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The moon slipped behind a cloud, even as glasses clinked
and sounds of riotous laughter filled the air. Chinese lanterns cast ominous
shapes on the shamiana walls, even as a lone figure crept towards the makeshift
stage door. The moon suddenly came out from behind its cloud cover and shone on
the lanky figure of a young man with a shaven head, as he slunk towards the
bright lights. The next moment, he was onstage, bare torso-ed, wearing a grass
skirt, and a sheepish smile, as the whole crowd burst out laughing. The occasion was the Regimental Battle Honour
Day, when the ladies and the officers played host to all their guests, regaling
them with entertainment, food and wine.
How this particular officer had got himself into such a
position is now part of Regimental history, a chapter that raises chuckles
every time it is told, which it is at regular intervals. It was on the occasion
of the young officer’s wining-in that his seniors held him down and forcibly
emptied a bottle of whiskey down his unwilling throat. Making him unclench his
teeth was difficult enough, but disgorging his history was even more tedious. Once
the liquor had unloosened his teeth and his tongue, out tumbled the tale!
“My mosher, moth.. mother promised me that I should never
touch a drop of liquor...!” the poor man divulged. “Sh...she’sh very
conshervative!” The slurring became more prominent and the syllables less so as
he looked around convulsively, and then went out like a light! The seniors who
had fortified themselves during the narration were not long in following him
and soon there was silence in the room, but for a variety of snores that echoed
all along the passage, some short, some long, interspersed with gurgles, rasps
and a couple of unmentionable words.
The incident was soon forgotten, and the said officer
went on annual leave. In the process of de-stressing, he would relate a few
gory tales of his first few months in the Unit, tales which were lapped up
eagerly by his old grandmother, his nine-yard-sari-clad mother and his
attentive father, all of whom were very proud of him. One day the narration got
beyond him as he dropped a brick, the saga of his having been forced into
drinking liquor.
“Shiva, Shiva...!” moaned the mother, “No one has ever
even looked at alcohol in our house!”
“Ma, nothing
happens if you look at it...!” protested her son.
“Silence!”
thundered the father, as Grandma looked on aghast. By noon they were on the
next bus to Tirupati where the whole family collectively pledged the young
man’s ample mop of hair to the deity for having defiled their religion.
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A sheepish young man stood in front of his senior
officers, as they berated him, as seniors are prone to do in the
Army. “You bl***y chap! How could you have shaved your head? Don’t you know
that it amounts to changing your identity?”
The young man stammered, “But... but, Sir, my mother...!”
“No excuses! You will have to pay the price for this!”
was the stern rejoinder! There were four officers who had all got married recently. Incidentally, they were all on the look out for a scapegoat to take part in a unique Fashion show.
That is how the young man landed up, cowering in a dark
corner, wearing a grass skirt! Actually, a skirt made of camouflage material,
with big gaping holes in it, and the entry was appropriately titled ‘Green
Lagoon’ after Brooks Shield’s blockbuster, ‘Blue Lagoon’! Not that the other
young officers were spared either, as they were made to walk the ramp to
rambunctious tunes, in outrageous costumes made out of mosquito nets, tent
material and the like, all for a Fauji Fashion Show that brought the house
down! The Green Lagoon, of course, was the showstopper!
It was after this that the youngsters decided to take
their revenge. One night when the clock struck twelve, and the witching hour
began, they got hold of a bundle of loud firecrackers, the ones that the
shopkeeper promised would go up with much sound and fury They crept to the
guest room, where one of the seniors who had inveigled them into the Fashion
Show, was staying with his new bride. They found a tiny bathroom window open,
and lighting the crackers, threw the whole lot in. They landed perfectly in a
plastic bucket, hissing for all they were worth. The next moment, the whole
bucket had gone up in flames, along with all the noise and conflagration the
shopkeeper had promised, as the startled couple awoke and darted out of the room,
even as the curtains caught fire. What had begun as a joke nearly ended in
tragedy! The chastened youngsters redeemed themselves by helping douse the
fire, but for years after, no newly married officer dared to take up the generous
invitation of the guest room.
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Suddenly, over a week, the young officers were invited to the newlyweds’
houses for breakfast. It was a way to say they were forgiven. “Young blood will
be young blood, after all!” one officer said magnanimously, “And besides, we
were not burnt alive in our beds!” So, in turn, the youngsters made
their way sheepishly to the four houses.
Before entering the first house, the seniormost officer told his young mates,
“Listen, you will all behave! We will have breakfast and all of you will praise
Ma’am’s cooking, whether you like it or not! And we will get out in 45 minutes,
get it?”
“Yes, Sir!” came the resounding reply.
So, they all sat, on their best behaviour, looking as if
butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. They were looking forward to good home
cooked food, as is the wont of all young officers. Little did they know that
their host had just about developed a cast iron stomach, to ward off the
effects of his brand new wife’s cooking skills, or lack of them actually. Soon
they were sitting at the dining table, as the lady of the house brought in a
glass container filled to the brim with steaming hot upma.
“Wow, Ma’am, that smells awesome!” said one well-tutored
youngster.
“We enjoy home
cooked food!” piped another voice.
The host sat, smiling grimly, as he knew the full extent
of the damage his wife’s upma could do! Generous helpings were ladled, and
after the first few mouthfuls, there was total silence at the table. The lady
looked in anticipation at each of the faces but could get no reaction out of
them. She glanced at her husband who smiled at her blissfully.
The silence dragged on, as the young officers continued
the exercise of eating. Finally, unable to bear the suspense anymore, she asked
in trepidation, “How’s the upma?”
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All the young men raised their heads and looked at her,
as one of them replied with his teeth clenched, “Wonderful, Ma’am, if I could
only get my teeth apart!” The upma had been liberally doused with water which
turned it into some kind of gluey substance, leading to the long embarrassing silence.
Needless to say, the youngsters were canny enough to take the experience in
their stride, never once deriding Ma’am’s cooking, but they always made sure
that they were fed to the gills when they went on a visit thereafter.
And thus, the gory tales of the cantonment carried on, unabated...
PS: My first book titled 'Arms and the Woman' took a light hearted look at the life of an Army wife, namely, my own experiences, both happy and not-so-happy. The reason I wrote this book was to reveal to people who did not know much about the Indian Army the travails that people go through, even as they hide their fears beneath a smiling exterior. I was fortunate enough to be part of my husband's postings, all except his perilous tenure at Rwanda and Mozambique as a Military Observer.
Thus, we sustained the days of militancy at Gurdaspur, Punjab, the Kargil War, the earthquake and the riots in Gujarat, the power cuts and the remoteness of Arunachal Pradesh and the erratic schedules of being posted out and shifting house every two years. Our daughter studied in eight different schools in twelve years, which was an advantage as it helped her adjust to different climes and make friends easily.
I would term our days under the giant umbrella of the Indian Army as the best ever - the smiles, the laughter, the wonder, the camaraderie, the tears, the sighs and the respect we enjoyed made these years unforgettable.
In fact, if I had to live my life all over again, I would still opt to be first a brat, and then a lady wife in the Indian Army.
This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon
This post is a part of 'Tricolour Tales Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.”
