so I approached my English Teacher in St Vincent’s school, Pune for an explanation.

“Nonsense” said Fr. Oesch, “It’s all about the infamous British sense of humour”. Fr. Oesch was German by origin and had read about the Naval campaigns of Nelson on the river Nile. “In all probability Nelson had said ‘Kismat, Hardy’ (Fate, Hardy), which he had picked up during his short liberty ashore.”

There are many ‘immortal last words’ spoken by famous people. However, In his columns, Ruskin Bond brought it out very nicely ‘Perhaps King George summed it up best with his last immortal dying words ‘God damn you’ One wonders whether he was cursing his creator or abusing his night maid – the lack of a comma after the word God would have made it clear’

Tickling Toes

This is a short story of an incident in the Defence Services Staff College, Wellington, Nilgiris

 

At the Staff College, Wellington, the DS threw a surprise at us with his intention of grading us for future Directing Staff if anyone could impress him with a one minute extempore talk on any subject. I was trying to hide in the corner of the class contemplating on how best to get out of this situation, when he pointed his finger at me and said “Okay, Gonsalves, You’re up first. You have three minutes to prepare and one minute to speak and impress me.”

With my limited imagination, it was getting hard to think of a topic, let alone speak on it!  After two and a half minutes were up, I still hadn’t thought of anything. Then it suddenly dawned on me – why not narrate one of Aesop’s fables about the Frog who turned Prince.  It was my favourite bedtime story and my Mum used to tell it with such verve that I would immediately be transported to fairyland with a load croak.

I thought the story was pretty well said, but since the DS had even less imagination than me, he shook his head and said “Failed”. That single word altered the course of an otherwise very brilliant career.

Not being the one to give up on fairy tales so easily despite all the vituperations that came with it, I wrote out the story and offered to have it published in the DSSC Journal. Imagine my surprise, when the collective wisdom of all the DS’s at Wellington turned it down.  They simply said “No can publish” to my rendition of Frog who turned prince despite all the salacious stories about naval campaigns that the magazine carried. Nobody has time (Lack of imagination?) to listen to a good fairy tale, I thought to myself

Now, many years later, I’ve dug out the same story and am putting it on the Foxtrot Squadron Forum for your reading pleasure. I hope it won't be lack of imagination this time round!

The one-minute story, which robbed me of my DS grading went like this:

Tickling Toes

I was never good at telling bedtime stories when putting Avina and Karishma to sleep, but it had to be done. So I came up with a novel way of tickling the soles of their feet until they fell off to sleep. However, Avina used to insist on a bedtime story. One night after running through my repertoire of fairly tales I chose to take the usual frog-turned-prince tale and spin it on its head into a different version.  I don’t recall the exact words I told them, but it went something like this:

 “Once upon a time, in a land far away, an independent, self-assured but average-looking princess happened upon a frog as she sat, contemplating ecological issues, on the shore of an unpolluted pond in a verdant meadow near her castle, nestled in the salubrious summer climate of North Germany.

The frog hopped into the princess’s lap and said. “Elegant lady, I was once a handsome prince, until an evil witch cast a spell upon me. One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back into the dapper young prince that I am. And then my sweet, we can marry and set up house-keeping in my castle with my mother, where you can prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children, look after my aging, grouchy, sometimes cantankerous, violent  and often complaining mother and forever feel grateful and happy doing so.”

That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on a repast of lightly sautéed frog legs seasoned in a white wine with a dab of onion cream sauce, she chuckled and thought to herself: “Yeah right. I don’t think so honey”.

And she lived happily ever after.

By now my sweet child should have fallen asleep and just when I thought I could slip out of bed and carry on, Avina spoke up “Not a nice story, Dad, tell me another one.”

From that day onwards I got back to tickling toes.

The Naval Dope

This is a story of everyday life of a cadet in the National Defence Academy

A man who has never gone to school may steal from a freight car. But if he has had a university education, he may steal the whole railroad - Theodore Roosevelt

An underpinning of military evolutionary psychology at NDA is that the smartest guys join the Army, the less smart ones join the AF and the absolute dopes become Naval officers. Naval guys are unfairly referred to as ‘Dopes’. In my mind’s eye I used to look at it this way- if you’re smart enough to look dopey and get your job done by the other guy who thinks he is smarter than you, then who’s the actual dope is a matter of conjecture. Got it? After all, it is said that there is only a fine line dividing genius and absolute idiot!

In my first term I was soldiering on in full earnest by serving morning tea on the trot to about eight 6th termers and carrying Obelisk (49/F) from cabin to bathroom on my back, every day. My popularity soared and I soon became the squadron’s favourite chaiwalla, messenger, announcer, punching bag, cycle spare parts supplier, white hanky provider, button polisher and floor waxer! I was becoming so good at these jobs that I had forgotten that I had joined NDA for a career in the Navy. I was working with obsessive fervour on a profession that would win me brownie points if i applied for permanent citizenship to Australia. (I had heard that they give preference to mechanics, plumbers and chaiwalas).

Making it in time for the morning fall-in was becoming increasingly difficult and Cacophonix (49/F), SCC, would wave his cane at me like a symphony conductor to indicate that I should lift up my cycle. Worse still, a few course mates (the ones who didn’t serve morning tea) would smile and shake their heads from side to side like chipkullis and would sing in unison “Tuk, Tuk, Tuk, Tuk ….” All this was fine with me as long I was the underling 1st Termer in the squadron. Amazingly, things became worse when I became a 2nd Termer!

In the rarefied universe of the National Defence Academy, Wednesday and Saturday evening cold coffee was Starship Enterprise – it went where no other coffee ever went before. Cold coffee at NDA still conjures an image that transcends time. Kaldi, the 9th-century Ethiopian goatherder who is credited with discovering coffee, would probably have never imagined what magical effect the brew was having in the remote confines of NDA and how it could possibly make the lives of the chaiwalas so difficult. Surprisingly, the daily chai provided by the cadets mess used to taste like dishwater and I don't know how the seniors trusted junior cadets to serve them bed tea, especially when there were rumours going around that chaiwalas would often spit into their tea before giving it to them.

I had barely managed to make it to the second term by the skin of my teeth, and I was beginning to revel in my newfound ecstasy, when a couple of 50th course guys, then 6th termers, barged into my cabin and demanded that I should continue with chaiwalla duties with the same messianic fervor that I had shown in my 1st term. The creeps had overlooked the fact that I was now a certified 2nd termer. This was most unfair, but since my reputation had preceded me, I had no choice but to oblige. With the 6th Termer worms came the opportunistic 5th Termer birds and two of them soon began demanding the same service. This really got my goat!

Here's what happened. One fine day Sargent Brutus (51/F) came by my cabin and said “From tomorrow, you will serve me bed tea and cold coffee on half days. And if you piss in it, spit in it, shit in it or shag in it ( I just made up the last two), I’ll chop off your balls!” I was devastated. Before I could say, “but, but, but…” he disappeared down the corridor and I distinctly heard an evil laughter “wuhahahaha”. On enquiry later in the evening my course mates would neither confirm it nor deny it!

Most of us are aware that Charles Darwin published his famous theory on the Origin of Species, in 1859, which is considered to be a work of scientific literature and the foundation of evolutionary biology. We also know that his paper was compiled on the second voyage of HMS Beagle over a period of 5 years from 1831 to 1836, under Captain Robert FitzRoy. Customarily the ship's surgeon took the position of naturalist, and the Beagle's surgeon Robert McCormick was a bully. It was rumoured that McCormick used to get Darwin to serve him bed tea and biscuits every morning in return for an ‘Attend C’ medical chit, whenever he wanted to escape morning PT fall-in conducted by the ship’s Captain. When they first met at the start of the voyage, Darwin had commented that "My friend [McCormick] is an ‘ASS’, but we jog on very amicably.” What did Charles Darwin mean by ‘ASS’?

Not many people know that Appendix-A of Chapter 10 of Darwin’s Laws of Natural Selection was lost during a storm in the Galapagos Islands, where he was researching his famous thesis and this section of his thesis never got published. In that it was written that some people suffer from an inherent genetic mutation called “Atypical Sadistic Syndrome” (ASS), which is classified as an ultra-rare disease. In secret NDA reports, lodged in the top shelves of the library, and compiled mostly by F-classification professors, it has been researched that ASS affects about 70% of cadets at NDA, but not the rest of the country, leaving only about 30% of the course to become natural chai-wallas, who carry tea and came late for fall-ins.

ASSes are smart, intelligent, ambitious, always shouting marching orders in the bathrooms to fake soldiers on fake battlefields! Brutus was definitely an ASS! If you check my blog of 1976, I had even called for Brutus to be publicly flogged, but only partly in mischievous satire! Privately I could see that one day Brutus would become a great General, leading all his chai-wallas into battle.

My timing for the morning fall-in became worse than the First Termers and the new Band-Master, SCC 50/F, issue a fatwa that the whole course would have to lift up their cycles if I came late again. That’s when my sympathetic course mate Getafix (54/F) came to my rescue.

Getafix saw me grieving silently and said “You are a naval dope! You need instant help in this matter”. I moaned despondently, “Whatever you do, I don’t want to get into further trouble”. He said convincingly “Just call me when you’re serving tea to Brutus tomorrow morning”.

The next morning, with Getafix two steps behind, I took the mug of tea to Brutus’s cabin, knocked on the door, entered, wished him cheerily “Good Morning Sir, its six O’Clock, Here’s your bed tea. Have a good day Sir”. When I turned around Getafix had disappeared. I found him down the corridor near the bathroom door.

“So you chickened out”, I said sarcastically. He shook his head and said “Remember what we did to Fulliautomatix? I did the same to Brutus”. I was horrified!

A few weeks ago, Fulliautomatix (48 to 50/F), ex-AF, had rejoined NDA for change of branch to Navy. One hot sunny afternoon, I was stewing in my own juices in my cabin, in a semi-comatose state, lying on my bed with bedbugs sucking the blood out of me, when Sargent Unhygienix (51/F) came to my cabin and began shouting “ Get the f** up, you f**, pick the f** bag and take it to f** room no 305”. (He used a lot of F-words in his otherwise immaculate language!) I dropped out of bed in the thick of sleep apnea and facing the opposite wall said “Sir, Yes Sir!” “Over here you Nutcase”, he laughed.

My coursemate Getafix was standing in the GFC lobby waiting for me. Fulliautomatix was shaking hands with the 50th course 6th termers. We picked up his bags and took them to his cabin. Getafix then said “Don’t you think Fulliautomatix needs to pay us for our services?” Before I could say “Foxtrot squadron Uber Alles”, he took out a bottle of after-shave from the zipper bag and threw it into the battalion area. I was in a daze. Then he surreptitiously steered me out of the cabin and down the stairs. We waited for a couple of days for the sky to fall on our heads, but nothing happened. I concluded that Fulliautomatix was definitely in the 30% category of us chaiwallas!

A few minutes after leaving Brutus’s cabin I trundled back to my own cabin. Brutus walked in and hissed “Where is my f*** silver-plated shaving razor?”

If he had, I would’ve, but since he hadn’t, I didn’t!

If he had asked me nicely “May I have my razor back please. And forget about bringing my bed tea from tomorrow.” I would’ve obliged by searching for it in the Battalion area. But since he hadn’t asked politely, I didn’t return the courtesy!

I made my best bid “What razor? You are welcome to have mine, if you want.” He was heaving long breaths and spewed out venom “You’re offering me your pink coloured plastic razor with pubic hair and froth on it in exchange for my silver plated antique and very expensive, limited edition razor?” I shook my head vigorously “No Sir, it’s free of charge, no exchange offer, it’s all yours”. Brutus stroked his stubble thoughtfully and said “Report to me in games rig after classes – I’m going to f** the shit out of you!”

When he left my cabin there were ominous manifestations in my demeanor. My blood cells started breaking, my platelets were disappearing and my nephrons (building blocks of my kidneys) were failing – in short, I was feeling like peeing badly!

That was the first day at NDA, when I remained awake for all 7 periods. By lunch time the adrenalin had kicked in and I was ready in games rig waiting to be slaughtered. I asked Brutus in a shaky voice “Sir, are you going to make me map the Battalion Area in the hot sun?” he weighed my words carefully and said condescendingly “No, I’ll do something worse than that - I’m going to make you roll up and down the staircase till your back breaks!” I was relieved. I said “Sir, Yes Sir” very ecstatically.

As it turned out, Brutus was kind hearted after all! He didn’t deserve all the bad things I had to say about him! After a bit of rolling on the staircase and a bit of punching on my stomach, and a bit of abusing, and a bit of gesturing, and a bit of grousing and grumbling, and a bit of …, he searched my cabin and then finally absolved me saying “Don’t come anywhere near my cabin”. That was the end of Customer no 1, I thought to myself.

Very soon the other recalcitrant 6th termers faced the same treatment. Band Master 50th SCC made me eat my tie. Melodramatix made me do 200 sit-ups and so on and so forth. In two weeks the Battalion area had become a veritable treasure trove of toothpaste, toothbrush, riding putties, notebooks, pens, library books, bathroom chappals, NDA tie, OG socks, etc. My course mates soon found me coming in time for morning parade. Gatafix was treated to a Biryani at Dorabjee’s in Pune. At the table that supper-nite, Getafix and I solemnly raised a toast “More power to the Naval Dope!”

Although a small period of 38 years has interrupted the tedium, I still say 'Amen' to that!

Equitation Times

This is the story of one of the many mischievous pranks that I played at NDA and got away with... 

 

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed with the things you didn't do than the ones you did do: Mark Twain.

A few days after joining NDA, Sargent Carriappa (50/F) called me to his cabin “Don’t you want to wear the NDA uniform? he asked. “You need to go to the QM Fort and get kitted up, chop, chop!” For the first time I felt that here was a Foxie, who didn’t use the F-word. How cool can that be!

Since I was the last cadet in my course to join NDA, my other course mates had already been kitted out. I walked across alone to QM Fort, signed for my full kit and began leaving the premises with my hands full, when some seniors from another squadron waylaid me and relieved me of quite a few items. I was devastated by this act of piracy! Where were the 6^th termers of F-squadron, when you needed one?

Among the things I lost that day was my pith hat. Equitation classes became a nightmare for me. Imagine reporting for equitation without your pith hat. I spent most of the entire equitation period running with the horse alongside me, instead of sitting on it! My name figured on the permanent defaulter’s list of Equitation Lines and the Captain-in-Charge threatened to have me relegated if I didn’t turn up with proper riding rig the next time.  I felt like I was stranded by the receding tide of hopelessness on a pathway leading to certain doom.  My head used to permanently look downwards in geological reverence.

My course mates could only sympathize with me.  Seeing my plight, Bhandhal (54/F), who was a Sikh cadet, even offered to lend me his turban. I tried wearing it, but the thought of looking like a Cheeku Khalsa, with Delta squadron cadets prowling around, made me change my mind instantly. Some cadets in Delta squadron had gained notoriety of being more homo than sapien and there were galley rumors going around that cadets should stay indoors after dark or put on chastity belts.

The next equitation period I reported sick for loose motion. Clement Roberts (54/D) was there facing the same predicament – not loose motion, but loss of pith hat! Roberts suddenly came up with an old fashioned but highly dubious proposition “Yaar, raid karte hain.” “In the night we’ll go to Echo Squadron and pick up two pith hats and walk out”

There was no way I was going to agree with him. Our small predicament was overlaid by the larger strategic rivalries in the Academy. Problem was that in those days there was an incipient rivalry between Fox and Echo squadrons to notch up their position from 12^th spot to 11^th spot on the drill square. We were given secretive briefings by our 6^th termers that Fox would gradually work its way from 12^th to 11^th to 10^th, one step at a time till in about 10 to 20 years we would be the undisputed Kings of the Drill Square. Presently our position was 12^th and with E squadron playing spoilt sport our chances of making to 11^th spot was getting more difficult.   Although these plans were still in an embryonic stage, I didn’t want to add to the skeins of complexities arising from our machinations.

I shook my head and said “If E-squadron guys catch us they’ll beat the shit out of any F-squadron guy!”  After thinking for some time I suggested “Why don’t we raid the QM Fort instead?” I was suffering from foot-in-mouth disease and didn’t realize it! There was an impoverishment of genuine ideas between the two of us and I couldn’t think beyond robbing and cheating. I tried consoling myself that at least the scene of crime didn’t involve an innocent cadet and that the establishment was rich enough not to suffer the loss of two pith hats, which it had inadvertently robbed us off in the first place. Of course, the right and proper thing to do was to acquire a pith hat on payment basis. But whoever did right and proper things at NDA?

Roberts was quick to grab an opportunity!  He said “I’ll lend you my entire bunch of class notes if you can get two pith hats from QM Fort.”   He knew that I had joined NDA late and was in a desperate state to pass the Final exam of the first term, having created a record of sorts in my first and second phase tests. Roberts was undoubtedly very brilliant in academic. (He was a Vincentian too, who without telling me got his mark sheet from Pune University and joined the academy before me) Later as a Midshipman on INS Mysore, he had earned the sobriquet of ‘Boson’, because he knew more about knots, splices and seamanship than the ship’s Boson.

It is interesting to note that the term "Midshipmen" originally referred to the youngsters aboard British Navy vessels who were in training to become naval officers. Their primary duties included carrying orders from the officers, quartered in the stern, to the crew, quartered in the fo'c'sle. The repeated scampering through the middle part of the ship earned them the name "midshipmen". This term gradually acquired the status of a rank in the Royal Indian Navy and later into our own Navy.

The term Boson came about a little differently. As required by 17th century law, British ships-of-war carried three smaller boats -- the boat, the cock boat, and the skiff. The boat -- or gig -- was usually used by the captain to go ashore and was the larger of the three. The cock boat was a very small rowboat used as a ship's tender. The skiff was a lightweight all-purpose vessel. The suffix "swain" means keeper, thus the keepers of the boat, cock and skiff were called boatswain (or Boson), cockswain and skiffswain respectively. Until 1947, a boatswain's mate 3rd class in the Royal Indian Navy was called Cockswain. Gradually the Boson assumed Alpha position among the crew since he was the last word in any seamanship activity onboard, like tying a seaman’s knot, catting the anchor, splicing the Main sail and Swigging the Halyard.

Roberts knew his Baggywrinkles from his Bitter End. There was no question of it - he was the undisputed Boson of the ship! One night on board INS Mysore while Roberts was fast asleep, Ravi Malhan (54/K) borrowed the ship’s cutlass from the armoury and knighted Roberts in his sleep “I hereby knight three Sir Roberts and you shall hereinafter be known as Boson”. Roberts awoke to the rapturous laughter and clapping of his coursemates.

(Baggywrinkles: A soft covering for cables (or any other obstructions) that prevents sail chafing from occurring. Bitter end: The last part or loose end of a rope or anchor chain cable.)

Returning to our Main story….

Boson said “What’s the plan?”  My coroner artery was throbbing as it pumped more blood and oxygen into my head to come up with a viable plan.

QM Fort used to issue kit during the games period, which was very convenient for us. Naik Havildar Gurinder Singh was looking after the counter where the pith hats were stacked. The room was fusty and dark, without a window, and he was seated on a table at the entrance of the only door which led into the room. Gurinder was a jovial Khalsa with a jowly face and freshly coiffed and liveried uniform. Boson was Punjabi by origin and could speak fluent Punjabi.

Deceit and deploy is the oldest Principle of war. I replied, “You engage him with Punjabi conversation and steer him away from the door. I’ll pick up two pith hats and walk out of QM Fort”. Somehow I had a feeling that this simple subterfuge would work.

Boson said “That’s it?”  I replied “That’s the plan”. Boson said “Best of luck! But as Captain of the SS Carpethia, I can foretell that your SS Titanic is likely to hit an iceberg”

I was quick to add rather mordantly “if Titanic sinks, Carpethia will also sink, so steer well and watch the icebergs, Captain”.

They say “When desperation meets opportunity, principles have to bow out.” We made friends with the NH, spoke to him, made him laugh. I even did a Bhangra dance to the tune of Rhinestone cowboy and an Arabian belly dance to ‘Everybody wants Kung-Fu fighting’! But he wouldn’t budge one fathom from his seat. After three days of trying, Boson told me to give up the idea. I was not yet prepared to put the Genie back into the bottle.  I said “Be patient. One can’t rush these things”. Then opportunity came knocking on our door on the fourth day.

While we were talking to Gurinder Singh, a truck pulled up with a fresh stock of uniform supplies for QM Fort. I could see the twinkle in Boson’s eyes. We immediately offered to unload the uniforms into the rooms. For the first time Gurinder Singh got up and went inside the room to arrange it. I was inside the truck passing stuff to Boson, who was carrying it into the room and Gurinder was arranging the trappings inside the room.

Soon I found two pith hat boxes and nervously held on to them. For a couple of vicarious moments I thought of seizing the hats and making a dash for the gates, but good sense prevailed. My ‘Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus’ moment came soon thereafter.

Now, the biblical Paul was actually born ‘Saul of Tarsus’ and became a Roman Legionnaire in the service of the mighty Roman Emperor Ceaser Tiberius. He was born a Jew and gained notoriety for slaughtering early Christians and making a spectacle out of them by feeding them to the Lions in the Great Circus of Rome. Paul being mentally handicapped (like the modern day F-classification types) thought that this was the way to fame and glory. However, on the road to Damascus, he fell on his head while riding his horse and suddenly woke up to the fact that if he propagated the newly formed religious movement he would attain greater glory. Unbelievably, 2000 years later, the seat of the Catholic Church, the Akal Takth and Golden Temple of Rome, the Shingeri Mathh Devasthanam of the Christian religiosity is named after the very man who fed early church goers to the lions, all because he paused for a moment and put the grey matter in his top story to good use. Today, St Paul’s Cathedral is the seat of the papal presidium and an honour to the man, who is considered one of the founding fathers of the church.

It was divine intervention in my case to pause and think for a moment. I immediately got the answer to the conundrum at hand.  Popping my head out of the truck I observed that the few men in uniform were busy going about their duty with messianic fervor and didn’t have the time to stop and stare at a bunch of first term delinquents on the verge of conducting a great train robbery. I took both the hats and threw them on the canopy of the truck. Very nonchalantly, I alighted from the truck and gave Boson a high-five, to celebrate the beguilement of QM Fort.

The truck soon pulled out and left QM Fort with our pith hats, safely ensconced on the roof, as we watched with wicked delight.  Gurinder insisted we have a cup of tea since we so sweetly had helped him. I was dying to retrieve the pith hats, but had to suffer the sweet milky concoction which he so kindly offered. We quickly quaffed the drink, said our thanks and ran out of QM Fort to the amazement of Gurinder, who was calling out in his lyrical Punjabi accent to help him the next day. “Kal jroor aana”, he waived out.

After getting rid of Gurinder, we raced on our cycles to MT pool. It was a tad dark by then. We sneaked into the premises, took our pith hats and came back to the squadron. That was the last we saw of Gurinder.  Boson lent me the complete set of his notes as promised, which ensured my passing the final term exam and safely securing a berth as a 2^nd Termer.

On equitation days, I usually had my stylist flown in from London and my make-up artist from Paris. But that morning I took a personal interest in my own physiognomy.  As luck would have it my pith hat turned out to be 3 sizes smaller than my head. It looked more like a skull cap which Laurel and Hardy used to wear. But I wasn’t ready to let go of it! There was a bit of Awful-Separation-Anxiety Syndrome involved with the pith hat.

Ajay Mehta (54/F) (Naval comrade in arms) was the first to compliment me on my visage “Kya baat hai? Badaa handsome lag rahaa hai!” I was grinning from ear to ear. The Riding Instructor was also very thrilled “Wah!” he said, “Lagtaa hai, aaj pahele baar Ghode par baithne ka iradha hai”  I raised my right hand in a Hitler salute and replied “Chota-dudki-lamba-sarpat”, to indicate my eagerness to start the canter, instead of bareback riding. This was the very first time in my life that I was sitting astride a horse. But horror of horrors, when I sat on my horse, the dumb creature took off and joined E-squadron Toli!

Looking back now after 38 years, I can say with equanimity and sobriety that breaking the jinx of sitting on a horse at Equitation Lines in NDA ….was the most exciting breakthrough, since the discovery of penicillin!

The Trials, Travails and Tribulations of Cadet Gonsalves

This article tells the story of my transformation from civilian life to military life at the National Defence Academy, Pune.

 

Do one thing every day that scares you – Eleanor Roosevelt

The year 1975 began on an ominous note for me. I had two careers to choose from and had done extremely well in my Pre-Degree University exams. But sadly, things didn’t pan out as well as I had hoped. I was selected to join as Direct Entry Deck Cadet on a new construction Bulk Carrier ship for a Shipping Company in which my relative was a Director and of course, I had passed the SSB to join NDA. As it turned out, Pune University went on a flash indefinite strike and I couldn’t get a copy of my mark sheet for admission into NDA or the Shipping line. Then one day in end-August 1975 the mark sheet arrived and I had to make a choice.

I had a family connection with the Academy. My paternal Grand-uncle (Grandmother’s brother), Wille Mascarenhas, was the Architect who designed and built NDA. Plus, three of my uncles (Col Ken Gonsalves 2JSW, Brig Ian DaCosta 19/F and Cmde Emile DaCosta 24/E) had passed out from the portals of NDA. So the inclination to join NDA was stronger than choosing the other option. My parents suggested that I join NDA for two weeks and as per the contract note, I could ask to be released if I didn’t think it suitable.

I packed my trunk and reported to NDA with all the fervour of a new bride.  The Colonel who took my interview said “You’re the last cadet I’m going to admit this term. If you had turned up 2 days later, you would have missed your seat. Okay, let’s see what you have…. You have distinctions in all your subjects in HSSC. You have inter-collegiate sports certificates for 4 x 100 meter relay, swimming (free-style & Breast Stroke) and track -cycling.  I’ve decided to send you to Foxtrot squadron and B-classification. F-squadron has been occupying the left side of the parade ground for too long now. Get her on the right side, Son.”

I reported to F-squadron and knocked on the door of the Squadron Commander. They used to call him ‘Toad’. For some reason he waived me off without seeing me. Perhaps he was too busy with higher affairs of State. But I did notice that he was drawing circles in the Classifieds page of the Times of India.  I couldn’t help but think that he was using his office as a penthouse provision to luxuriate in, in a moment of operational surplus!

So I went to meet my Divisional Officer. The young man was the antithesis of the Colonel in Sudan Block. I noticed a poster on the wall above his table which read: ‘A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step!’ As I entered the room, I felt a sense of condescension. After a long drawn silence he muttered “So, you want to leave after two weeks?” I nodded vigorously and gave my most pleasant smile. He walked towards me and snarled “If ever you bring up this topic again, I’ll rip your heart out and feed it to the dogs!”  Am I clear?” 

I was shell shocked!  It was one of those apocalyptic moments in my life! In one fell swoop he had completely shipwrecked me. It took a few moments before the finer fibres of my ordinary brain began actuating.

“Am I clear”, he bellowed into my ear once again. I could smell the halitosis in his bad breath.

I shouted back, “Yes, Sir”! (This shouting back and forth used to really freak me out!)

“Now, shouldn’t you be attending academic classes at this time?” 

I raced out of the office and headed straight for Sudan Block.

My first day in NDA was a precursor of things to come in the following terms.

I set about looking for B-classification in Sudan block, when I met James Moses (54-56/B). Moses was smoking a cigarette in the toilet and offered to show me my classroom. He seemed to have encyclopaedic knowledge of life on Planet NDA. He proceeded to enlighten me.

“Take my advice and join F-classification. The guys with the lowest IQ levels are sent to F-classification. Here’s how it works – since F-classification guys are genetically handicapped, the question paper is discretely leaked out to them on the day before the exam. In B-classification nobody teaches you. They expect you to learn on your own and pass the exams.”  

I completely swallowed this delicious plan. The short break was over, so Moses suggested we take the shortcut from Sudan Block to Science block from behind.

Soon there was a whistle for us to stop. A Drill Instructor had seen us taking the shortcut and began noting down our names. In a flash, Moses had changed his name tally and squadron badge. “Naam batao” yelled the DI.   Moses said “P Dogra, H sqn, no 11001”. “Kashmiri Pandit hai kya?” Moses then went on to explain how his Kashmiri father had married a Tamil lady and by working in the wheat fields of Punjab, he had acquired a dark tan.

“Theek Hai. Teen ET run karna!” decreed the DI.  

Next, he turned to me and surveyed me with amusement on his face “Naye ho kya? Unifarm (uniform) bhi nahin hai!”

Moses kicked me on my shin with his drill boot and as I bent down in pain he intervened. “Haanji Saab! Convent me padhai kiya hai!   Naam hai  Anil Kumar, L-Squadron, number 11002. Hindi bolne nahin aata!”    

“Oye, Kaanvent iskool aduketed (Convent school educated)”, the DI pointed at me and chuckled at his own inane joke.  “Theek hai! Saat restriction kar lena!”  The creep didn’t realise that the joke was actually on him!

We double-quick marched to Sudan Block in Russo-Prussian style (like they now do at the Wagah border between India and Pakistan). By the time we reached there both the soles of my new Bata shoes had fallen off. I was forced to hobnob on my toes for the rest of the day like the court Jester in King Arthur’s court. We missed the 6^th period, so Moses took me to the bathroom for another cigarette. “Every squadron has two camps one North Indian and other South Indian” Choose carefully which camp you join. For North Indians say words like ‘Balle, Balle!, Ki haal hai puttar!, Oye Chad Yaar!  Chak de Phatte! For South Indians say Vaanakam, Enda Perinda, Mess nu podama and sapadam!” If you want to stay alive join either one of the camps”    

I said “But I’m a Goan. So there must be a West Indian Camp also?”   He shook his head from side to side “Boy, looks like you’re going to get jacked by both the groups!” he sympathized.

“One more thing” he added.  “Drop the surname ‘Gonsalves’. It’s too bizarre.  People will freak out with that name. Call yourself Anil Kumar Singh. The double-barrelled ‘Kumar-Singh’ would be music to both North Indians and South Indians! If you have to give an explanation for ‘Gonsalves’ say ‘Mainu ki patta. Pind da naam tha. Main sirf tractor chalata tha.”

Both of us reported to F-Classification. Mr Ramaiah, Physics teacher, inserted my name on the roll call sheet and shook his head “In two days the second Phase test will start. What are you going to write in the exam?”  I was hoping he would leak the paper to me. But it never happened. With a big zero in both the Phase tests, I set about acquiring a grand CGPA of 1.01 in the final exam and just about cleared for 2^nd term. Regrettably, Moses also didn’t get the leaked papers and had to repeat the 1^st term.

The CGPA system, like the ACR system in the Navy, is obfuscated with a factor called PARB (Performance Appraisal Review Board), which can swing you either side of the line, depending on the sound of your name! PARB is designed to maintain the pyramidal structure of the Navy, to ensure the longitivity of the Admirals, to promote the gaon-wallas, and to give wicked pleasure to a group of old geysers to play a game of dice with your career. It usually works by arbitrarily deducting ACR marks to bring down the number that can be promoted depending on pre-decided vacancies. It’s a real Teaser, because in a race when you’re running against a 100 invisible horses and you think you’re doing pretty well, (because all your COs have shown you the ACR with excellent markings, which you have counter-signed on the first page) you suddenly find yourself at the bottom of the list when you reach the finishing line for promotion!

Luckily for us, in those days besides dim-witted cadets, they also posted dim-witted professors to F-Classification. Ramiah, not having been cast in the NDA mould, was a real compassionate soul. While teaching us maths and physics, he would tell us stories of how he accidently poured tea into his sambhar bowl in a bid to make it to the classes in time! As it turned out, Ramaiah could not for the life of him get the spelling or the pronunciation of my name (Gonsalves) correct. I have a strong suspicion that while he was juggling with my name on the left column, he accidently PARBed the right hand column and promoted me to the second term!  If this is true then I swear that was the only time in my life I got PARBed upwards!  “Not bad!” I thought to myself, my rather weird and eccentric name had come to my rescue after all.

NDA cannot do without the antiquated mosquito net or the Chindet pack. So, that evening I was sent to the MI room to receive a dose of sodium penicillin injection. It was so painful that I felt my hand had been ripped out.

Later at Tea time, after carefully surveying the corridors, I sauntered into the tea room to pick up my tea. When I entered the room I met T Saikya (52/F). I couldn’t make out which camp he belonged to so I said “Vaanakam and Sat-Sri-Akal!” very slowly to search for any change in behavior.  

Saikya was amused “Sho you’re traaying to imfress me with uhore lengwaze skills? Shay shomething in Assamese, you Phokker!” , he said with a semi-chinese takeaway accent. (So, you’re trying to impress me with your language skills) Goblins speak in Gobbledegook and Saikya’s tongue nearly matched it!  Saikya punched me hard in the stomach. I folded over and spilt my tea on his games rig. Saikya was a Half-Blue in boxing. He sized me up and said “ You are the perfect sparring partner for me! Report to me every games period” I almost died of fright!

That evening after dinner, there was a Course Fall-in in Bajri order because some 1^st Termers were regularly arriving late for morning Parade.

Melatonin is the hormone which controls your body clock. Melatonin was beginning to kick into my system by 11pm that day. With my shin hurting, my stomach paining and my left arm amputated, I was just about to retire for the day when Brian Thomas (51/F) walked into my cabin “Tell your pals that tomorrow I’m taking all of you for a cross-country run to 2475. Muster on the Parade ground at 5:30 am sharp.”

“Outstanding”, I said to myself as I collapsed onto my bedbug infested cot and passed out instantly.

They say, the best journeys are not always in straight lines. From that day on, the days at the Academy slipped into a harsh rhythm of PT, drill, classes, cross-country, punishments and more punishments. Unfortunately, whatever zest I had for academics and sports was spontaneously killed by my overwhelming instinct just to keep my head above water.

In the military academies of ancient Greece, raw recruits were compared to Chimera and the Instructors were likened to Bellerophon. Now, Bellerophon was the mythical Greek hero. When he saw a creature that was part goat, part snake and part lion, he declared it a monster and called it ‘Chimera’. Then he proceeded to cut it down, categorizing it into neat understandable boxes, and in the process killed it. However, we celebrate NDA in a different way.

To most of us, NDA is an institution where great value is given to academics, games, drill, procedures, ceremonies, and discipline. It is a place where efficiency is celebrated. It is a place of protocol. It is a melting pot where every new metal has to lose its individuality and subscribe to a collective alloy. It is an organization which believes that if you’re so smart why aren’t you an office bearer.

This is precisely the reason when you join as fresh recruits, still wet behind the ears, the Boffins at NDA see you having no system, no order, no efficiency, no protocol, no discipline, no marching ability and no uniformity, they are bound to be terrified. So, they set about cutting you up into neat little cubes whereby they can understand you, thereby ‘killing’ you. In the process of this great transformation, there obviously would be stories of abuse, neglect, kindness, hope and survival.

Interestingly, it was not the day-to-day acts of abuse and survival that I now prefer to remember, but some amusing lessons.

I couldn’t understand how school-types would openly schmooze with each other. For example, every Academy Cadet Adjutant would ask his school types to leave the auditorium before they started putting the rest to the grind.  What a shame for Office Bearers to publicly give ‘lift’ to their school types and what a shame for the school types to take the ‘lift’ they were offering!  Why couldn’t they stick on with the rest of the crowd and take what was coming in solidarity? If NDA didn’t teach you to have Espirite-de-Corp, then which institution did?

If NDA did not teach you to overcome incipient hate, venality, and personal violence then which place could? I used to see cadets get manhandled quite brutally, for reasons beyond normal comprehension. This was a lesson for a sensible person to refrain from continuing such a practice.

What makes a 17 year old brutalise a 16 year old in the name of discipline? Was there a hidden agenda to make Navy Seals out of all cadets so that one day we could go on an Osama-bin-Laden raid and get Ibrahim Dawood out of Pakistan? But that hasn’t happened yet!

I was chatting with a psychologist friend a few years ago and he had this to say “The isolated, hierarchical and all-male setting at NDA makes the cadets CLOSED (introverts, keeping personal feelings a secret), MASCULINE (hyperactive, dominating, not caring, having own definition of justice), AGGRESSIVE (violent, intolerable, sometimes bestial, brutal and cynical), DEPENDENT (frequently reporting sick, always vigilant). They thus begin to build up ‘type identities’ (school types, place types and language types). Of course all this is a little farfetched, but one can see the point.

Thirty eight years later, as I sit on my easy chair on this hot Sunday afternoon, typing this chronicle, I can say hearteningly that the hooligans I remember at NDA transformed and become professionals and thorough gentlemen.  NDA has a strange way of metamorphosing even the most vociferous dickheads!

What I prided most at NDA was my sanity. I was not prepared to sacrifice it to elbow grease my way into becoming an appointment. I am very proud to say that I passed out as a ‘kachra cadet’! Foxtrot continued to remain on the left hand side of the Parade Ground and Toad and I were responsible for it in our own ways.

In NDA, my cabin used to be my haven in which I could unwind and be hermetically sealed from the rest of the world. There were days when I would run in slushy mud, march to Colonel Bogey with my cycle on my head, roll in the grime, but I could rely on the comfort of a warm bath to return to. And thankfully Foxtrot Squadron bathrooms did a mean shower. 

Another favourite for me was the great big dining room. Sunday breakfast was something to look forward to. They used to serve us these little cubes of butter, which we used to generously slather on hard baked slices of home-made bread, in layers that measured a few microns thick, making it neither visually appealing, nor enhancing the taste and texture of the bread. But what the hell! It was fun to eat 20 toasts and boast about it later. Mess nights were special. Among the mains, the scotch eggs were a hands-down winner. The other standout dish was the chicken Maryland, with all its stuffing. To finish off, it was usually Tipsy pudding, which was sinfully delightful with its dry fruit and tangy flavour.

I never understood why they served Rajma and lentils for dinner, day-in and day-out, for three full years. This was not a good idea as it led to severe flatulence and we were compelled to play a most horrifying and lethal game called ‘Guess-who-silently-farted-in-the-night-fall-in’. It is said that British Generals learnt their strategy on the playgrounds of Eton and Princeton. We learnt ours on the GFCL of F-squadron. All the principles of war had to be applied like concentration, surprise, deceit, etc. The final effect was devastating but extremely satisfying, if one did not get caught!

There is a saying “The future is never what it used to be.”  A few months before joining NDA my future was to command a 100,000 Metric Tonne VLCC (Very Large Crude Carrier) ship somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Now my future had suddenly changed to command a handsome missile Cruiser with missiles, guns, torpedoes, rockets, depth charges and integrated Command Platform. I had taken the first step by joining NDA. Problem was there were a thousand miles left to go!

In retrospect I would say, despite the vicissitudes of life in the academy, I am still glad that I came of age in NDA and that it taught me what it did, although not in a refreshing manner. For those of us who were able to see the right from the wrong at NDA, it’s been an insanely great honour!