Silver

Today, we celebrate twenty-five years of our passing out through the hallowed portals of the Officers Training Academy, Madras. Yes, all of us are that old. It is not the twenty-five years, mind you, that makes us old, but the knowledge that an entire generation has grown up calling the city Chennai.

Those were the days without social media and mobile phones. It was just we, and the elements. No one will ever accuse Madras of being kind. Maybe, Chennai is different. We don’t know. But OTA, Madras was rough. We were young then, more willing and able to tolerate pain, heat and hunger. If we were not willing, someone ensured that we were. The Indian Army was anything but gentle.

We were supposed to complete the same training in eleven months that IMA cadets did in eighteen. The pace was blistering, the environment unforgiving. We did not become brothers because we wore the same uniform. It was deeper than that. In the shadow of flowing blood, blistered feet, calloused hands, rivers of sweat and broken egos, a different kind of brotherhood was born. It is that shared experience of being “broken and made” that we celebrate here, today.

When we entered the academy in May 1993, most of us had stars in our eyes. It was a new adventure, a new life and a new beginning. And then, there was this summons from “Anna”. We were made to sit on what was called the ‘throne’. Anna, lacking both the skills of a salon barber and the basics of customer service, attacked our hair. They say Anna was almost blind. Who knew these things? He cut our hair in lesser time than it takes to flip a burger. Our precious locks gone, we all looked alike. Ego and vanity were hit by a speeding locomotive. OTA – 1, GCs – 0.

A few days later, it started feeling like a bipolar horror movie in which the characters jump out of the screen and imitate real life. It was our first introduction to rivulets of sweat, constant and unnatural, as if we were together standing under this massive salt-water shower.

The company commanders, platoon commanders, drill instructors and the entire DS fraternity did their best to break us. That was their job. SS 57 and WSES 3 did not break. That was our determination. Our seniors were…well, seniors. Every sentence started with tracing the antecedents of our female relatives. It was a constant din, and it continued, irrespective of the rising and setting of the sun. They generously added fuel to the fire; PT Before PT, PT after PT, drill, assault course, tactics, WT, games and perhaps the craziest institution of OTA, the shave parade.

We reached into the deepest recesses of our will to survive, for an ounce of spirit; even if it was for lending a helping hand to those who were not strong enough. OTA taught us that individual glory was transient and that the team was everything. We endured collective punishment, meant solely to break us. Every fiber of our being was stretched, and when it reached breaking point, in the brotherhood we found the emotional courage to dare ‘them’ to stretch our fiber a little more.

After every such pain filled journey we would stand together, looking like a train wreck, only to answer a question that has now become something of a national obsession.

“How’s the josh?” a senior would shout

“High Sir!!!,” we would roar back.

This was never a punch line. It was simply an affirmation that what had not killed us, had made us stronger.

Days rolled into weeks and weeks morphed into months. Camp Nomad, Shatrujeet and a hundred other obstacles were thrown our way. Somewhere along the way, the Officers Training Academy taught us to laugh; laugh when we took off our boots after a race back and our skin came off with our socks…laugh when we wrung sweat out of our socks and found it strange that the sweat had a tinge of red.

The trade-off with OTA was simple. We shed our blood, sweat and perhaps a few tears of pain. In return, we became officers in the Indian Army.

It was not all gloom and doom. We drank piss-warm beer in near total darkness, fully aware that getting caught would land us in a world of trouble. Even today, we swear that the best butter chicken we ever ate was smuggled from ‘Sagar’. Those who did not know, called it Hotel Sagar. But the suffix somehow diluted the intimacy. There was certain romance to eating those colour-loaded chicken shreds. It was an affirmation of us being human. The longing, the wait, the aroma and the taste; it all coalesced into a celebration of having survived one more day at OTA. Those who passed DST and PPT, strutted around with the lanyard, telling us lesser mortals of the wonders that were there for the taking outside the gates of the academy. So, we the unfortunate ones, dug our heels a little deeper and marched a little straighter, all in the hope that next time, the drill Gods would smile upon us. The main drill deity was Major Lalit Rai, Adjutant of OTA. He rode on this white charger called Tarzan. What were the odds that we could impress Tarzan, it not Major Lalit Rai? Both rider and horse were not given to smiling.

There were those amongst us who were masters of getting Attn C. Even one day’s sanctioned medical leave was heaven. And then there were those who had this unique proclivity of running into the speeding locomotive that was discipline at OTA. We believed that most infringements we were punished for were imagined, or at best miniscule. After all, who would care if you had one nail less on your ammunition boots? But care they did. They checked for 13 nails like a rider checks the horseshoe. A single nail less, and hell visited our doorstep. Four buttons showing above the belt, instead of three? Start rolling.

The days were wizzing past as soon we were counting DLTGH or Days Left To Go Home. In the nerve wracking and sinew crushing environment that was OTA, this small daily ritual gave us hope. Soon, tests completed, we were off in a train, headed home. Those who had great distances to travel, spent time sleeping. Some just looked out of the window, mentally grappling with civilian life. Yes, we had changed that much. As is true with all that happens at OTA, our leave evaporated in double quick time. We remembered sleeping, eating and repeating this for the two weeks we were home. We met our friends. They looked at us curiously. We had changed for ever.

With heavy hearts we prepared ourselves to go back to the furnace that was OTA. It was a long train ride back. But there was a tinge of happiness too. We were now seniors. If not life and death, we now at least had the power of spoiling some poor bugger’s peace of mind. As we prepared to enter our barracks, we saw something that we couldn’t believe. Lady Cadets. If pigs could fly and if monkeys could do maths, we too could be lucky. OTA suddenly started looking a little better. We started smiling a little. It was tough but it was a start.

Would they speak to us? Would we get the chance to interact with them? All our doubts were laid to rest a week later. They were rolling in the same mud, with us. Then it struck us. Gender did not matter. They were cadets and the instructors would be damned if they went easy on them.

And then there were the little crushes we had. It was inevitable, with young men and women training in proximity. Except for the one case, I don’t think it amounted to much. There was no time. OTA was an action movie on fast forward. If you looked too long at a lady cadet and their DS found out, you were a skewered kebab. We don’t know if the Lady Cadets looked at us. We wouldn’t know since all of us GC’s looked alike. She could be looking at me one day and the other guy the next day, without knowing the difference. Skinny, crew cut hair, badly tanned, red eyes and always marching in a group; there was not much to choose from, anyway.

Before we knew it, much of second term has passed by and we were staring at our Passing Out Parade. The mind numbing routine of drill set in. Day in and day out, we perfected our marching.

Soon, Judgment Day was upon us. We would be informed which arm or service we had been commissioned into. We marched into the hall, with the Adjutant glaring at us, flanked by a few other officers. That day many hearts broke. And, many a champagne bottle popped. The breaking hearts were real, the champagne bottles, imagined. However, the emotions at both ends were genuine.

“What did you get?” someone asked.

“Casualty”, someone answered, eyes downcast.

It was, in many cases, like an arranged marriage. We fell in love with our units after joining, even if we hadn’t opted for them.

And then came 5th March 1994. We had parents, friends and sundry sweethearts looking at us proudly. As we slow-marched to Auld Lang Syne, we crossed the “Antim Path”. At that moment, we became officers in the Indian Army. The pipping took place, followed by that obligatory throwing of our peak caps into the air. The oath was administered. The feeling was sinking deep that we were about to leave OTA. We were not teary eyed. We were jubilant that we had managed to survive, what by many counts is, the toughest officers training course in the world.

The Gentlemen Cadets are from SS 57. In housie, when the number 57 is called out, it connects to the Revolt of 1857. Hence, we call ourselves ‘Gadars’. The Lady Cadets were from Naushera Company. Their chant was “Shera, Shera, Naushera”. So, they call themselves Shernis.

So, here we meet again to celebrate our Silver Jubilee. We are more recognizable now, with our paunches and bald patches. We have had our highs and lows. We meet to relive the old days, when we were just numbers. We meet to water the plant of camaraderie and brotherhood. And…we meet to share our joys and sorrows. That is what brotherhood is all about. That is what OTA taught us.

Today, we again remember our brothers who are no longer with us. Shanmugham, Chhetri and Masurkar, we will honour your memory by celebrating you. We will not mourn. We are soldiers. We wish you were here. The celebrations would have been louder and more boisterous. They would have been complete. We raise a toast to you. We know you are there in Valhalla, drinking, raising hell and telling jokes that only soldiers can understand. We miss you.

Friends, all said and done, we are not in Chennai. In our hearts, we are still in Madras; with all its magic, tears and joys.

May God bless our alma mater, the Officers Training Academy. May it continue to shine as a becon of hope for all those who wish to Serve With Honour.

May God bless us all. Jai Hind.

Major Gaurav Arya (Veteran)

17th Battalion, The Kumaon Regiment

SS 57, Jessami Company, Officers Training Academy

Madras (And it will never be Chennai)