It was a rare privilege to be trained at Asia's largest and the most prestigious military training institute, the National Defence Academy (NDA). NDA's huge campus is spread over more than 7,000 acres. In addition, about 1000 acres of the backwaters of Khadakwasla dam, also form a part of NDA's campus, and is known as 'Peacock Bay'.
However, in the daily grind of our busy training schedule, we would hardly ever have stopped to appreciate the scenic beauty of the campus.
The
training at NDA consisted largely of a rigorous physical training. In
addition, we also studied subjects of either a BA or a BSc curriculum, prescribed by
the JNU, New Delhi. Many civilian professors, as well as officers from the Army
Education Corps, taught us.
On
most of the days, a few tiring hours of PT, Drill, or Equestrian training, was
followed by a hearty breakfast. Quite naturally, most of us would merrily doze
off during the academic classes that followed. Some of our professors,
especially the civilians, were quite 'considerate'. Idiomatically speaking, they
would “let sleeping dogs lie”! However, the other professors employed the usual methods
to ensure that we remained awake.
Occasionally, we would play truant, especially if a ‘considerate’ professor was scheduled to engage our class immediately after breakfast. Whenever any one of us ‘bunked’ a class, a coursemate would be entrusted with the task of marking the ‘proxy’ attendance for the absentee. At such times, the sense of brotherhood of that coursemate was on test.
Answering for one’s own
attendance as well as another cadet’s ‘proxy’ attendance was fraught with the
obvious risk of getting caught by an alert professor. However, a real ‘Smart Alec’ would
remain quiet when his own name was called out, and would answer for a buddy who
would be absent. At the end of the session, when everyone was on the way out,
he would follow the professor, requesting him to check if his attendance had
been marked. On finding his name in the absentee list, he would confidently
argue, "Sir, obviously I'm present here! Why have you marked me absent,
sir?" More often than not, this trick worked!
If ever, an absence report reached our squadron, we would be in trouble. Punishments were swiftly handed out. An 'Extra Drill' (ED) for a few days, meant that, while the other cadets enjoyed a brief, post-lunch siesta, the ‘defaulter’ would be banging his feet on the hot parade ground. ‘Restrictions’, was a more elaborate, and at least a week-long affair. The cadets on 'Restrictions', dressed in their battle fatigues, had to reach the Sudan Block at various times of the day, and report to a Drill ‘Ustad’. With haversacks on their backs, the defaulters would then be herded, on a trot, along the 'periphery road' inside the NDA campus. The ‘Ustad’ would ride his bicycle behind the defaulters. It was quite a spectacle, but, for the rest of the Academy it was just a routine activity!
A defaulter was not allowed to leave the NDA campus on Sundays and holidays, on ‘Liberty’. More significantly, the punishment was recorded on the defaulter’s dossier. All in all, some informal punishment handed out by senior cadets was always more affordable than the prescribed official punishment.
One
day, after a hearty breakfast, a coursemate and I were about to leave for the
classes when, all of a sudden, we looked at each other. As if by telepathy,
one of us said, "Come on man, Mr. XXXXX would be engaging the next two
classes. Why don’t we bunk and catch some sleep."
Decisiveness
is one of the essential qualities that an officer is expected to display! So, the
decision was made in a split second and we quickly vanished into our
respective squadrons. In the heat of the moment, we had forgotten another
quality that an officer must possess. We did not care to make any contingency plans! We had not given anyone the responsibility to mark our proxy attendance. We had counted on the generosity of the ‘considerate’ professor and had rested assured.
Two days later, I noticed a small piece of paper, pinned onto the notice board of ‘Charlie’ squadron. At the very first glance, it clearly was an ominous notice of absence from a class. The date, time, and cadet number were shabbily scribbled in the notice. However, the name of the 'criminal' was clearly legible.
"Cadet B. A. Bhaskar".
While
I was reading the notice, two senior cadets were also reading it. One of them
said to the other, "Dude, is there a cadet with this name in our squadron?
I've never heard this name. Looks like the notice has come to the wrong
squadron." The other cadet agreed and they walked away. I too quietly left
for my cabin.
A couple days went by. The notice remained posted on the board. On the third day, I strolled into the squadron after lunch. It was Saturday, a half-day, and I was happy at the thought of taking a nap in the afternoon. Just then, I saw Flight Lieutenant Gill walking down the corridor. He was one of the ‘Divisional Officers’ of our squadron ("DivO" in the NDA Lingo). Since he was not the DivO for my division, we had hardly interacted with each other in the past.
Flighty Gill was a funny guy. Many a time, he appeared to be laughing at some joke that he probably had told himself! Those days, most of the other DivOs rode bikes like 'Bullet’, ‘Java’, ‘Yezdi', or scooters like 'Bajaj Chetak', ‘Vespa’, ‘Lambretta’. But, Flighty Gill drove to work in an old car that had surely seen better days many years ago. We often saw him jump-starting that Jalopy, with a couple of our squadron orderlies pushing it! It was quite a sight and we would have had many a hearty laugh amongst ourselves.
As I saw Flighty Gill, I remembered a tenet from the unwritten ‘survival guide’ of an NDA cadet, “Never be seen
moving at a leisurely pace, by any senior”. But, I had seen Flighty Gill a bit too late
for me to escape unseen. He waved at me and asked me to stop. I had no choice.
"You
are Cadet Bapat, aren’t you?"
"Yes
sir."
"Bapat, I
was on my way home. But when I saw you, I remembered that I needed your
help."
As
was his habit, he seemed lost in another world for a few seconds. Then, as if he had
suddenly woken up, he asked, "Um ... what's your name?"
'What a forgetful guy', I said to myself. A
few moments ago, he had called me by my name. I wiped my smile even before it
appeared on my lips. (I had practised that art, in accordance with another tenet from the ‘survival guide’!)
"Sir,
I am Cadet Bapat."
"Oh,
yes, yes, Bapat of course. You must be a Maharashtrian, no? I know an Army
officer, Captain Uday Bapat. But he writes his name as U. K. N. Bapat. I
wonder, why? "
"Sir,
we Maharashtrians write our father's name after our own name."
"I
see. UKN Bapat's father's name is probably Narayan. What is your father's
name?"
I
could not figure out why we were having this conversation.
"Sir,
my father's name is Bhaskar."
"Okay.
I believe that in Maharashtra, the names are usually written in a particular
way. The last name, followed by your own name and finally your father's name,
am I right?"
I
just nodded. I was beginning to see where the conversation was headed.
"Okay,
Bapat. Please come here. Can you read this for me? "
Having
said that, he grabbed me gently by my shoulder and led me to the notice
board.
“Cadet
Bapat Anand Bhaskar, alias 'B. A. Bhaskar', right? My dear, this notice in your name has been on the
board for the last three days. Why have you not reported at the squadron
office, despite clear instructions written here? Or, did you seriously
think that no one would ever come to know? "
I
just hung my head and steeled myself to face the consequences. Would it be a few days of ED or worse? I had no clue.
Flighty
Gill was never known to speak in a harsh tone. He said to me very
softly, "Come on, step out of the squadron. Let's see what needs to be
done with you."
I
wondered if, before the inevitable official punishment, I was about to get a dose of
the unofficial ‘physical and mental toughening’ that we often received at the
hands of senior cadets.
We
both stepped out of the squadron. Flighty Gill walked up to his car, opened the door,
sat at the wheel and said, "Come on, push my car."
I
silently remembered the fun we used have whenever we saw this charade.
Now, however, I was a part of it. I pushed the car with all my might. After a couple
of jerks, the engine whirred and came alive. Flighty Gill shifted gears and
just before revving up the Jalopy, he thrust his head out
of the window, smiled at me, and said,
"Thanks,
Bapat. Now go, and tear up that notice and throw it away,"
I
just kept looking at Gill’s car until I lost sight of it.
Just
6-8 years ago, most of our 'DivOs' had been NDA cadets like us. It was
probably why, they knew how such 'minor crimes' were to be dealt with!
Nevertheless, in NDA, one could not always hope to get away as easily as I did that
day!
