At least, the rules of the kite fight hadn't changed since the time we left Narayanpur. Maybe, I mused, these kite duellers would know. I approached a group of people as they watched a kite flyer's nimble tugs at the thread that had a huge kite soaring in the sky at the other end. I asked if any of them knew the four brothers' house. They paid me scant attention, engrossed as they were in the fight-to-the-finish duel in the sky. I gave up and started towards the Railway Station to catch my train back home. Just then, I noticed an old man with a long flowing beard, looking at me quizzically.
“Are you looking for the family of the four brothers and two sisters? The one where the eldest became an Army officer?”
Inwardly elated with the clue, I exclaimed with anticipation, “Yes sir! That's the one!”
“Karun didn't come back from the '71 war. After his death, the family moved on from this mohala.”
“Oh”, I said, a little shell shocked. “Can you tell me where did the family go from here?”
“They left this city. But not before leaving behind a name. This is Karun Mane Street that we are standing on, after Karun, as you can imagine,” said the old man, his eyes welling up.
The mystery of KM Street was solved. But wasn't this typical? We have a MG Street in almost every town in India but only a few, if any, know what MG stands for. (Often MG stood for Mahatma Gandhi but at times it also stood for Mirza Ghalib.) I was getting a little emotional myself and as I hurried to leave I asked the old man without much hope, “Did any of them ever return to this city?”
“Come Akhateej, you might catch Karun's father here. He sometimes comes here to rewind to the old days”, said the old man.
I peered at him more closely and as recognition dawned, I let out a gasp!
Chapter 11: What J did
A horrendous week had come to an end for cadets of a particular squadron of a Defence Academy in India. The cadets had been rolling on the hot gravel of their parade ground for hours throughout the past week. Nothing unusual about that if one was a first termer. What was unusual was that these bunch of cadets were seniors.
But the good news was that the punishment sessions had come to an end.
J decided that to dull that intense burning off those blisters on the back, it would be a good idea to get quarter bottles from neighbouring Unagar. Just to clarify at this point: drinking and smoking invited punishment at that Defence Academy. Although one could get away relatively easy -and this is absolutely relative - if caught smoking, there was hell to pay if one were to be caught drinking. It was a braveheart who decided to make merry in the Squadron premises.
Other than on the ground floor, each floor had two seemingly secluded flanks where the prying eyes of the Divisional Officers would not normally reach. The downside was that one could not hear the Divisional Officers' tread till it was too late.
Just after the wail, "Lights out 'X…' squadron! Lights out 'X…' squadron" wafted through the Squadron that night, glasses and bottles came out in the anteroom flank of the Squadron. 'Lights out' was an official announcement in all squadrons for the cadets to tuck in.
The first drink hadn’t even been poured when urgent messaging started between the cadets that the Divisional Officer was on the prowl.
It was too late for J to hide the glasses. We never did come to know where the bottles disappeared. J took the official line that he was going to have water before sleep. The Divisional Officer (Div O) had J's cabin searched thoroughly by a junior. He found nothing. But the Div O wouldn’t give up. The glasses were evidence like a smoking gun in a crime scene and he knew that a binge session had been going on. He kept on with his questioning till well past midnight. He himself looked in the usual places: inside J's steel case, his kit bag, under the mattress. He even went down to see if the bottles had shattered below. But the bottles were never found. J could only be charged for violating 'Lights out' orders and got a light rap on his knuckles for that.
We, J's coursemates, kept at him till the end of the term to tell us about the 'case' of the missing bottles. J did not oblige us with the details. We left it at that and assumed that the secret would die with J.
Long past this incident, J came to my home and we started reminiscing our days in the Academy (actually bragging about it in front of my son) when I asked J whatever happened to those bottles. This time J relented.
He said, "I got lucky. Those quarter bottles fit in exactly in the lower pockets of the tunic of my blue patrols. When the search was going on, I told our junior K, who was searching with a fine-tooth comb, to be very careful with the blue patrol. He understood and took good care of the blue patrols. The Div O got really flummoxed. He raged that I had him outwitted which I had actually done fair and square."
Chapter 12: Equestrian Lessons
Rear Admiral A was once upon a time the Commandant of a Defence Academy in India. He liked riding and he liked driving. He liked riding horses and he liked to drive the cadets hard.
He couldn't give enough of riding lessons to the cadets. God help the cadet who was found shamming in the riding school.
On the other hand, riding wasn't the most popular engagement in that Academy. Cadets hated it for two reasons: one, if you didn't know riding well, you could get some pretty nasty welts on the thighs. And two, the riding school was so far away from the Squadrons that one could easily miss one’s breakfast on days one had riding lessons.
Cadets could endure anything but miss a breakfast.
And therefore, cadets would do whatever it took to skip the equestrian classes. Reporting sick was the order of the day on riding days. But on this particular day too many cadets reported sick. And as luck would have it, the Admiral came into the equestrian lines for a surprise check.
And then all hell broke loose.
To cut a long story short, all and sundry who were absent from the equestrian parade were quickly marched up to the Commandant. There were those who were genuinely sick but that didn't matter.
P had reported sick but the Medical officer had declared him 'Attend E'. This meant that he needed to attend all classes. Yet P hadn't turned out for the equestrian parade. This was the done thing under normal circumstances. But circumstances weren't quite normal that day. Shaken up from his slumber in his cabin, his marching up procedure went into an overdrive. From the Divisional Officer to the Squadron Commander to the Battalion Commander to the Deputy Commandant he went through it all as if in a trance. He was jolted back to reality as he stood in Rear Admiral A's office, shivering in his boots. If one is marched up to the Commandant it meant only three things; one, you get 28 days of punishment, euphemistically called Restriction in that Academy; two, you get relegated to a junior term; three, you are withdrawn from the Academy.
“So, P? Shouldn't I send you home?”, barked the Admiral.
“No sir!”, said P, with a conviction that he didn’t have.
“You need to be relegated!” shouted the Admiral.
“No sir!” said P, a glimmer of hope suddenly taking shape in his mind.
“28 days bareback riding! March him out!” ordered the Admiral.
As P went back to his cabin, he reflected, he had come out lightly. Or, had he indeed?
It is not every day that a Commandant meted out 28 days bareback riding as punishment. This was a new punishment but was it lighter for the offender? 28 days bareback riding meant riding 3 hours every day, without stirrups and saddle. Even one day bareback riding would leave behind such bruises and hurts, as would make you wish that the Commandant had given you 28 days Restrictions instead. Still, his was not to reason why but to ride 'n' ride-without stirrups, that is.
Long after he finished his 28 days bareback riding, P, ran into the Commandant near the shopping area. At that time of the term, Passing out Parade rehearsals were going on and that particular day had been Commandant's full dress rehearsal.
“Skipping my parade, are you, P?” thundered the Commandant.
“No sir, am in the end of term ridin
g display,” said P, almost with a smile.
“Ah, so the bareback riding has really done you good. Now you are in the Academy show jumping team. That is some progress!”
P winced; talk about making virtue out of necessity!
Chapter 13: TALES FROM RAILWAYS: 2
This is my second tale from the Indian Railways. The first one told us that the Railways did not move back.
This is an opportune time to tell my second story on Indian Railways not because the Railway budget is here but because anytime is a good time to tell a story about Railway's timetable.
This happened many years ago.
Sanghamitra Express leaves Patna Railway station at 2:45 pm. Anticipating potholes and 'Rasta Roko' (see Note 1 below) on my way from Gaya to Patna, I started for Patna Railway Station a good five hours in advance. I reached the station at about 12:30 pm. The Sanghamitra Express from Bangalore hadn’t arrived. It should have arrived at 9:30 in the morning. The same train (or rakes, as the Railways' jargon goes) would chug its way back home - and home was Bangalore, of course. Till the down train came, there was no way of telling when my journey would start. It was going to be a long and sweltering wait.
As I bit into my chicken in the newly opened swanky Railways restaurant, there was some cheer for me; Sanghamitra Express from Bangalore had just nudged in. It was 2:45 pm. The chicken tasted good now. The public announcement was driving me crazy, though. It droned on and on about other arrivals and departures but it didn’t say anything about Sanghamitra. Risking being crushed again, I went over to the Enquiry. I was told to hold my horses; the train had just arrived and it will take a while to wash the rakes.
Finally, the announcement came. Sanghamitra would leave from platform No 4 at 1920 hours. My mind, befuddled by the oppressive heat, took some to convert the time into 7:20 pm. I grit my teeth. That was four hours away. Anyway, the positive was that at least I knew when and from where to board the train.
I set myself down on platform No 4 an hour before the revised scheduled departure of my train. I silently congratulated the Railways for announcing the place and time of departure. But for this small mercy, I would be lugging my suitcase all over the station. I killed time by counting with the LED time display hung over the platform. 6: 30 … 6:31… When the display turned 7:00, a train came and halted at the platform. But it didn’t quite look like Sanghamitra Express. For one, it only had 'sitting' coaches. For another, although the platform was teeming with passengers, there wasn’t a mad rush to board this train. I asked one of the porters. I had guessed correctly; this train's destination was some nondescript place called Ismailpur. Clearly, even 7:20 pm seemed unlikely. Yet, the Public Announcement system kept droning that Sanghmitra Express would leave platform 4 at 1920 hours.
When the LED display turned 7:19, I saw a young foreigner rushing down the over bridge onto platform No 4. She was carrying a heavy bag and had a huge knapsack over her shoulders. As she came below the LED display, she momentarily looked up to see the time. Exactly at that time the train berthed on the platform started to move. I saw the girl panic. Obviously, she wanted to board the train. She threw the bag in the running train and made to jump up into the train with her knapsack. Perhaps the weight of the knapsack was a little too much or perhaps the train had gathered speed. But down she went and stumbled into the rails below. For a moment I was nonplussed. Then I ran towards the place where she had fallen down. I saw that though she was under the train, she was wedged in the space between the rails and the platform and was miraculously unhurt. Now the girl was trying to get up even as the train was passing over her. That would be fatal.
I shouted in English, praying to God that she understood English, "Keep down! Don’t move!"
She immediately stopped her attempts to get up. That saved her.
The train passed over her. The guard must have noticed what was going on. He pulled the chain and caused the train to stop a few yards away from her. The girl got up. Mud was spluttered all over her face and arms. She made a mad rush to the coach where she had thrown her bag and again attempted to get up.
I thought to myself, "Why would she want to go to Ismailpur? Sanghamitra Express must be her train! She must have seen the time on the LED display and having been assured by the Public Announcement System that Sanghamitra Express would leave platform 4 on 1920 hours, must have assumed this train was Sanghamitra Express."
"Where are you going?" I shouted over the din.
The girl looked at me and replied, "Madras". Clearly, she hadn’t heard of Chennai till then.
"This train doesn’t go to Madras. Get down!"
She got down. Then she said something uncharitable about the Railways. In those days of the 'feel good factor', this quite jarred my auricular sensibilities. But given the trauma the girl had gone through, I let it pass.
That was the last I saw of her. A sea of humanity, curious to know about what had happened to the foreigner girl, surged like a tidal wave towards her. I was buffeted aside. I kept my counsel.
Note1: 'Rasta Roko' literally means 'bar the way'. This is a form of protest used by citizens to demonstrate their dissent against anything under the sun. (For example, it could even be a way to protest India's defeat in T20) Barricades are put up on the roads and traffic is prevented from moving. When you similarly put up barricades on the railway tracks you call it 'Rail Roko'
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