Tag: humour

A rude naval officer !!!

I know I will be castigated and made to walk the plank for the title! Fact is that the term ‘rude naval officer’ is an oxymoron, an anomaly. The officer may hurl the choicest expletives and epithets in the work environment or at a stag party of batch mates but in a social environment, he is an epitome of dignity and grace – the quintessential gentleman. As a matter of fact, most naval officers can put the knights to shame in matters of chivalry and even compete victoriously with the ‘nazakat’ of Lucknavi nawabs. So it was rather surprising when we – self and wife – did happen to run into a rude naval officer.

Once upon a time, in the bygone decade of 90s, yours truly was posted to Mumbai. We were staying in the Officer’s transit accommodation pending allotment of a house. My wife was in the family way – in her last trimester. I was posted onboard a ship which sailed frequently but then, this was not a bother since we were staying in the cocooned safety of naval environment. The naval community is close knit and there is never a dearth of assistance.

Meticulous planning is the hallmark of a naval officer! So I had studied the delivery date given by the Gynecologist and planned my annual leave so as to optimize my home stay post baby’s arrival. Any layman would immediately point out the flaw in my ‘meticulous’ planning – it was based on the assumption that my wife delivers the baby on the exact date predicted by the Gynecologist. So, my wife’s going into labour coincided with my ship being at sea!

The wise and the old amongst us may recall a world sans mobiles. In the early 90s, there were these ubiquitous black telephone instruments which were highly temperamental. Unable to get in touch with any friend, she went down the mess parking area looking for someone to give her lift to Asvini, the naval hospital. She found a young naval officer standing next to a car and requested him for a drop to the hospital which is less than a kilometer away. Ordinarily, such request would have elicited a response marked with alacrity and concern. But horror of horrors, the officer actually demurred. He seemed reluctant and tried to stall the trip. He even suggested that at times the labour pains are false and hence there is no urgency to go to the hospital. After a bit of politeness and time, my wife’s patience was running thin and she demanded that she be dropped to the hospital immediately.  The officer reluctantly went over to the driver’s seat, started the car and drove slowly to the hospital. After what seemed like an eternity and zillion jerks, they reached the hospital. My wife was whisked away to the maternity ward. We never met this officer again for a long time and so, I could not, out of politeness, express my gratitude. At the same time, we were appalled at the indifference shown by him.

About 5 years later, we were posted to Goa. We ran across this officer at a naval party. This time, the officer shed his reluctance and proactively came to meet us. After the usual small talk, he turned to my wife and said “ Ma’am , I am sorry about that day. Actually it was not my car. And I had never driven a car before in my life so I was petrified to drive one – that too with you inside”

The Fauji Patient

The military ingests perfectly normal, fairly intelligent human beings and converts them jnto soldiers. The hard nuts refuse to get digested and are excreted out intact while the pliable ones are metabolized and assimilated into the system.

To be candid, the general populace does carry the impression that defence personnel are a tad dense in their upper floor – a notion which is difficult to dispel. Unfortunately there exists a host of factual and fictional anecdotes which augment the belief. I have one such anecdote to narrate.

Capt RK is a retired army officer serving with us – a smart energetic person. Now, we all know that the city of Mumbai plays host to a variety of viruses – some known, other mutants. RK happened to get afflicted with the mutant variety. Initially, like a true fauji, he refused to accept the fact that he was ill. When the fever persisted and we insisted, he reluctantly took sick leave. The local doctors could not get a handle on the mutated virus. He finally went to a swank clinic where all those pedigreed foreign returned doctors practice. The good old days of General Practitioner who examined the patient, drew on his experience and diagnosed are long gone. Today it’s science and gadgets. So poor RK was subjected to a battery of tests, diagnosed as having some unpronounceable disease and was prescribed a 3 day course of different medicines. These medicines came packaged in a single strip with day 1, 2 and 3 marked in column. The patient was required to take the daily set of red, blue and white pill placed column wise every day.

RK started the medicinal course convinced it will cure him of every ill. However at the end of third day, he felt worse and had blood in his sputum. He went back to the flabbergasted doctors complaining of worsening condition.

The flummoxed doctors ran another battery of tests which yielded the same earlier unpronounceable result. Now those fancy foreign returned doctors just couldn’t fathom what was wrong – the diagnosis was positive, the prescribed medicine appropriate but the end result opposite and inappropriate. For once, the super gadgets seemed to let them down.

The clinic had an ex fauji as the Administrator. He overheard the case discussions in the executive lunch room and looked up the medicine strip. He went to RK and asked “Did you eat the medicines regularly?” RK nodded his head in affirmative. “So you ate the red, blue and white coloured tablets each day?” the ex fauji asked indicating the set of medicine meant for Day 1, 2 and 3. “No sir” came the classic reply from RK, ” I ate the red coloured ones on the first day, blue coloured ones the second day and white ones on the last”

Oxymoron and Moron

There are two primary stereotypes of armed forces officers created by Bollywood in the minds of the general populace. The first is that of the dashing hero who dances and sings in the Regimental Mess, gets the heroine, goes and lays down his life fighting the enemy leaving a grieving but proud widow behind. The second stereotype is that of an idiosyncratic retired officer who smokes a pipe, uses ‘Bloody Hell’ a trillion times and disciplines everyone around him to the merriment of the viewers. By creating these quintessentially extreme stereotypes, there is no room left in people’s mind for the real life flesh and blood officers who have taken an early retirement.

Personally, I find the larger than life Bollywood stereotype image extremely detrimental when dealing with the corporate HR interviewer. The general perception is that defence services officers are all spit and polish, magnificently endowed with brawn and deficient in brains. So when it comes to the extremely complex corporate world, HR concludes that we won’t be able to cope up and will end up antagonizing everyone by our idiosyncracies.

The truth is that an armed force officer is fairly intelligent and rational. By virtue of facing diverse and difficult situations, he is flexible and adaptable with an ability to innovate to achieve the desired goal. As the saying goes, we are trained for all situations ranging from the ballroom to the battlefront. And if I were to quote my more brash colleagues, from the bedroom to boardroom! After all, how many corporate CVs can boast of the capabilities and expertise to handle diverse tasks ranging from taking the lady of visiting foreign dignitary sari shopping, providing succour to populace during calamities, planning operations with umpteen variables and staring down enemy guns? All this and more, in extreme operating environment, 24X7!

“But Commander, you don’t have the corporate experience or domain knowledge” is an oft heard refrain. As a mid to senior level professional, I feel that “capability” rather than ‘domain knowledge’ is more important. But then, I have decided to quit the services and seek a career in the civvy street, so I need to play by the new rules.

However, I must confess that the new rules are not easy to play by. Self praise is frowned upon in the Services and I still blush when I have to assure the HR recruiter that I am good. HR folks don’t make it easy either. I recall an interview wherein I was trying to draw the analogy between HR as practiced in the Services and HR as advocated by Gary Dessler, author of the book on HRM followed worldwide. After listening to 10 minutes of my earnest explanation, the interviewer stopped me and queried “Who is Gary Dessler?”! Neither is it easy to dispel the mistaken notion that all faujis are dimwits. During the initial phase of my most recent interview I told the interviewer” I want to assure you that an intelligent naval officer is not an oxymoron”. The svelte lady flashed a brilliant smile, nodded understandingly and asked “ Oxy what?”. I had no choice but to reply “Moron!”, realising fully well that I couldn’t possibly crack this interview!.

Meanwhile, my search for a job continues…..

Bartimaeus – The Genial Genie!

Recession is biting! And amidst home budget belt tightening, the mistress of the house decreed that my extravagant book buying budget is to be slashed to zero with immediate effect! Funny thing this globalization – some wise guy in Lehman Brothers attempts to subvert the system in America and poor me is deprived of books to read…. Being a wise and domesticated husband, I did not dare ask my wife if her exorbitant cosmetic budget had been pruned.

Reading is an addiction. Deprived of my daily fix of mental stimulation, I reached out in desperation to the children’s stack of books. And, in the process, stumbled upon a trilogy by Jonathan Stroud about this genie and his young master. The books are ‘The Amulet of Samarkand’, ‘The Golem’s Eye’ and ‘Ptolemy’s Gate’.

I have happily avoided reading all of JK Rowling, smug in the self –belief that children’s book are juvenile. My idea of kid’s book stemmed from the Enid Blyton’s I had read eons ago. ‘The Amulet of Samarkand’ was a pleasant surprise. To begin with, the language used by Jonathan is crisp, elegant and lucid. The second part I liked is the sheer simplicity of the plot – good is good and bad is bad. No moral dilemma to judge, no grey areas to navigate gingerly about. The best part about the book is that it seamlessly blends the myths and fairy tales of yore with the contemporary world. The hero is a minister in UK government. This modern setting does not make you feel that you are reading the typical archaic children’s book of hero–slays-the-fire-eating–dragon type.

The most amazing character of the series is Bartimaeus, the genie. The story about djinns and how to control them is a central part of oriental folklores. As a child, I remember being told all about drawing a circle in a graveyard and staying within it for 40 days and night to be able to exercise power over djinn. In Jonathan Stroud books, our young magician hero has control over thousand year old djinn called Bartimaeus. The genie’s character is sketched out very nicely – naughty, with a great sense of humour, wicked and a tad sentimental. Aladdin’s djinn is servile whereas Bartimaeus has a mind of his own. His ranting and raving, his humour and benign wickedness are amazingly original. The book is narrated in first person in parts – some bits by the genie and some by the hero. This helps the reader in identifying with the character very well.  I can very well imagine Eddie Murphy as the quasi cartoon character of Bartimaeus in a Hollywood movie. After a series of sinister plots, our young magician hero emerges victorious with the formidable help of his genie friend.

There can be sober parallels drawn between these stories and the real world but I deliberately desisted from this intellectual exercise. The books are meant to be enjoyable reading by children and I wanted to enjoy them at that level. After a series of rather drab, brilliant books by award winning authors which leave you drained at the end, this one keeps you riveted by its action, simplicity and comedy. In the end, it leaves a warm, fuzzy glow and the positive feeling that heroism and romance is not dead. A must read for all adults who have got accustomed to a cynical, descriptive, blurred morals diet. These books are fun with no pretensions about dealing with a broad socio- historical canvas or depicting depressing reality. And no – I am NOT regressing with age!        

My experiments with riding!

One of the benefits of spending 22 years in the armed forces is that you can conjure up an anecdote almost at will. I find this attribute very helpful in a social gathering wherein starry eyed pretty women listen very attentively to my fiction-based-on-truth tales. It is indeed unfortunate that no HR Head seems to have been impressed by my story telling ability so far………..

This one goes back about 8 years to a time when I was posted to Defence Staff College in the salubrious climes of Coonur near Ooty. It is amazing how responsible and mature adult males can quickly regress to behaving like teenage rowdies when placed together in a group. Perhaps it’s that exclusive masculine bonding wherein males come to their actual mental level; as explained by the popular saying that men will always be boys!  Or maybe it’s the resonance of masculine hormones in company of each other that lowers the overall IQ level…

As a part of this regression effect, I developed an insane passion to learn horse riding. This overriding (no pun intended) passion overcame all rational thoughts and sane warnings. Mothers who have seen their boys often loose their brains in obviously stupid pursuits will vouch for the fact that once bitten by the masculine bug, no boy will heed to any amount of reasoning or restrictions. So, right at the beginning of the term, yours truly announced from the ramparts of his drawing room that he will be taking up horse riding. My wife pleaded and cajoled, begged and threatened in equal measures, but then, masculine pride ……..I could envisage myself galloping away, mane flying, the thud thud of hooves, cool wind on my face on the green slops of Ooty. After all, don’t the westerns depict the hero doing the same gracefully and effortlessly?

So the home budget was adjusted and my wife’s lipstick money diverted to acquire white breeches, new tee shirt, riding boots, pith hat, gloves and riding crop – the works. Unfortunately in India, they don’t allow you to carry the trusty old colt six shooter in a low slung holster! And the College did not allow the novices to wear jingling spurs … but so what? A bit of adjustment here and there to chase my dream was fine by me.

The fateful day dawned – the entire household was in turmoil since the master-turned- cowboy of the house was to court the first equine (making others canine?) love of his life! My wife got up early and watched me as I strutted around in those high heeled riding boots feeling the master of the Universe. She was decent enough to see me off at the door to see me and tell me to have a good time.

I reported to the riding school half an hour before time to choose a handsome looking mount. The new riding shoes squeaked, the hat and gloves gave off that off-the-shelf smell while the old hands at riding looked on indulgently and even had the decency to wish the imposter-me good luck. The first shock came when I had to mount the horse – to my horror and chagrin; I discovered that when I raised my foot with great difficulty to place it in the stirrup, the horse had this wicked and uncanny knack to step forward. Damn – this never happens to Clint Eastwood in the movies! After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I could slowly feel my ego floating earthwards. However a timely advise from the riding instructor saved the day and I managed to haul myself up on the saddle.

Reins in hand, feet in stirrup – from my regal perch I surveyed the mortal world below. Our group started walking towards the enclosed riding area. At last cowboy Nadeem was in his rightful place, one hand on the thigh, other holding the reins, back erect. Who said that dreams and fantasies cannot be converted into reality?

Once inside the riding area, I was introduced to trot – a gentle run by the horse where the rider gracefully rises and sits backs in consonance with the horse’s motion. Ha! there seemed to be something wrong with my horse – when I rose the horse went down and vice versa. So I spent a jarring 15 minutes trotting. The gluteals got sore; the inner thighs chafed against the horse-saddle combine and got scraped. The charm of horse riding was fading fast. But two factors kept me at it – sheer, stupid masculine pride and off course the ‘selection and maintenance of aim’ bit drilled into us as armed forces office.

After warming up, we were taken to the open filed for ‘advanced riding’. You know, there are various descriptions of being hurled in the air and falling. The protagonist in most books float in the air, have the time and presence of mind to note the details of surroundings and the exact position of the antagonist. He breaks his fall gracefully and executes his next move to defeat his opponent. Movies tend to show the same situation in slow motion with the hero triumphant in the end. In my humble opinion, this is all hogwash. One moment you are on the horse all hoity-toity and the next, you are sprawled in an undignified heap in the nullah struggling to decipher what happened. I could feel the ice cold water and muck. The horse threw me off and bolted. Thankfully nothing was broken except my pride. My riding was not over as yet – as per traditions, I had to catch  the horse and get it back to the school. The next 3 hours were spent walking in swishy cold boots trying to seduce the horse in letting me pick up the reins so that I could lead it back.

Hungry, wet, smelling of slime and streaked with mud, I struggled home. The sparking white breaches had taken a curious hue of black – green and brown; the shoes were muddy and the helmet broken. It was a weary ex cowboy who rang the bell of his domain to be greeted by the lady of the house. My wife inspected me from head to toe and said poker faced “What happened cowboy? The horses not behaving today?” Till date, I have not forgiven her for that remark.