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Adieus to the Olive Greens

Twenty two years is like a lifetime spent in uniform. Yet, it seems like
yesterday. Always a dreamer, I definitely never had any plans of joining the
Armed Forces. Yet, I ended up the best part of my life as an Infantry officer and
loved most of it. My ambitions in life kept changing rapidly from being a tonga
wallah,(horse cart driver) kulfi wallah,(ice cream vendor) to a Kung-Fu master,
a vet, a wild-life scientist, birdwatcher, communist revolutionary, a Zen monk,
a professor of literature of an all girls college, a poet, a hermit but never as a
soldier. It was either an accident, providence or mere escape that I landed up
in the Army.

My earliest re-collection of anything military is of the Indo-Pak 71 war. I have


hazy memories of scary blackouts, eerie air-sirens and the dug up trenches
where we played in the day time. Huddled as a family, listening to the news on
the radio, I remember feeling patriotic without knowing the horrors of war.

Few years later, moving to Nigeria with my parents, I was soon exposed to the
world as a child. A weakling of an expatriate family in Port Har Court, in Army
governed Nigeria; my initial primary schooling was at the Army School.
Growing up with kids of Army personnel, I was often bullied and beaten up by
the physically stronger boys and girls. I soon understood that there is no big
brother for me and that I must be able to defend myself. This paved the way for
me to take up Karate and boxing. It was during this time there was a failed
coup in Nigeria, I re-collect hearing gun shots and armed soldiers manning
check posts. Residing in GRA (Government Residential Area) which was
largely occupied by Army, our playfields were often abandoned barracks; I
discovered a rusted machine gun, a relic of Nigeria’s civil war with Biafra.
Hiding it in a dilapidated building, it remained a major show-off to buddies and
formed a vital part of cowboy games till my dad learnt of it and gave me a long
lecture instilled with fear that I would be carried away to an Army prison for
hiding their stuff.

Moving as hostler back to India first at Mussorie and then at Daly College,
Indore in 79, I had to join the National Cadet Corps as part of the extra-
curricular activities. I chose the Air Wing to dodge the drill square and fly aero-
models instead but that never happened. I hated the stupid starched shorts,
the crew cut hair and senseless parades in the harsh sun. I loved my mop of
hair, never knew of shampoos those days, and I would have gladly killed that
butcher of a barber who chopped my locks with sadistic pleasure. I would
often laugh at friends coming over from MHOW (Military Headquarters of War,
a cantonment in Central India), wearing Army boots and Olive Green
Dungarees of their Army dads which made them look like aliens. Incidentally,
life comes in a full circle because that is where I am now, at MHOW as the
Adjutant of The Infantry School, when I am finally calling it a day. As a child or
a youth, the uniform and discipline never charmed me because I was always a
rebel at heart. In my entire schooling, I was never focused on studies but on
Karate, boxing, wild life, nature and reading literature. I scraped through
exams, yet was made a house prefect; probably my housemasters did
diagnose my leadership qualities which I never knew existed in me. After
school, I took up English Honours much to the dismay of my father. In those
days literature subjects were considered more suitable for women. While most
of my friends were clear on where they were headed, I had no sense of
direction.

At that point of time, I just wanted to read literature for the pleasure of reading
and learning, I had no definitive plans. Falling in love just happened, life
seemed rosy and carefree but this writing isn’t about love, so let’s leave it out.
Life had been easy on me. I never understood that my dad’s money was not
only hard earned but also finite. He was only a teacher working on a healthy
salary abroad and had great aspirations from me as the only able son, my
younger brother being mentally retarded. Although I was never berserk in
spending, I am yet to develop a sense of budgeting and finance and I am not
surprised to find myself broke again after all these years of a stable well
paying job. It was towards the Final year of English Honours, I was often
forced by friends and relatives to choose my road ahead, I half-heartedly
wanted to enroll for the JNU MA/M Phil course in literature to study further and
end up as a lecturer of an all girls college or as a communist revolutionary
who would champion social betterment of the poor and downtrodden.

It was around this time, Vaasu, a senior from college returned back from OTA
(Officers Training Academy) during mid-term break and visited the college. He
got talking to me and told me that I could join the Army and live up my spirit of
adventure and outdoors. I laughed, saying that I was too ill-disciplined to get
into the Army and he replied that the Army could do with people like me who
had no sense of fear, loved adventure and thrill. He also told me falsely that I
could pursue my dreams of Karate and boxing in the Army and it would be the
end of studies, I was to learn later that as officers, you do not engage in full
contact sports with the men you command and higher education in the Army
remains crucial till you retire. He also told me that in joining the OTA, I had the
choice of quitting after five years, if I did not like the Army and that I would
start earning soon after college instead of being dependent on pocket money
for another 2-3 years till I finally landed a job.

One of my closest buddies Vicky was crazy for joining the Army so were
couple of other friends in the neighbourhood. Even Mrityunjay, my school time
buddy and close friend, though aspiring for civil services was giving a shot at
the Army. So it was on my friends’ advice that I went along with Vicky and
others to submit the forms for Army at UPSC. Seeing the long queue, I
changed my mind and told Vicky, I wasn’t interested anymore and that I will
never queue up for a job. He snatched the form out of my hands and told me to
get lost. He returned home with the admit card, having submitted my form
along with his own. I think he even filled in the incomplete portions and
probably forged my signatures as well. I had refused to apply for IMA/
permanent commission since I could never pass an exam in Maths,
incidentally my father taught mathematics, the gene link backfired. Moreover I
did not wish to give my entire life away in bondage. So OTA seemed okay.
There was only English language and General awareness for OTA; I did not
have to prepare for any one of these as these two subjects came to me
naturally.

Before my final year exams, I had passed my OTA written exam; it was a rather
difficult phase for me then. My uncle seemed determined to make me work for
my money and was coercing me to help him in his real estate business. That
would have been a nightmare. I had no sense of money forget talking of
business. During my summer vacations from school probably in 11th standard,
my uncle had once forced me to go for a house to house survey to gather data
of people wanting to give portion of their houses on lease. Off, we went in the
killing heat of a June afternoon, astride a rickety cycle with my uncle’s
assistant. I rang the bell of one house, and greeted the lady of the house as
aunty and she came rushing at me with her sandals. My uncle’s assistant
dragged me away safely. I remained perplexed for quite some time, till he
explained that since I looked like a young man myself, that lady took offence to
my addressing her as aunty. Why do women get overworked about age,
remains a mystery to me. Three years back, Sonali, my elder daughter had a
dance performance at Agra and I had to accompany my wife to get Sonali’s
costume altered. There was this middle aged seamstress who addressed me
as uncle while her 20 year something daughter altered the costume. My wife
got so annoyed with the seamstress and later with me for looking old whereas
I was amused, if someone wanted to feel younger by calling me uncle, where
was the harm.

Anyways, back to the subject of joining the Army. It was the final year of
college, people were busy planning life ahead, and I was still kind of lost. My
parents were still abroad and seemed to have given up trying to give me a
direction in life. The love of my life had gone as well or probably I wasn’t
persistent enough. I just wanted to escape and the Army for the first time;
appeared to be an inviting get away from the madness. I was then told by
friends and relatives that just wanting isn’t enough. The Services Selection
Board(SSB) interview was tough and an easy going bum like me would never
get through. I had rarely worked hard till then and felt no reason for doing so
even then. Looking back, I feel I have always had that easy going attitude
towards everything in life, be it love, profession or a relationship, I always
upheld my egoist notion of ‘take me as I am else leave me alone in my blissful
slumber.’

I breezed through the SSB interview much to my surprise and my folks were in
a state of shock. Till then, they were convinced that the Army would never
select a person like me, who was physically very fit, brave to the point of
stupidity, short tempered, dreamy, low in IQ, lazy, ill disciplined and rebellious
to the core. I had my first brush with alcohol after clearing the SSB interview. I
had been very focused on keeping fit till then and Karate and Yoga were my
favorite activities. I had been a teetotaler till I joined the Army. Looking back, I
realise that I was physically much fitter before I joined the Army. Five guys
including me had made it in the interview and we hit a bar in Allahabad. A beer
was enough to get my tipsy and on the way back, I collided with some over
head metallic wire and earned a scar on my face. I wanted that scar to stay so
that I could cook up some heroic story about it but it vanished very soon.

The interview was followed up by a thorough medical examination. I had never


stood naked before anyone before and it was a weird experience to let the
doctor hold your balls and then being told to cough. Plus it is so difficult to
cough when you are laughing. It took me a while to realise that he was not
measuring the spunk in my balls but was checking me for hernia. In another
medical examination that followed, the laughter was on me, I had also never
given my urine sample for examination ever. So, when asked, I returned with a
full test tube and told the lab assistant that I was sorry since there was more
urine which the test tube couldn’t hold. He smirked and said; we need the
specimen, not the stock of your urine. How was I, to know, what they wanted.
Well, I cleared all these fancy tests and also a cryptic heart murmur test. This
heart murmur one was a scary one as there were rumours that if you had a
broken heart, it would murmur in protest. Yet, I was found temporarily unfit for
mundane ailments like sinusitis and chronic tonsillitis.

It was funny, the sinus problem, I knew but I had never had a sore throat, I had
not picked up smoking till then. May be it was the exposure to the chilled beer
that manifested as sick tonsils. When I returned back home, my folks were
slightly upset that I had passed. They were reluctant to let me join a risky
career, yet did not know what to do with me having seen my disinterest in any
money making venture. Finding a mild opposition to my joining the Army, I
became adamant to join, if they had told me to join, maybe I would have
dropped out. Sadly, Vicky’s folks refused to let him even appear for the SSB
interview and it was like I was fulfilling my buddy’s dream. Years of childhood
spent on a rigid hostel routine made me hate the idea of being put in any form
of routine. Yet, the Army was an unknown world. I dreamt of killing the enemy
and getting killed, travelling to exotic places and plunging into all kinds of
adventure. I also knew from my exploits of hostel days that I could never be
caged to any form of routine.
I quickly got the sinusitis surgery done and my tonsils were certified as
healthy by a leading ENT specialist, yet the Army medical doctors told me
flatly to get my tonsils removed and not question their medical diagnosis. So, I
had to give up my healthy tonsils for the Army and joined up at OTA. I shall
write about my detailed experiences in the Army only after having shed the
uniform so that I can write freely without be censored or censured.

I joined up and went through the rigorous training at OTA, never aspiring to
excel, just choosing the middle path like a snoozing Buddha. Like school, I
slept through most of the academic sessions and gradually picked up military
skills the hard way when forced by circumstances of operational and field
conditions. For instance, I could never handle a map or compass and preferred
to do the mule’s job of lugging machine guns instead of navigating and was
forced to learn it later when I was almost embarrassingly lost in the mountains.
It was not easy giving into the late night punishment parades by seniors which
included innovative stuff like donning various rigs(attires) in snap seconds,
the favorite was the astronaut order; dungarees filled in with sand and then a
wet shower to cement it to your body. Another pastime was the lizard posture,
legs up and hands down over the aged banyan tree. I did pick a few fights with
seniors on unlawful commands but was gradually mellowing down in temper. I
often bunked from the fenced academy to go for a booze/beach trip to
Chennai; it was more to prove that nothing could hold me back. I did continue
with Karate for a while and was nicknamed Kata. I could never be forced to
prepare for the stupid cabin cupboard inspections and would gladly take
physical punishments instead of folding socks and underwear into impossible
dimensions. On the final cabin cupboard inspection just before passing out, I
removed my cupboard and bed, erased my name from the board and vanished
in the nearby mango grove. I had joined up the riding club and after a few
months of massaging and cleaning horses we underwent guided lessons of
Trot-I & II, canter I & II. The horse, I learned is such an amazingly intelligent
animal that judges its rider immediately. I had wrongly presumed that I had
learned a bit of horse riding. I tried experimenting once, forcing the horse to
perform commands other than the ones being shouted by the instructor and
got a rude shock of being thrown in the mud. The damn horses were so well
trained to obey only voice commands of instructors; we were just dummies
taken for a joy ride.

The Drill square test was my waterloo, I was always at ease, never at attention.
The bar mustached Adjutant, Major Shakhtawat, towering astride the black
stallion Bhavar(whirl pool) was like death’s messenger. The stallion, it was
believed grunted or purred to his master depending on the cadet’s antics at
the drill square test and I kept failing till the stallion finally took pity on me My
body and mind would just refuse to obey curt commands; it always had to a
lawful command that made sense to me, this stubbornness survived all these
years with minor bruises. Losing my mop of hair to the crew cut was also a
major tragedy.

I passed out from the academy on 20th August 1988, stumbling through
academics, flying over the physical tests and almost getting stuck on the drill
square test. I learned at the Academy that the Army has many branches and
wings and it is just not simply a fighting machinery but there is a big
administrative tail that sustains this war horse. Moreover, apart from the foot
soldiering Infantry, there were other fighting arms like the Armoured Corps
and Artillery to choose from. Many of my course mates started off as Infantry
aspirants but gave up soon on realising the difficult life and field conditions of
Infantrymen. I remained a die-hard Infantryman not only due to my love for
adventure and action but also because I was confident that I would end up
killing my fellow men if I was sent to Artillery as I was bound to botch any fire
plan with my superb knowledge of trigonometry. Likewise, Armoured Corps
seemed to involve learning the intricacies of engines, and I knew that I was
zilch when it came to engines. I knew I was better instead at leading men,
knowing which spark plugs to fire and which pistons to oil in the men I would
command. So, I chose Infantry and was commissioned into the First Battalion
of The Bihar Regiment. I had opted for younger Regiments so that I wouldn’t
have to study heavy Regimental history but not everything you desire comes
your way, also what finally comes your way eventually turns out to be better
for you. I was to learn soon and will retain with pride the valiant sagas of my
battalion even if I am struck down with Alzheimer's.

As time flew, my proud hair, stopped growing, and then gradually deserted me.
I rarely preened my hair, never used cosmetics, shampoo too was considered
a cosmetic then, my thick mop of hair was natural, and it vanished like nature
does. Initially I fooled myself into believing that it is not hair loss but the
increase in my forehead as I was getting wiser. Later, I realised that there was
actually an egg sized bald patch on my head which soon turned into an ostrich
egg size patch. It was in mid life that I started feeling like a sleepy Samson who
wakes up one day to find his hair and strength sapped. I know some men
resort to hair transplants but I could never get the nerve to pluck and replant
pubic hair on my bald scalp.

In the initial years of the Army, personal failures in relations and love set me
on a self- destruct mode, drinking, smoking, taking physicals risks and
courting trouble. I was brash, impulsive and directionless. I found a bit of
solace in nature, being posted at Arunchal Pradesh (Indo-China Border) and in
my men as I was mostly deployed with troops on border posts. Staying in an
open tent at minus 14 and snow was good fun. One day, I was called for lunch
and beer by a Sunil Bharitya, a course mate who was deployed at a post which
was three hours walking distance. In mountains, distances are measured in
time. After the heady beer and lunch, I was walking back accompanied by my
faithful soldier as buddy and batman. It was getting dark, across the lovely
lake on the opposite ridge; I could see the faint lights of my camp. There were
still two more ridge lines to negotiate if we were to continue on the long
winding foot track. I had an impulsive brainwave that we could go down
following the mountain streams to the lake and claw upwards onto my camp’s
ridge. The crow fly distance seemed so short and easy. My solider balked,
argued, tried frightening me with horror stories of men lost and never found
but I was adamant. If the Chinese could use these mountain streams in 62 war,
why couldn’t we? So I dragged him down with me to the lovely lake in the
valley. It grew darker and soon there was a blizzard kicking up snow. There
was no place to negotiate a path around that beautiful lake. The adjoining area
was full of rhododendrons; a stubborn kind of thick bush you just can’t leap
over. We clawed and crawled our way through snow and wild bush and
reached our camp almost dead with fatigue and exposure to snow. Search
parties had already been sent out for us and I was really humbled by being
given a long moral lecture by my subordinate, but senior in years JCO.

Actually, I was more friends with my subordinates than a superior officer and I
always took off that officer status tag during any informal interaction. Time
flew; we landed up at Delhi and soon got sucked into Punjab for anti-terrorist
operations. This was a dream come true because I wanted action. Without
going into the operation aspects, suffice to say that I was fortunate to come
out alive of an opportunity ambush laid by me with three men and got away
killing six dreaded terrorists in a short and bloodied intense encounter that
came down to a hand to hand fight. I had wept uncontrollably on losing a
young soldier, Sepoy Emmanuel Tigga in that fool hardy encounter. The value
of my men dawned upon me and despite the fact that I was awarded by a
Shaurya Chakra (the 3rd highest gallantry award) by the President; I carry the
deep regret of losing the life of a man who had placed his trust in me. I learned
the hard way to value the life of men entrusted to my command.

Getting shot in the foot literally and figuratively was an experience. It took me
a while to get back on my feet. I had secretly wished to get a wound on my
face, one I could carry it with pride like the western story of Scarface. Now,
how do you go about showing off your battle wounded foot to friends? I
always hated hospitals and found myself in one after being shot. Soon after
surgery, I wanted to smoke and would escape with a wheel chair and then
astride the food trolley. The medical officer noticed and had all these vehicles
removed and I was compelled to smoke into my pillow and was soon caught.
Unceremoniously dumped out of the ICU, I was shifted to the non- AC officers
ward in the month of May in sweltering Bhatinda. It did not take me long to find
a secret route through the window of the vacant AC VIP room despite my
plastered foot.
Immobility soon led to lust and romance and I was married before the year
ended. Before I knew, I was leashed and had my wings clipped. It was like I
surrendered, I gave up physical exercises totally, partly due to my limp foot
but more due to the psychological wounds that refused to heal. I grew fat very
rapidly like it was an explosion waiting to happen. All the scorn I had for fat
men in my early youth was like coming back to hit me. Somewhere down the
line I stopped loving myself. When the time came for me to exercise my option
to quit the Army, I was married and was a Shaurya Chakra recipient,
something like a holy cow or a sarkari sand, (the slang for a stud bull who
belongs to the government and is thus untouchable) How could I quit, the wife
too had a say as did my seniors, I was a trophy. What would I do outside the
Army; I knew that the hardest part of Army was behind me and it was again my
lack of direction or ambition that led me to carry on.

I have come a long way from where I began. I would rate the Army as a fine
organisation and myself as a misfit. Over the years, I changed drastically,
becoming calmer, thoughtful and finding myself drawn back to literature
especially poetry. I have survived and grown as an individual. Notwithstanding
the utter failure in my marital relation, I have two doting daughters to think of
while I chart my own course on life afresh. It is time to escape again, de-
shackle myself from the uniform and breathe in my own skin and may be fall in
love with myself all over again. After all these years and in mid-life, it feels
empty being dispossessed. It is like waking up to find your balls missing. I
have nothing except experiences to carry on my rucksack as I set off on a new
path. I have no bank balance to boot or a home to call my own, yet I have
chosen finally to cut loose from the chains of financial and social security. I
must be cautious on the path I tread for the responsibility of my kids. I have a
hazy idea of where I am headed and it is about time to move my ass to making
things work my way.

Scribd seemed to have been discovered by me just at the right time, I was
tiring matching vocabulary and wits on scrabble at Facebook. There wasn’t
much of literary exchange to spark creativity either on Facebook. The status
updates on Facebook did ignite a spark to be creative instead of being witty. I
indulged in speaking my mind blissfully restricting it to the shades of my mind
unlike the status updates that spoke of the colour of the bra a woman was
wearing, a weird women lib movement that had caught on. I have always hated
bras. It has always been a struggle to unhook them. If I had my way, I would
have released a patent for a Velcro bra that one can easily stick on – stick off
like the medal ribbons we wear in the Army. That is how life should be without
any hooks.

Scribd kind of woke up my literary mind, it is inspiring to read works of so


many talented people especially poets like Gordon(enkidukid), Steve(Jotter),
Global Villian, Daniel Essman, Nir, Henin, Alikat, Phantomimic, Carl, Irma, J.R.
Poulter aka J.R.McRae, Sarita Brown, Robin Rule & of course Donata Guerra
who introduced me to Haiku. I have mostly restricted myself to reading poetry
and short articles due to lack of time as of now. It is also heartening to have
your works read and appreciated across the globe. This is the kind of literary
interaction I need to inspire me to write and explore my creativity without the
burden of any commercial prospects. Someday, maybe I may decide to publish
some of what I write or shall write. Presently I am happy to have loads of
varied people across the globe appreciate my work. Thank you, Scribd for
providing a wonderful interactive platform.

Shyam 17 Oct 2010

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