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.

---

[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.

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’