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.

Brahmaputra Blues

Jan 1979 - May 1979

One of my favourite literary works is 'Through the looking glass’ by Lewis Carroll. "Well, in our country", said Alice, still panting a little, "you'd generally get to somewhere else, if you ran very fast for a very long time, as we've been doing." "A slow sort of country!" said the Queen, "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running to do, to keep in the same place."

After we graduated from INS Mysore, the sea cadets were divided into two lots and sent to INS Brahmaputra and INS Krishna, minus the ten cadets who chose to join the Engineering and Electrical branch. This was the first time we wore Midshipman's epaulettes and felt like officers. Only beer was allowed in the Mid's bar and with a limit of three cans a day. But the beer was Heineken, Tiger and Oranjeboom and the cigarettes were 555 or India Kings, nothing less. Our first pay was a Princely Rs 519/- and as the saying goes we would 'splurge it like a sailor on shore leave'. Fortunately a can of beer cost just Rs 3/- and a pack of cigarettes cost even less than that. It was an open bar system with stress laid on honour and integrity. Anyone helping himself to a beer was required to make an entry in the register kept on the bar. Regrettably, we still had to contribute in the month end to make good loses.

Brahmaputra was better known as 'Basinputra'. Training ships normally go on foreign cruises, so as to give exposure to the young trainees. But Basinputra never left the wet basin and we lost a good opportunity of visiting the Southeast Asian and Gulf countries. NHQ[1] then decided that the Midshipmen should get exposure on the Fleet ships. I was sent to INS Talwar and by a quirk of fate, Bollard (who was on Krishna) followed me there. There was a major naval exercise in progress and ships of the Western Fleet sailed out soon after we reported on board. Not surprisingly, the Mids were pressed into action during every single Fleet evolution. We would have a full menu of PT (on a rolling deck) followed by Fleet Gunnery, TAS[2], Communication, Jackstay, Replenishment underway exercises, not forgetting Bridge watches which used to be mixed with some old school communication semaphore and Morse code flashing. It was a heady mix of work, watches and astro-navigation till we crashed into bed like bedraggled foxes in our lairs and blanked out. And the whole process would continue all over again without stopping.

Each Mid was issued a sextant, plotting sheet, astro-sight form book and a chronometer. At every opportunity we had to record the elevation of the sun, moon and stars from the horizon (depending on the time of the day) with our sextants and then get down to a lengthy calculation, involving empirical tables from which one had to interpolate and extrapolate the azimuth of a heavenly body to get a bearing. With a minimum of three bearings one could then obtain a fix and determine the ship's position. All this had to be done within five minutes flat, otherwise the 'cocked hat' would become too large for any 'fix'. The catch is that when the star is available, the horizon isn't and vice versa, except at twilight hours in the early morning and late evening when both are available for about 20 minutes.

Sadly, all this was beyond Bollard's reach. He would first look through the wrong end of the sextant trying his best to sight the star, before someone corrected him. Having figured that out he would then proceed to shoot the star on the horizon behind his back. Having jettisoned any hope of shooting even one star, he would act in a most imperious manner by pretending to have all the requisite data for the calculation and look around for a suitable friend to copy the calculation. Occasionally, not wanting to be outdone, the non-metro Bollard would put on an accent to sound very metro "Heyy Babyy, want GPL?" (GPL = Gaand pe laath), when someone wouldn't co-operate. All this in the middle of your calculation, when you're about to hit pay dirt and get a fix.  He also freaked out on another acronym ‘KLPD’ (Go figure!)

INS Talwar was an ex-Leopard class ship of the Royal Navy. It had a crow's nest, which was used by the lookout for early warning of icebergs and submarine periscopes. The ExO[3] of the ship would frequently send us up there as punishment for a couple of hours. The crow's nest was tucked away on the highest point of the ship's main mast and was not designed for the faint hearted. It had a sound-powered telephone and an eponymous voice pipe for the lookout to report contacts to the Bridge. In the windy confines of the crow's nest one often felt like taking a leak every half an hour. For this we began using the voice pipe to relieve ourselves - little realising that the other end of the pipe went to the Bridge or Captain's cabin. It was only when the Captain asked emphatically "Is anyone piddling on the Bridge?" and looked at the Mids, that we realised our folly. The Mids were smart enough to look dumb and began sniffing around pretending complete innocence.

After about a month we were back on our Training ship. Brahmaputra did make two very short voyages from Cochin to Mangalore, Goa and Tuticorin. Some enterprising Mids put up a skit impersonating the officers on board and one very talented Midshipman almost got relegated for impersonating the Signal Communication Officer with his 'Fiss-on-a-diss' (Fish on a Dish) remark - a repeat of the classroom episode in NDA when he was impersonating the Chemistry Teacher without realising that the Teacher had already entered the class and had taken a back seat. Providence saved him on both occasions.

We sailed into Goa a day before the carnival and were all excited about going to see what the fuss was all about. But as luck would have it, our shore leave was cancelled and we had to stay put on the ship for the entire three days. As a punishment they made us lower the Whalers[4] and practice sailing. Once in the water and on our own, I quickly took charge and steered course from Vasco Harbour to Miramar on the other cove. A bunch of about 15 young sailors descended into my Uncle's home most unexpectedly and were treated to some excellent Goan seafood and homemade Urraq and Feni[5]. Having filled our bellies and a bottle each for the return voyage, both the Whalers made their way back to the ship. We were unaware that during our absence, all hell was breaking loose on-board. They had almost launched a SAR mission for the missing Mids. But the punishment that followed was well worth the drinking carnival that we had at Miramar.

In an earlier narrative I had described how the Mids had binged on a dangerous combination of beer, rum, gin, vodka and heaven knows what. That happened when Brahmaputra visited Tuticorin harbour.

The short but bitter-sweet stay on Brahmaputra left me with enough memories to last a lifetime. Most of us were only 20 years old and needed some kind of guidance and direction. Many a time we were clumped on our heads by our Divisional Officers telling us what to do, but we went on NOT doing whatever it was they had told us to do. But what's a Midshipman, without the mischief? The six months spent on board soon came to an end and when it came to shipping our first half-stripe, all hands on deck were ready for the call.

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[1] NHQ: Naval Headquarters, New Delhi.

[2] TAS: Torpedo and Anti-Submarine. This branch of the Navy later changed its name to Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW).

[3] ExO: The Executive Officer of the ship, who is also the 2^nd in Command.

[4] Whalers: These are very sturdy wooden boats which have sails and oars and can carry almost 15 men.

[5] Urraq and Feni are two local alcoholic beverages made from cashew or coconut extract.