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STORIES FROM WITHIN A BLACK BOX

STORIES FROM WITHIN A BLACK BOX

 

LT COL NOEL ELLIS

30/XII/2023

 

Two years back, we finally moved into our own home. It was curtains to so many hats that one had adorned. Time had come to relax and indulge in hobbies close to my heart and also reopen our ‘black fauji trunks’ which had been lying locked for more than fifteen years.

‘Trunks’ were the mainstay during Fauji postings. The complete household would be stuffed into them. Their numbers increased every year. Every box was painted black and sequentially numbered with padlocks assigned to each. The contents of the box were listed in duplicate, with one inserted in the box itself and the other carried with you for easier redeployment at the next station.

‘Trunk’ and ‘Key management’ were an art and a science. Box & keys were meticulously numbered and noted in a diary. Box number where duplicate keys would be found were inscribed in bold in that diary. There was a method in that madness which only faujis can understand. The ‘packer and mover’ generation have no clue.

My job took me to work at Bombay after I hung my uniform. It was not a place to carry that cabudal of boxes and crates. Houses there were smaller than match boxes. A 2 BHK house on the 18th floor could hold either the trunks or us. We chose the latter.

Be that as it may. It was time to reopen those boxes. Over these years, we had misplaced the ‘master diary’ where all details were noted. My friend ‘Uncle Murphy’ always accompanies me, so we had to break open all latches one by one. Finally, in the 54th box, the keys were located. Now there was no utility of those boxes. With a heavy heart we decided to dispose of most boxes and the contents within.

On opening the boxes it was a scene of a horror movie as most of the clothing had been eaten by mites. Trophies and mementoes were redundant now. We realised, what useless things we had been carrying all these years. Except for one trunk, which had books, all the rest were junk.

A bonfire was lit and everything consigned to flames. My NDA sports shirts, scarf, and stockings which I had preserved since 1981-82 were eaten up so badly. What I recovered was my personal NDA diary. It contained letters which I wrote to my father about the daily routine and ragra there, but never posted them. A treasure of a different kind now.

One trunk contained clothing, including my ‘wedding suit’ and ‘Jodhpuris’. The Blue, White patrols, SD, etc had been gnawed away beyond repair. My eyes went moist when I plucked out the brass buttons and set the massacred clothing ablaze.

Surprisingly, all my wedding dresses were intact. I could never could fit in them one year after the wedding. Why didn’t the moths touch them is a mystery!  Would I fit in those dresses after 35 years? It was high time to air and try them out.

A ‘lapel’ affixed inside my Jodhpuri caught my attention. There was a tag of ‘FREE INDIA TAILORS’. The shop was run by two Sindhi brothers, who had a very distinct nasal, girlish, shrill and squeaky voice. If you raised your voice, they could deliver clothes the next day, provided you gave them some advance. That shop has long gone and so have the brothers. God Bless their souls.

Moment, you handed over cash, one of the brothers would evaporate for a short while. When he returned, he would carry an ‘Addha’. It was consumed right infront of you. I used to carry a bottle of XXX as a ‘tip’ for the urgency. Invariably, a fauji had to get stitching done at a very short notice. Their quality of stitching was par excellence, courtesy the liquids.

Lots of water had flown in the Ganges over these 35 years. Lot of fat had accumulated around my middle. Fauj tried its level best to reduce my girth but couldn’t. It was after leaving the fauj that one got back into shape. Those dresses not only fit but have gone loose now.

Yesterday, we went to attend a wedding function. I proudly wore my Jodhpuri suit stitched three and a half decades ago. This was stitched for my own reception but somehow could not pick it up from the tailor then. Since then it had rested in trunk number 31.

One feels so happy to be back in shape. There was a time, when one was in top shape. At the drop of a hat one could do a ‘hand spring’ or a ‘back flip’ in the good old days.

What more memories are stored in those black fauji trunks? I wonder!!!!!!!

 

JAI HIND

© ® NOEL ELLIS

 








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