🪖🤔 PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🤔🪖 

LIVING WITH THE PIONEERS 

A Tale of Ingenuity from Fighting First

    ‘Fighting First’ - Descendants of the XXIII Sikh Pioneers

    Somewhere in the North, c/o 56 APO - to be precise, Meerut Cantonment, 1974–75

After a war, and having spent more than four and a half years in counter-insurgency operations in the jungles of the East and the high-altitude areas along the North-Eastern Frontiers, Fighting First finally arrived at a much-sought-after peace station - Meerut.

Peace station, indeed! 😄

Before we could even unpack our kit, we were launched into our first “Schema te Jangaan vich Fateh Bakshna” - (victory in training and war!) - mission.

The orders from the Divisional Headquarters were clear: the Infantry was to move “thur ke” – (on foot), as part of the austerity measures then being implemented. The nation was still grappling with the economic depression following the 1971 War, and the Army too had to tighten its belt.

And which arm could contribute most effectively to this grand national exercise in economy? Why, the ‘Queen of the Battle’ - the Mighty Infantry, of course! 😄

Our first mission was to carry out field firing at the Badshahi Bagh Ranges, Dehradun. No questions asked. As the old military maxim goes: “Not to question why, but to do and die!” 🪖

And so, at vee hours on D-Day, the Fighting First, straining at the leash for action, took its first step forward towards Dehradun - nearly 300 kilometres away. After a solemn Ardaas at the Unit Gurudwara Sahib, invoking the blessings of Waheguru Ji, and after prashaad had been duly chhak ke, (after consuming the holy prasaad) munde,(soldiers) Sardars (JCOs) and afsars (Officers) took to the road amid a resounding: “BOLE SO NIHAAL!”(War cry of the unit) 👏💪

A thousand-mile journey begins with the first step. We had taken ours. Reaching Dehradun after an arduous five-day march is another saga altogether - one best reserved for another day! 😄

There was, however, one comforting thought. We would be transported back in vehicles. Ah… promises! Especially promises made by higher headquarters. They are often wonderfully short-lived.

Our determined Divisional Headquarters, apparently concerned that the troops might become too comfortable on their return journey, decided that we should enjoy a few more “war games” en route. And so the Fighting First played one exercise after another, culminating in a full-fledged Divisional Exercise at Roorkee. Eventually, all the cards in the exercise were played and, mercifully, the exercise was called off.

The Paltan then crawled into the sultry shade of a mango grove, alive with a multitude of insects, and collectively heaved a sigh of relief. It was exactly three weeks since we had taken our ‘prashaad’ at the Unit Gurudwara Sahib. The GOC, in a final act of infinite kindness, released second-line transport for the remainder of the journey back to Meerut.

THE COMMAND

With the exercise over, our Commanding Officer (CO)was the first to peel off after handing over command to the Second-in-Command. Being a large-hearted man, he also released the Company Commanders on “compassionate grounds.”

And so, the entire responsibility of getting the Paltan safely home fell upon the shoulders of the bachelor Adjutant - yours truly. 😔 I had nobody waiting for me in Meerut. Nobody… Except, of course… My first love - my gleaming Red Royal Enfield — KLT 7724. ❤️🏍️

And that is where this little episode begins.

THE MOVE

Divisional transport - a platoon of 3-ton trucks - reported as scheduled. The move plan had been meticulously prepared. Halts were laid down, orders issued, speed limits prescribed, de-induction tables prepared and movement orders forwarded to Brigade Headquarters. There was one particular instruction which was repeated several times: No wandering about during halts. No crossing the highway. Stay with your vehicle. Simple enough.

After the customary Ardaas (prayer) at our field Gurudwara Sahib, the Paltan moved towards Meerut. As usual, the Adjutant - ensconced in his Ops Room (Operational Room), a 1-ton truck - was leading from the front, keeping a watchful eye on the speed, discipline and general conduct of the convoy. The Subedar Major (SM), meanwhile, was bringing up the rear with the Unit Repair Organisation - (the URO) complement.

After about two hours of traverse, the convoy halted for “rest and recuperation.” Headcounts were taken. Vehicle commanders reported. “All OK” reports began trickling in. And yours truly had already consumed his fifth cup of tea, courtesy of the persistent Punjabi hospitality of various administrative representatives.

“Ghut ghut pee laiye, Saab…”

(Please have another sip, Saab Ji…)

But there was one report I was still waiting for. The Subedar Major's. Time passed, my adrenaline began to rise. Then, at last, the Nissan truck of the Subedar Major appeared on the horizon. It rolled up majestically. Subedar Major alighted. Accepted the solemn salutations of the assembled mundas. And, without the slightest sign of urgency, walked away……for his tea!

I summoned him. “SM Saab, sab achha?”

And that was when the trouble began.

THE SUB MAJOR'S REPORT

The Sub Maj began: “Saab ji, main taan aakhiri gaddi vich aa reha si. Mere saamne apni RCL jeep si, jhinu Banta chalanda paya si, te Santa co-driver seat te ainakaan laai baitha si.” (Saab, I was bringing up the rear. In front of me was our RCL (Recoilless gun) jeep, driven by Sepoy Banta Singh, with Santa Singh sitting in the co-driver's seat wearing driving goggles.)

I knew instinctively that something unpleasant was approaching. I held my breath. “Sab, jaldi bolo… agge ki hoya?” (Tell me fast).

    He continued: “Kujh vi nahin, Saab. Ik eetaan da truck agge chal reha si.”  (Nothing, Saab. A truck carrying bricks was travelling ahead.)

I became even more apprehensive. “Okay… phir kya hua?” (Then what happened?)

            He replied: “Saab ji, eetaan de truck da b@##n c@#d driver ne ekdam brake la ditti… te apne Sante ne gaddi nu iddan morh ditta!” (The bloody truck driver suddenly slammed on the brakes… and our Santa turned the jeep like this!) He demonstrated the manoeuvre with his hands. Ninety degrees!

I swallowed hard. “Saab… RCL gun da ki haal hai?” (What is the state of RCL Gun?). That was the question uppermost in my mind. The Sub Maj smiled reassuringly. “Oho taan bach gayi! Sirf clamp khul gaya… hor gun maarra jeha mur ke iddan ho gaya.” (Oh, the gun survived! Only the clamp came loose… and the gun turned slightly to one side.) He demonstrated again. This time…Approximately 270 degrees!

My heart sank. The American-made RCL gun was a controlled item. The boys handled it almost with reverence. If that gun had been damaged beyond repair, the battalion could potentially have been rendered unfit for war. I gulped. Then came the next question.

“Saab… gaddi da ki haal hai?” (Whats the state of the vehicle?} The Sub Maj brought his hands together in a namasthe posture 👏, held them about a foot apart and announced:

“Saabji… maarra jeha kloj ho gaya.” (Sir… it got slightly closed!). He then brought his hands closer… and closer… until they were barely six inches apart. He held them there. And left the rest to my imagination. Six inches!

I stared at him. In my mind, I was already visualising an RCL jeep - complete with a mounted American-made gun - which had somehow been reduced from roughly twelve inches to six! The situation was clearly getting “serious.”

THE VANISHING RCL JEEP

         Having taken the ‘panga’ (risk)  of extracting the complete report from the Sub Maj, I was now in serious trouble. The Sub Maj, having delivered his famous “Thonu dassiassi” - 'I had tolded you!' -performance, happily returned to his tea and admirers across the road.

I ordered him, somewhat less ceremoniously, to stop drinking tea and accompany me to the site. We reached the location where the accident was supposed to have occurred. There was no RCL jeep. There was no brick truck. There was nothing!

My mind began racing. Had the Corps HQ EME Recovery Detachment already arrived and towed the jeep away? If so, the report would undoubtedly have reached Brigade and Division Headquarters.

The GOC had insisted on a zero-accident state. And if there had been an accident involving a controlled weapon and its vehicle… Well… It was a command failure! I could already visualise myself explaining the entire episode to the CO. 😒

Meanwhile, the CO - blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama - was probably already at the Wheeler's Club in Meerut, enjoying his third gin cordial with Angostura, surrounded by his family.

My military career was beginning to look decidedly shorter. 😕

I turned to the Sub Maj. “Saab, gaddi te munde kithhe hai?” (Where are the vehicle and the boys?). Without a word, he led me towards a wayside house on NH-3 (National Highway-3). We entered through a narrow opening in a mud wall. And there, to my utter disbelief, stood… MY RCL JEEP! The RCL gun was still mounted on it, sitting proudly in a rather cocky position. And beside it stood Santa and Banta. Not repairing the vehicle! Not examining the gun! Not even looking worried! They were happily fraternising with the inmates of the house!

I looked at the narrow opening through which we had entered. Then at the jeep. Then at the wall. Then back at the jeep. How on earth had a jeep carrying an RCL gun entered that tiny courtyard? There appeared to be no other entrance.

Before I could solve this military mystery, the occupants of the house descended upon me with classic Punjabi hospitality. The elderly lady of the house, with all the warmth of a mother, said: “Puttar, bai jaa. Garam chaa pee lo.” (Son, sit down and have some hot tea.) Before I could respond, Santa and Banta joined in:“Rottian nahi khaonge, Saab? Garam garam haigian… hor sabzi te taaji lassi!” (Won't you have lunch, Saab? Hot rotis, vegetables and fresh lassi!)

That was the last straw. Something snapped.

All the Punjabi vocabulary I had painstakingly acquired during my years in Fighting First suddenly came pouring out. And I must say, even I was impressed by the fluency, pronunciation, diction and profanity of my newly acquired Punjabi military vocabulary! The old lady, however, was distinctly unimpressed. She quietly disappeared from the scene, taking all her maternal affection with her.

THE PIONEER SOLUTION

As expected in the First Battalion, the mundas (boys)  when faced me immediately froze into “shun” - (attention posture) Heads cocked slightly to one side. Eyes fixed somewhere towards infinity. Both suddenly assumed the philosophical expression of men contemplating the meaning of life. Or perhaps court martial proceedings.

Once I had exhausted my vocabulary and cooled down somewhat, the Sub Maj cautiously approached. “Saab ji, tussi ghusse nu chhaddo. Munde siyane hege.” (Saab, leave the anger aside. These boys are sensible good boys.) I looked at him. “Then tell me - what is the jeep doing inside this house? And more importantly: How did it get here?”

The Sub Maj then unfolded the rest of the story.

After the accident, the boys had caught hold of the brick-truck driver. There was apparently some vigorous discussion. Then some more vigorous discussion. And then, as occasionally happens in Fighting First……the discussion became somewhat physical.

The RCL gun was then manhandled, levelled at the truck and subjected to a highly convincing dry-firing exercise. The breech was loaded with an empty cartridge case. The firer was ordered to get ready. ‘All-clear’ orders were given. And the trigger knob was about to be pressed. The truck driver, who until that moment had been confidently quoting traffic rules and regulations, suddenly became a model of humility. He was practically prostrating himself before the mundas, offering to compensate them for whatever damage had occurred. The Sub Maj then proudly pulled ₹1,000/- from his breast pocket. Apparently, the matter had been satisfactorily settled.

But there remained one small problem. The Division Headquarters convoy was due to pass that way within an hour. And that was when the Pioneers displayed their legendary ingenuity. The boys had dismantled a portion of the mud wall of the house. Pushed the jeep and RCL gun inside. Rebuilt the wall. And even plastered it. That explained the suspiciously damp patch I had noticed earlier!

The Sub Maj, now completely relaxed, reassured me: “Tussi fikar na karo Saab ji. Apaan poora convoy jaan deyange. CMP check posts de hatan ton baad, raat nu baapis aake jeep nu Shaktiman vich load kar ke Unit MT le jaange. CO Saab bahadur nu main appe dass deyanga.”  (Don't you worry, Saab ji. We'll let the entire convoy pass. Once the CMP check posts are withdrawn, we'll return at night, load the jeep into the Shaktiman truck and take it back to the Unit MT (Mechanical Transport) park. I'll explain everything to the CO myself.)

The last sentence did little for my ego. “I'll explain everything to the CO myself.” 😠I wondered whether my appointment as Adjutant had already become merely ceremonial. 😠

THE RETURN TO MEERUT

I returned to the convoy and proceeded towards Meerut - considerably more tense than when I had started.

On reaching the cantonment, I checked in correctly and reported to the Commanding Officer:

“Sab Achha, Sir.” (All Okay). Then, with considerable caution, I added: “Sir… there was a small mishap involving the RCL jeep.” I explained the entire episode. The CO listened calmly. No explosion. No shouting. No court martial. He merely asked: “Is the Sub Maj handling it?” I replied in the affirmative. He thought for a moment and simply said: “Then relax.”

And that was the end of my part in the episode.

WEIRD ARE THE WAYS OF PIONEERS!

Looking back after all these years, I realise that what appeared to me then as a near-catastrophe was, in the eyes of the mundas, merely another minor tactical problem requiring an immediate and innovative solution. The accident had happened. The RCL gun had survived. The jeep had survived. The truck driver had learnt a valuable lesson in road safety. ₹1,000 had changed hands. A mud wall had temporarily been converted into a vehicle recovery gate. The jeep had disappeared into a civilian courtyard. And, most importantly…THE CONVOY HAD CONTINUED!

That, ladies and gentlemen, was Fighting First ingenuity. They didn't necessarily follow the road. If there was no road… they simply made one!

“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.” The moto of XXIII Sikh Pioneers.

(I shall either find a way or make one.)

That, perhaps, was the true spirit of the Descendants of the XXIII Sikh Pioneers.

A LESSON FROM THE PALTAN

Even today, I occasionally get a shiver when I remember the Sub Maj's immortal words:

 “Maarra jeha kloj ho gaya, Saab ji!”

For years I wondered how a jeep carrying an RCL gun could possibly become “slightly closed.” But perhaps that is the real beauty of serving with Fighting First. When confronted with an impossible situation, you don't sit down and ask: “Can this be done?” You simply find a way. And sometimes……if necessary… you break down a mud wall! 😂

The mundas of those days possessed something no manual could teach: initiative, resourcefulness, courage, camaraderie, loyalty - and an almost unbelievable ability to improvise when circumstances demanded it. Their methods may occasionally have been unconventional. Their solutions sometimes questionable. And their vocabulary……certainly not suitable for publication! 😄But their hearts were always in the right place. Those were the men who made life in the Paltan unforgettable.

Those were the men who taught a South Indian Adjutant how to speak Punjabi - including a vocabulary he had never imagined he would acquire! And those are the memories that, decades later, still make me smile.

Such incidents made us fit and strong enough to survive amongst Pioneers - and eventually grow old, fade away and smile, with a treasure chest of memories to savour for the rest of our lives.

And finally, a word of advice to anyone posted to Fighting First:

Never be too inquisitive when you are with Pioneers! Because…“Curiosity killed the cat.” 🐈

But in Fighting First…the Pioneers may just put the cat inside a house, rebuild the wall, and report later that it had got… “MAARRA JEHA KLOJ!” 😂😂😂

- Col Ravi R. Nair (Retd.)-

23rd Commanding Officer

(“Fighting First”)

 

A Preposterous Prophecy Comes True

(-Col Ravi Nair-)

The story dates back over six decades to when I was a 15 year old student of pre-Cambridge at the threshold of the Senior Cambridge curriculum. In the 1960s I was pursuing my studies at Sainik School Madras, located at Amaravathinagar (TN).

   Amaravathi Nagar- Amaravathi Dam and Reservoir & Anamalai Hills

As per the undertaking, all students had to appear for the National Defence Academy (NDA) selection process after the pre-Cambridge exams (X standard). Hence, our entire class filled out the application forms for 33^rd NDA Course, under the guidance of our class teacher, Mr. Cariappa, and focused on preparing for the UPSC (Union Public Service Commission) written examinations. The coaching for the Services Selection Board (SSB) tests also commenced simultaneously. Preparation for the UPSC exams included, in addition to our regular classes, special sessions on exam techniques, solving old question papers from the NDA Master Guide published by Khanna Brothers and model question papers put forward by the School.

                                        Main Gate of Sainik School Madras

             The SSB training was more practical oriented. The physical training ustads (Instructors) focused on our performance on the obstacle course, rope climbing, Tarzan swing, leopard leap, monkey crawling etc. The SSB training also included lecturettes and interview techniques, personally conducted by our Headmaster, Maj. Thamburaj. Group discussions, group tasks, command tasks, and interviews etc., were conducted under the personal supervision of the Principal, Lt. Col. D.N. Shahni. All these activities were in addition to our normal academic pursuit.

                Playing Reveille to rouse the School - Bugler IX Class

The UPSC exams were to be held at the Madras (Chennai) University Examination Centre on Marina Beach Road. Our entire class of 17 boys travelled to Madras by train. The school had organized our stay at Madras Govt Arts College (Cheṉṉai Arasu Kalaik Kallūri) on Mount Road. Fortunately, it was vacation time for colleges. One classroom served as both our living accommodation and study room. The benches and desks were turned into acceptable resting places and for study.

We were all in our early teens and, as a result, were up to mischief, mainly bunking out to the city, contrary to the orders of the schoolmaster, who, being from Madras, was seldom seen around. For many of us, it was our first time in ‘Mattraas’. Marina Beach, the swimming pool, Buhari Hotel, and cinema halls were irresistible attractions. I, however, was very serious about my preparations as I had always dreamed of joining the Defence Forces and donning the uniform, considering it my only deliverance from the years lost in my studies. I was a student of VIth (Sixth) Form or class Eleven when I, as per my permissible age, was inducted into Sainik School in Class 9. When I was pursuing Pre Cambridge, my old school colleagues were already in Colleges. The only way to catch up with them and compensate the two years lost, I figured, was to join the NDA stream. Having come from a Malayalam-medium curriculum prior to joining the public-school system of education at Sainik School, I was still catching up with my peers, who had exposure to English-medium education and who were fluent both in written and verbal expressions. After two days, the UPSC examinations commenced at the Examination Centre next to the prestigious Madras Presidency College. The examinations lasted three days and I acquitted myself well in the exams.

The results of the exams came after one month, and the Headmaster himself came to our classroom to announce them. Twelve out of seventeen was a good result, and he individually congratulated those who passed. By God’s will, I was also among those on the pass list. Now, those who passed the written exams concentrated on SSB coaching.

The calls for the SSB interview started arriving soon. My friends, in twos and threes, proceeded to various SSBs throughout the country. My call also came in a few weeks’ time, and I proceeded to SSB Bangalore. Bangalore was then an orderly, laid back and beautiful town with many parks, gardens and fountains. It also enjoyed a salubrious climate. The MG (Mahatma Gandhi) Road, 100 feet broad was the main thoroughfare in the Cantonment area and it was lined on either side with single-storey tile-roofed buildings housing various shops, restaurants, hotels, and offices. The SSB establishment was located on Cubbon Road in the Cantonment, which boasted of the Army Sub Area Headquarters and other military installations, all housed in colonial-style buildings.

Our batch consisted of thirty boys—some very confident, some feigning confidence, and many very unsure of themselves. From Bangalore Cantonment railway station itself, I became friendly with a few boys from Sainik School Kazhakoottam, mainly due to linguistic affinity.

The SSB selection process commenced upon our arrival with lots of paperwork and documentation, followed the next day by IQ (intelligence quotient) tests, psychological tests and physical tests like obstacles, etc. On the third and fourth days, we had individual tasks, lecturettes, Group Testing Officers’ (GTO) interviews, group discussions, group tasks, the SSB president’s interview, etc. Throughout, we were under the close scrutiny of our GTOs, who always wore dark glasses to mask who they were focusing on. The finale, called the ‘conference’, took place on the fifth day, when we each marched into the Conference Room, where an unnerving group of gentlemen sat around an inverted horseshoe table. There, the candidate confronted the entire selection team, from the president to the GTOs and psychologists—all in uniform. With all eyes grilling the hapless lone figure, they broiled each candidate for an unpredictable length of time.

After this, we were all huddled into a hall, where one GTO swaggered onto the platform with a small chit in hand to announce the results. After a customary moral lecture on success and failure in a selection, he unfolded the chit and read out five chest numbers. He said those five numbers would stay back, and the rest could return home. My chest number was 10, and I was among the five.

A sheaf of papers was given to us to fill out for our medical examination at the Air Force Hospital, Bangalore. The medical examination took three days. All five were found fit. Then instructions came for the three of us who had opted for the Air Force (flying) to stay back.

We were sent to No. 3 Air Force Selection Board, Gwalior, for the Pilot Aptitude Battery Tests (PABT), passing which was mandatory for flying. We travelled to Gwalior and underwent the PABT, which was more like computer games that children play nowadays. There were a few assimilation test papers on the basics of flying, for which we were given basic lessons and taught the nuances of flying an aircraft. The PABT is conducted only once, and if failed, one is considered unfit for flying forever. Fortunately, all three of us passed and were directed to proceed to Delhi for our Air Force medical checkups.

Accordingly, we travelled to Delhi and were put up in Air Vista Officers’ Mess on Janpath for our stay. Even now, I recall catching a glimpse of General J.N. Choudhuri, the Chief of Army Staff, arriving in his four-star saloon for a party at Air Vista Mess. I could also see that the General’s arrival was preceded by those of Chiefs of Navy and Air Force in their respective three-star saloons.

The medical check-ups were at Air Force Medical Establishment (AFME) near Ashoka Hotel. The medical examination was more thorough, and they even took an ECG, which was rare in those days. We all were declared fit and issued with return railway warrants to proceed back to our homes.

The real story begins now.

I was whiling away my time on the New Delhi Railway Station waiting for the Grand Trunk Express to come on the platform line, when I noticed a group of young men conversing with a relatively younger person who looked sad and withdrawn. They seemed like friends, trying to console the younger man, who was taciturn and appeared deeply saddened.

As the train was announced, I got busy positioning myself appropriately for easy entry into the coach. Upon the train’s arrival, I boarded with my baggage, and as luck would have it, my allotted seat was a window seat. I soon settled down. Shortly after, I saw the same young man being ushered in by a few of his friends. The seat opposite mine was his. He settled down silently. One of his friends asked me where I was traveling to. I replied, “Madras, and then on by Cochin Express to Cochin Harbour Terminus.” His friends seemed relieved. They took me aside and told me that their friend, travelling with me, had lost his father and was deeply disturbed and in a state of shock. They explained that he was travelling to his hometown, Trichur, and he also had reservations on the Cochin Express from Madras. They requested that I keep him company and console him. I assured them I would take good care of him and help him recover from the shock. When the engine hooted, announcing the train’s departure, his friends hurriedly got down, leaving their friend in my care.

                           Grand Trunk Express - Delhi to Madras
                                                                           I returned to my seat and found the young man, who I guessed to be a few years older than me, looking out of the window of the moving train with tears in his eyes. To break the ice, I shook hands with him and introduced myself. He murmured that he was Sethu Madhavan from Trichur, working in Delhi at the Cabinet Secretariat. He went silent again and continued gazing at the scenery flitting past. I then offered my condolences, which he accepted gratefully. When the ‘chaiwala’ (tea vendor) arrived, I ordered two cups of tea and offered one to him. Though he initially refused, he accepted after some coaxing. I felt the ice melting, and he slowly started to come out of his reverie of gloom. I kept engaging him in a long conversation, starting with our shared experience of losing a father at a young age and then discussing my family.

Eventually, he asked me why I had come to Delhi, and I explained my selection to NDA (Air Force). By evening, he had nearly recovered, and we started discussing personal as well as social topics. I ordered dinner for him, which he accepted without objection. We kept talking until we fell asleep.

Next day, I found him in a more relieved and relaxed disposition and nearly back to normal, an indication of his coming to terms with the tragic loss of his father. He ordered my breakfast, tea, and so on. Sethu seemed intelligent and highly knowledgeable, with a lot to say on many subjects. We became good friends, and on the third day of the train journey, he asked me about Sainik School, the selection process for the NDA, SSB, PABT, medical tests, and other such matters. I explained everything in detail and mentioned that I was returning home as a successful candidate. Then he asked me, ‘What’s next?’ I explained that I would receive a call with joining instructions for the NDA at Kharakvasla, Pune, in few months’ time and then I join the Course. He nodded as if he understood all the nuances. That day also passed, and after talking so much about myself, I started dreaming of joining the NDA and then the Air Force Flying Academy.

                        National Defence Academy - Logo

 On the morning of the third day, the GT Express steamed into Madras Central, where we alighted. I had planned to go to Sapphire Theatre for a nonstop movie and return late in the afternoon in time for the Cochin Express, but I cancelled that plan and stayed with Sethu to keep his morale high. When the Cochin Express arrived, we managed to secure adjacent berths in the train with some ‘mandatory coaxing’ of the Travelling Ticket Examiner (TTE).

On the fourth day morning the train entered Kerala, hooting its way to our destinations. Sethu was to detrain first, and I three hours later. We were having a cup of tea from the ‘chaiwala’ after breakfast when Sethu suddenly looked at me seriously and asked to see my palms. Surprised, I asked if he knew palmistry. He replied that he knew a little, though he wasn’t a master. So, I showed him my palms. He brooded over my lines, feeling the mounts of both palms, and then concentrated on my right palm. I was bemused initially but soon grew eager to know about my future. Suddenly, he came out of his deep study of my palm and asked if there were any more stages in the selection process. I replied that all my selection processes were complete and that I was just awaiting the joining instructions.

Then he asked if he should truthfully predict my future. By then, I was getting anxious and fretful and asked him to come out with his prophecy quickly. Hesitantly, still holding my palms, he said, ‘You will not be selected.’ I was shocked by this prediction and asked, ‘Then what?’ He continued, ‘You will never be selected for the current venture in the future either.’ Presuming this to be a cruel joke despite my having crossed all the stages of selection, including the Air Force Medical Board, I asked him how my education line was. Reviewing my palm again, he told me, ‘You will never be a graduate.’ I was totally shaken. Alarmed, I asked, ‘Then what do I do for a living?’ He replied, ‘Your lines predict that you will do well in life and lead a respectable life.’ I dismissed his prophecies as sadistic opinions. With his destination approaching, Sethu again went into a bout of depression and remained silent. Trichur railway station arrived, and Sethu alighted into the midst of his sad relatives, who had come to receive him. I felt sad for him, but he left me feeling sad too.

As for me, the school authorities received a letter from UPSC stating that although I had been successful in the written exam, SSB, and medical, I could not be accommodated as I had not come within the available merit capacity of the NDA. That was my saddest day, especially as four boys from my class left for Kharakvasla, leaving me to continue with the daily grind of school.

At Sainik School, we were regularly put through the mill of UPSC exams, SSB, and medicals. I went through the tests for NDA courses 34 and 35. Despite having cleared all hurdles of the UPSC, SSB, and medicals for both courses, my fate was the same—I did not make it within the available capacity. My school authorities were surprised with this turn of events with me repeatedly. Later I learned that this phenomenon occurred due to excess allotment of vacancies to foreign candidates from our friendly countries. There was an influx from a number of countries, more so from the African continent, that had become independent from colonial rule in the first half of 1960s. Thus, the qualified candidates who came up through the mill suffered. But then it would have been a diplomatic decision! Soon it was time for me to leave school after my Senior Cambridge exams.

                               Sanatana Dharma College, Alleppey

  I returned home with a broken heart and joined Sanatana Dharma College for Bachelor of Arts in English Language and Literature course. My mother was the happiest person in the world, as she was not very keen on me joining the Armed Forces. With my undying aspirations and ambitions, joining the National Cadet Corps (NCC Rifles) was a natural course for me. I qualified in B & C Certificates NCC, also attended Army Attachment Camp and the ultimate aspiration of an NCC cadet, that of representing Kerala State NCC Directorate in the Republic Day parade at Delhi.  I went for selection to the Officers Training Unit (OTU - NCC), but again fate was against me. After clearing the SSB at Kolhapur, I was sent to MH (Military Hospital) Pune for medicals, where I was told I was rejected on account of some cardiac abnormalities. I appealed against the medical board’s decision and was sent again to MH Pune to a different medical board, the results of which are still eluding me.

        At College Small Arms Firing Range with Instrusctor demonstrating
                                                                 

             By then, the prophecy of my transitory friend Sethu kept popping into my mind. I told my mother about it, and she assured me not to get demoralized. She reminded me of the story of ‘King Robert the Bruce and the Spider,’ which she often quoted during my childhood. She would always say, ‘Try, try, and try again till you succeed!’ She was the happiest person when her son returned home from Sainik School. She was the one who had coaxed me into taking English Language & Literature to graduate as she wanted me to join the Civil Services. But on being convinced of my intense desire to join the Armed Forces and admission to the Academies eluding me despite success in the selection process time and again, my mother from then on encouraged me to pursue my aspirations to the fullest. She performed pujas and sought divine interventions to fulfil my dreams.

That was when an innocuous-looking advertisement appeared in one of the local newspapers, seeking candidates for admission to the Officers Training School (OTS) Madras, to be commissioned as Short Service Commissioned Officers in the Indian Army. The position offered the same perks and conditions of service as those who passed out of NDA and the Indian Military Academy (IMA) and offered permanent commission to those who excelled. There was no written examination for those who had attended SSB selection earlier. I was floored by the conditions and sent a postcard with my details to the address given in the advertisement. After a few weeks, I received a call letter from SSB Jabalpur.

                                    Officers Training School (Academy) - Logo

I attended the SSB process with ease, as I was by now very familiar with the nuances. On the last day, during the ‘Conference,’ the President of the Selection Board asked me, ‘What do you think? Will you be selected?’ I confidently replied, ‘Sir, I cannot be rejected.’ The members of the interviewing board were amused by my statement, and the psychologist in civilian attire asked, ‘Why are you so sure?’ I replied, ‘Sir, if I can be selected by four SSBs, there’s no reason for a fifth SSB to reject me, and if that happened, there would be something wrong with the selection system.’ I couldn’t believe I had spoken so boldly. It was my pent-up frustration that gave rise to such a reaction. They seemed taken aback, and then the President smiled and said, ‘Ravi, you can go. We wish you all the best.’ I noticed everyone behind the inverted horseshoe table digging into my personal details, including the column seeking information as to the SSB interviews attended earlier and their results.

After the conference was over, one of the GTOs entered the hall empty-handed to announce the results of our batch of 30. He announced, ‘Chest no. 17, stay back; the rest proceed to the accounts office to collect your railway warrants to return home.’ And I donned chest No 17. My medical examination was at MH Jabalpur, where I was cleared as FIT.

After returning home, I wasn’t sure whether I would receive the call from OTS. In light of Sethu’s prophecy, I was apprehensive and felt like a ‘cat that had fallen into hot water and now feared cold water.’ I concentrated on my studies. After few months was my final year examination, and with prospects of joining the pre- commission training at OTS during the academic session, I found it difficult to concentrate on my studies too. One day when I reached home from college, my mother told me that there was a fat envelope for me lying in the head post office. I rushed to the post office, collected the heavy envelope, and opened it. It was my joining instructions for OTS. I was to undergo police verification and purchase a long list of necessary kit to take along and report to OTS on a date that was one month prior to my final examinations. There were strong reservations from the ruling dispensation of my State then to carry out the verification of candidates for Central Government jobs by State Police, so my call came from Central Bureau of investigation and I complied. Propriety goaded me to report to OTS and not to miss the God given opportunity. In the circumstances, I gave the go-by to attending my final year degree examinations.

           At OTS - sapped out after Ex Chindit march- Life was indeed tough !😤
In due course, I was commissioned in the Indian Army as an officer. My three and half decades of service life thereafter, through trials and tribulations, that too as an Infantry officer, is yet another story.

 Commissioned as Second Lieutenant into First Battalion the Sikh Light Infantry

That marked the end of my unsuccessful attempt at college graduation. To this day, despite my efforts to complete it, even by correspondence from other States and Universities, I have not been able to graduate due to various exigencies. The spell cast by my strange transitory friend Sethu seemed to have come true. ‘Neither could I join the NDA, nor could I be a graduate.’ However, I was able to earn a decent and honourable living from the profession of my dreams.

In the hurry-burry of his palmistry at the fag end of my journey with Sethu and the mood changes it caused, we could not even exchange our postal address, which was very usual and the only means to keep in touch in those yonder days. Access to telephones was then futuristic, and mobile phones were yet to be invented. Despite my best efforts in subsequent years to trace Sethu—my ‘soothsayer’—he continues to remain an enigma.

In the ultimate analysis, I, from a family of doctors, engineers, auditors, those in civil service, judges, professors, and the like, was transformed—as the saying goes in my place—to a moron with ‘Sixth and Gusthi’ (Sixth Form or 11th class and wrestling!!) as my educational qualification.

Yet, God has been kind and my long-departed mother’s concerns for me, her assurances and prayers stood by me in all my ventures, and I have no regrets in retrospection. 

                                                                            - Col Ravi Nair -

 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF AN NCC CADET 

[Col R Ravi Nair (Retd) 

 

        Sanatana Dharma College is my alma mater and the only college to which I pledge my allegiance. The golden phase of my youth was well spent on this campus. In retrospect, I vividly recall this period through my intimate involvement with the NCC primarily, and then through my engagement with the College Students' Union.

        Unlike my contemporaries, I did not have a pre-university exposure, as I joined the BA English Literature program (the premier batch of 1965) after completing the Senior Cambridge Examination from Sainik School. While in college, I had the opportunity to be elected as the Secretary of the English Language and Literary Association, a Cabinet Member of the Students' Union, and finally, the Speaker (Chairman) of the College Students' Union under the banner of the Independent Students’ Union (ISU). From a modest member of the party, I progressed to Party President by the time I left the college. I am convinced that it was the National Cadet Corps (NCC) that imbued me with the confidence and managerial acumen to acquire and hold important offices within the student community, without any external political influence or sponsors.

Speaker SD College Students Union 1968-69

        The tuition culture was non-existent in those days and was looked down upon. The college campus reverberated with the hectic activities of athletes and sports lovers, with Mr. Naidu, the Physical Director, omnipresent on the grounds from the last gong of the day until twilight faded. All-around development was the key, and no student prematurely worried about a career. The medicine/engineering mania was not felt, and parents seemed to encourage their wards to spend more time on campus. “Why are you late?” “I was on the hockey field,” was taken as an impressive alibi by parents. I wonder how many students now play hockey, football, basketball, or even enter the playing fields or track, other than perhaps occasionally flexing muscles in a game of cricket?

        Enrolling in the NCC was a natural response for any active and well-meaning student. The nation was still in the fervor of the 1965 Indo-Pak War, and any able-bodied youth desired to be of service to the cause of national defense. Enrollment in the NCC was selective; aspirants had to undergo stringent physical and medical screening, and many were deemed unfit. We had six Senior Division Companies, and the senior ANO (then known as Part-Time Officers, PTO) was Major Rajashekaran Nair. He was solidly built, sporting fearsome ‘walrus’ mustaches, with a dominating personality and a ‘Drill Sergeant’s commanding voice’. Cadets and students were so scared of him that even the most ‘misadventurous’ avoided him when he passed by. He had a dedicated team of PTOs like Captain P.K. Padmanabhan Potty, Lt. R. Ramachandran Nair, Lt. N. Gopalakrishnan Nair, Lt. R.V. Ramachandran, Lt. M.P. Subramanian, and Lt. C.J. Rao. They were a team and fully in control of nearly one thousand cadets, their dealings highly business-like. The Battalion Commander was Major Herman (17 Kerala Battalion – then located at Alleppey), and the Group Commander at Thevally Palace, Kollam was Lt. Col. C.V. Donoghue.

        The Senior Division NCC was then known as NCC Rifles, and the uniform was mazri shirts and khaki trousers. The college had an imposing firing range where shooting was a regular feature on parade days. The cadets fired .22 and .303 bolt-action rifles, and even light machine guns. Weapons and ammunition of all sorts were kept in a large kote consisting of four classrooms within the college. To the best of my knowledge, I do not remember seeing any police guard for its security. The ANOs and the Under Officers were fully responsible and accountable. The security was impeccable, and the kote was granted its due sanctity. The NCC administrative office, stores, kotes, and classrooms occupied the entire complex adjacent to the boys' hostel, which is now the Commerce Department. The area was out of bounds for non-NCC students and non-functionaries.

        As a Senior Division NCC Cadet, I had the unique privilege of taking part in two Annual Training Camps, an Army Attachment Camp with the 1st Battalion of the Brigade of the Guards, an Advanced Leadership Camp, a Republic Day Parade Preparatory Camp at Munnar, and the All India RD Parade in Delhi. Normal parades were held on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. The ‘falling in’ on the parades, I distinctly remember, was a solemn and impressive occasion. With nearly 100% attendance of cadets who were properly turned out, the ANOs falling in at the head of each company, the PI staff (Regular Army personnel, mainly from the North India-Dogra and Punjab Regiments) in full strength, and the parade being handed over in succession to the “Supremo” – Major Rajashekaran Nair – his imposing words of command and the humanity responding to it! All were a herald of what I was to witness later in life while commanding troops of a well-oiled Infantry Regiment. No giggles, no suppressed coughs, no whispers, no untoward movements. Every parade was an affirmation and reaffirmation of the authority vested in a student as an appointment holder – as a leader.

        Defaulters, if any, were summarily dealt with, either by ‘physical handling’ or by awarding stringent punishments on the spot – to be forgotten immediately. One normally found dozens of such ‘unfortunates’ revolving around the parade ground with rifles held high! Long sideburns and long hair were becoming a fashion in those days. But an NCC cadet stood out by his demeanor, scrupulously insisted upon and set as an example by his ANOs. Senior Under Officers took most of the theoretical classes, including ‘Military Tactics’. One had to spend hours preparing for the classes one had to take. The only reference book available was a small NCC Handbook. The rest was left to imagination and how good one was at spinning a yarn! But it was a stage to bring out one’s latent instructor prowess.

        The esprit de corps amongst the cadets of the college was commendable. They were united when it came to competitions. Our competitors were Carmel Polytechnic College (under Major Kuzhuveli, another dedicated ANO) and TD Medical College. As I recall, the winners were always SD College. S.N., St. Michael’s, and NSS Colleges were still in their conceptual stages.

        The cadets took pride in their turnout and even compromised their precious looks for a tough, soldierly bearing, risking giggles and disapproving comments from the girls. Most of the cadets, especially the Under Officers, had their uniforms custom-stitched. Honing an impeccable military bearing was the dream of every cadet. The order of the day was that one should see his reflection on the toes of his boots. We discreetly took advice and tips from the PI staff on ‘spit-n-polish’ and maintenance of leather, brass, and uniforms. The night prior to a parade was always spent on spit and polish and starching of uniforms. Remember, ‘terry cottons’ had not yet entered the market. Upgrading the issued hackles to nearly one foot long by joining two or three patent hackles used to be a delicate and deft task. One really felt elated, fully decked out like a ‘tonga horse’ and cycling to an NCC parade. One always felt that the ‘world’ around was gaping in admiration! One felt on top of the world if one happened to ‘home in’ on a ‘Ladies Only’ bus! Those were the days! Will they ever come back?

As Company Sergeant Major -1968

          There was an unwritten camaraderie in the NCC. A senior cadet always took a junior cadet under his wing. Any misadventure with a cadet was taking a big chance with a 1000-strong organization. Even the ANOs took a stand on this. The ANO was the ‘Guru,’ and even the Head of the Department or the Principal had a secondary status. The former always accepted his obligations as such. There had been instances of ANOs financing the college fees of cadets who could not afford it. That was the bond! I distinctly remember an incident when the police wanted to make a forced entry into the college campus. The man at the forefront resisting the attempt was Major Rajashekaran Nair. There were some altercations, and finally, the police withdrew. The grapevine is that the ANO ordered the ‘kotes’ to be opened and the cadets to be armed to defend the sanctity of the campus. It may be a myth, but well-accredited! Nowadays, I see a police posse permanently posted within the college. I still recall an incident when an Under Officer cadet was facing dismissal for alleged misbehavior with a girl. The ANO stood by him, and even to the great dislike of the management, the Under Officer was reinstated. But the summary disposal meted out to the Under Officer by the ANO ‘in camera’ is still a mystery. He is now a very senior bureaucrat in the government service.

        As a cadet, I had only glimpses of the Battalion Commander and Group Commander. As far as the cadets were concerned, their ultimate authority was the PTO. When I was detailed by Major Rajashekaran Nair to attend the Republic Day Parade in Delhi, I expressed my fears of missing the ensuing examinations. He assured me not to worry. Now I recall that I missed all the college examinations, i.e., the Onam and Christmas exams, during my entire three years in college. But still, the Principal and the English Faculty always considered me a disciplined and ‘bright student’!

 

Kerala and Lakshadweep NCC Directorate RD Parade Contingent-1968

In those days, student politics and the NCC movement were inseparable. NCC cadets held nearly all the Students' Union offices. This arrangement ensured disciplined leadership and governance, and students accepted it. In my first year, the Speaker was Senior Under Officer Sadasivan Pillai. In my second year, the Speaker was Senior Under Officer C.M. Babu. I followed suit in my third year with the same qualifications. The sad thing is that nowadays, discipline and politics do not mesh well. I doubt whether any student of importance, affluent or effluent, is connected with the NCC movement.

SD College Students Union Cabinet with Principal Mr Vaidyanathan Sir
 and Professors Varma Sir and LC Nair Sir -1968

        There were no incentives for cadets as you find nowadays. A student enrolled purely out of love for the uniform and an orderly life. All the Under Officers and cadets I know and recall have done very well in life, and they all reminisce with reverence about their association with the NCC at SD College.

        I, for one, always remember with gratitude all the PTOs (ANOs), PI Staff (permanent instructional staff – deputed from the three services), and the functionaries who gave me direction in life and brought to the fore latent leadership qualities, including the confidence to face the world – to make me who I am today.

        I also take this opportunity to pay tribute to Principals Prof. Akhileswara Iyer and Prof. Vaidyanathan and the patriarch Sri Parthasarathy Iyengar (reverently known as Pappa Swamy), the manager of SD College, for their unflinching and proud support and blessings to me as a student and a functionary of the student community.

        Last but not least, I am grateful to Prof. Iyengar Sir and the members of the English Department staff, who were proud of one of their student’s achievements in extracurricular fields and encouraged me all the way toward higher goals in life.

   -Col (Retd) Ravi R Nair –

   Ex-Group Commander NCC

         Kollam Group, Kerala & Laksha Dweep NCC Dte  &

                                            Mysore Composite Group, Karnataka & Goa  Dte