CHIAASAT COURSE KI JAI
LT COL NOEL ELLIS
02/VI/2022
It was this day in 1984 that we took the ‘Antim Pag’ from the National Defence Academy, Khadakwasla. Butterflies in the stomach were churning when DLTGH (Days Left to go Home) were on the verge of extinction. Probably the desperation to get over with it was so much that when one opened his diary of those days, the last three days of the POP were left unstruck. I wish one had preserved that personal diary of mine.
A raw boy, just out of school, had landed in this Academy to join the 66th NDA course.
NDA wing Ghorpuri, where we went through the first term, was not all that jazz. By the end of the day, your bed was the only place which beckoned you for a soothing night's rest. In case the DS decided that the night was still young, you had it.
As I recall, when we reached the Main Academy from Ghorpuri as a IInd termer, no one thought of the passing out year or day. It was one day at a time, one Corporal to deal with at a time. If you were a panga taker, then one Sargent at a time. Yours truly took pangas at the highest level, thus was a ‘red eyed’ boy of nothing less than the ACA (Academy Cadet Adjutant).
You had enough pangas in the squadron. Panga started with the morning tea and was revenged silently with spitting in the sixth termers mug of tea. Pangas, when you didn’t carry a paper and refill (called pen), pangas for missing out a line of the NDA prayer.
You reached the mess, pangas on the breakfast table with your over study for cutting the butter unequally. Pangas while going back to the sqn, when you got late & carried eggs and toast stuffed in your Khaki shorts with yolk dripping from the side of your legs. Pangas with the ‘drill ustad’ for not running in squad with your cycle without valves. Pangas with the teacher, not for sleeping in class, which everyone did but for clicking your ball pen and having it thrown out of the window along with your keys if they jingled.
The only place one didn’t have a panga was the Drill square and PT fields. DST (Drill Square Test) was passed in the first attempt both at the NDA wing and IInd term. PT Ustads loved me as I could count beyond their ‘Whine-teep’, (One-two) for the hundred bend stretches. Dive rolls and back flips, star jumps and hand springs were a cake walk. High horse never felt high, the balancing beam time to rest. Ropes were time to watch the road for a good looking girl passing by.
Pangas were everywhere. Late from ‘gole market’ clearance, toasting bread slices on a heater while being Attend ‘C’ and playing billiards instead of resting. While the toasts got burnt to cinders, billiards was more important. Rubbing toothpaste in your eyes to get one week off for conjunctivitis. The list was never ending.
One day at a time was the pace at which we lived. Fun and frolic went together, ‘Bajri order’ sessions, ‘Charlie well’ sessions, parade ground ragra sessions and Puttie parades were as if metal was being forged in fire. ‘Seventh Heaven’ was till your fingers bled. Our squadron believed in thirteenth heaven, imagine.
Routine started in the morning with PT, Drill or both and equestrian classes. Horses also took pangas with me. On a cross country hike, the bloody fellow dropped me at the seven milestone and ran back to the stables. However, being good in PT, one was selected for the end of term ‘vaulting’.
One never felt like stomping one’s feet at the POP practice. One term went in ‘Manning the Mast’. ‘Bassat (62) Course ki Jai’ was what we shouted just before the three MIG 21s were spotted approaching the quarter deck to bless the passing out course. For us, it was the 70th course.
March ups, punishments, relegation warning list, excused breakfast, excused liberty, excused wearing a ‘lungi’ as certain vitals showed up when they were not supposed to. Bathroom sessions, Singharh hikes, Pashan periphery and visit to ‘pondy hut’, only to find nothing pondy there.
Three years went past in a jiffy. A couple of days back, 142nd course passed out. I am sure they too would have gone through the same regimen, if not worse.
From the Pahala pag till the Antim Pag it was a whirlwind of a time. You were stuck in the eye of the storm with no escape. That’s what turned boys into men. The Chiaasat 66 course had its own ups and downs. Our course got shuffled to various squadrons. How could I be left behind, circumstances shuffled me from Charlie to India. That story later.
This piece is dedicated to my dearest course mates who passed away during this journey. My salute to all serving and retired. I feel proud when the best amongst us have reached the ranks of Lt Gens, including Chahal who has worn this rank today, Air Marshals and Admirals. Thank you all for being part of the marvellous journey which we shall cherish closely forever. Chiaasat Course ki Jai.
JAI HIND
© NOEL ELLIS
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