THE FIGHTING SPIRIT

1.       Early August 1988, the early morning alarms in the mechanical, hand wound watches went off from 4 AM onwards. Every Cadet in the 1^st Term of the National Defence Academy (NDA) had a varied routine of getting up to get saddle ready for the day’s routine. The Ist Term Cadets were kept isolated from the main Academy for first 06 months to bake the youngsters and prime them up for an entry into the grand Military Academy from 2^nd Term onwards. The hard core veterans from the various Sainik Schools and Military schools were accustomed to the grind from the 6^TH standard onwards and would be last ones to wake up just minutes before the Cadet’s muster was announced. The ones from the public schools and non-military environment were the pre-Sun risers and trying to get accustomed to the whistles and Bugler’s call. As the Cadets number swells each day in the 1^st Term with newer mates joining in, the alarm routine sees many variations. By the end of July, the NDA Wing had settled down and the mind gets accustomed to the ringing bells. Those were the days when snoozes did not function efficiently if the alarm shut button of the mechanical watch had become victim of a brutal attempt to shut its high pitched bell. Being a hard core Public School types, I had also settled down into my new routine and the 4^th Alarm Bell at around 0430 Hours was my rising signal.

2.       I had joined the National Defence Academy on a few nudges from my Father. He wanted me to fulfil his dream of becoming an Indian Army Officer. The nudges were gentle and also hard, at times as I was keener to pursue a Medical degree. My first cousin’s marriage took place when I was in my 9^th Standard in 1983. The exams had got over and I had scored a good percentage. Those were the days when we used to possess 02 types of shoes- one pair of black Bata Shoes for the school and family events and one pair of White Bata Fleet Shoes. A new design and more spongy Sports Shoes with a Velcro strap locking mechanism had just been introduced into the Indian market. It was a rage and every youngster wanted to wear one such shoe. I was also not left away from such an urge and banked upon my exam performance and brother’s wedding to tilt the decision of my Father in my favour to buy one such pair of shoe.

3.       At a favorable moment, when the new bride had arrived at the home and the entire family had sat around her to conduct a “Ring Finding” game, I brought all my guts to my mouth and requested the new shoes from my father!! The hard nudge that I received in front of the entire family firmly pushed me away from my dream to be a Doctor and I vowed that I would join the National Defence Academy (NDA) to get my dream shoes. My Father gave me a princely sum of Rs 2000/- in April 1988 to undergo the NDA interview at Bangalore. I saved each penny till I cleared the final selection and bought a Rs 1400/- worth of new shoes when I left Bangalore for New Delhi after my selection for the Academy.

Opposite 12 SSB Bangalore- April 1988- After Selection to NDA

(extreme right and the shoes say it all!!)

4.       The story did not end here. It was just the beginning of a new twist into my life. The new shoes got locked in my NDA Trunk immediately on the arrival to NDA Wing and we were back to wearing the Bata White Fleet shoes. The 4^th Alarm bell went off at 0430 hours and I got up to do my rituals before the morning muster for physical training (PT). It was the 4^th week at the NDA Wing and each alternate day we were running 5-6 kms to build up our strength and stamina. These runs through cross-country routes left our not so accustomed limbs and especially legs aching and the thin soul of the Fleet Shoes did not add any succor either.

 Centered between Mates NJ Singh & Deepak Bhasker

5.       As we reached the fields for the PT, we found that a Boxing arena had been rigged there and from that day the Novices Boxing Bouts were beginning. The hard core veterans smelt fun whilst the Public School variants did not have much clue apart from a few remembrances of Sylvester Stallone’s “Rocky-1” antics. The trainers at NDA are seasoned professionals and their plans are perfect. As the luck would have it, I was selected for the first day bouts and pitched against a stocky Sainik School, Bhubaneswar veteran from the other Squadron called November Squadron. A mere look at my opponent and I realized that it was an unmatched battle. Here I was a commoner, who had never fought a school or a lane fight, had done all my home works and assignments on time, had never been punished and had taken pride in my discipline. I had to sustain 03 rounds of 2.5 minutes each against my versatile opponent who by then did not understand/appreciate the meaning of being a Course mate or a Brother-in-Arms as we all become from 2^nd Term onwards till death does us apart.

6.       The only sign of good luck were my 03 classmates Satyapal Sindhu, Navdeep Dahiya and Anil Tahlan. Though these gentlemen were also in November Squadron, they opted to be my seconds. As the gloves went into my hands and a rooky head gear was put on my head, these 03 mates kept on egging me to just withstand the onslaught. They were also extremely worried and knew that my face would soon be converted into a pulp. My legs were trembling as I had never taken a punch from anyone in my 17 years of existence on the Mother Earth. The frenzy of the boxing bouts was raking the air and soon the 5^th bout of the day was announced. I faintly remember as Navdeep escorted me inside the ring and pumped in my ears,” Do not fall down, get up”.

7.       The bell was shaken by the mallet and the stocky opponent sized me up nicely and properly. He was as dark as I was fair and looked menacingly into my eyes. A little training before the bout was given by a PT instructor and I ached my mind to remember those pearls of wisdom as November Squadron raised the war cry. The boxer moved towards me and I raised my guard. His first punch landed on my chin and I hit the rope. My 03 classmates also raised the battle cry and told me to move on. Mike Squadron had fallen silent as they feared for the worst too. The punch had shaken my bare roots, but now I knew that how a punch felt. The heat had sunk in and I moved within the ring. Soon, my opponent came in again and this time. I decided to put in my best. One of my punch landed on his lips and I made the fist bloody cut. The “Rocky” inside me rose too. The opponent was very angry and annoyed. The battle had seemed a cake walk for him, but, I had managed to land a few punches and also made the cut on his face. He let go his fury on me and I also did my best to counter his brute force.

8.       The second round began and he punched me harder and harder. The frenzy in the arena was mind boggling. Each save by me was cheered loudly as a commoner fended off a titan. At the end of the second round, my arms were refusing to pick themselves up. Navdeep and Satyapal were very worried and knew that in the 3^rd round, I would be injured badly. My arms felt like 50 kgs each. They did their best to revive me and soon the bell rang. My opponent was now working against time to flatten me for a knockout. I was barely able to hit him as my mobility was not responding. Halfway through the round, his punch flattened me. My squadron Mike raised the tempo and I got up on the count of 5 to face some more barrages. My lip was cut open and I again went down on my back. But now, the bout was not in boxing arena but in the arena of the respective minds. My opponent had also tired down and his punches did not make give any pain to me. I again got up on the count of 6, fended off a few agonising seconds and the end of 7.5 minutes came all too soon. I lost the bout, but, my bar of undertaking the pain was raised from a dead Zero to a perfect Hundred. The pains and stitches remained for a few days but the fighting spirit had been inculcated, the Novices Boxing had achieved its purpose. I had arrived to follow the famed NDA Motto- THE MAKER OF MEN.

9.       My venerable opponent did not complete the Course as he left the Academy half way through the Course and I did not get a chance to be his Brother-in-Arms. I fondly remember his punches and the baking that he gave me to achieve the NDA Motto. The Fleet Shoes made the fight easier. They helped to keep the feet firmly on the ground as sweat fell like rain on the floor. They do not offer a good sponge but they ensure that the feet are firmly in touch with the ground. The good fight and the saving of a knockout earned me a few hours “Liberty” from the NDA Wing to visit Pune City. I proudly wore my Velcro Shoes and enjoyed the day out with my friends.

10.     Yesterday, I saw the epic on “Mary Kom”. I saw Mary Kom mending and wearing the same Bata White Fleet Shoes as she learnt the nuances of Boxing in the trouble torn Manipur. The movie moved the tears and the pain of that first punch on my chin came back haunting. The gentle nudges of my Father to buy a shoe only if I can afford to wear it stood stark in front of me as I saw Mary Kom climbing the hard grinding mountain called Success with the dint of her hard work and raw, brute courage and conviction. I treasure my Shoes. They have taught me the efficacy of labor, sweat, determination, conviction and courage. They have to be earned to keep the legs going. There are many out there in India’s vast lands who would one day wear the shoes that they desire. The essence of the battle is in fighting hard and strong. The opponent may be strong, powerful and agile, but, a Fighter’s spirit can win the final battle. Cheers to all the sports persons of India who have overcome each and every odd to bring laurels to the Nation. The National Flag goes up with the National Anthem playing in the background as they turn gritty battles into medals for the Nation. The fighter’s spirit is unmatched- The Fighter Never Quits, the Quitter Never Wins. Raise the bar, move on and meet the battle head on to get the glory.     

GURU DAKSHINA

The late noon Sun was its zenith. We were toddlers in a “Start-up” school at the sleepy little town called Rohtak. I and my classmates Satyapal and Rakesh Vig held our hand together as the classes got over and walked 500 metres to the main road to catch the rickshaw of Gopi. Gopi would wait near the main road to pick us up after the school as he had other children from different schools too along with him. A small canal ran along the main road and also there was an old well under the shade of a Peepal tree. Gopi had not yet arrived when we reached the assembly point. There was no soul on the deserted road as the mighty Sun blazed away to glory. Three of us were curious to see the well for many days and now were alone. We went near the well and looked inside- our cheerful faces reflected on its water holding. Playful as we were, we picked a few pebbles and created waves inside the well. Soon, the size of stones got bigger and Gopi was nowhere in sight. We dropped a big brick inside the well, it created a big wave and it hit the walls back and forth. The wave settled down and we saw the reflection of three of us being joined with our teacher Mrs Keswani. A pleasant personality, Mrs Keswani was an ex-Air Hostess of KLM and had settled down into Rohtak after her marriage to a leading Doctor of Rohtak Medical College. She held our small hands, cleaned the dust and calmly explained us about the dangers that the well posed to three of us. The well looked so docile but yet it could have led us to a fatal result. She waited with us till Gopi arrived and sent us back to safety of our homes and waiting mothers.

The Start-up School did not hold us for long. The next year, me and Satyapal moved to a bigger school called Mahendra Kinder Garten which had classes till VIth. We were happy that Mrs Keswani moved with us too. In the new school, we joined the class of Miss Taru Gupta. She was a bubbly, young girl just out of her College at Rohtak. In the days of the peak hippy culture, she would be smartly dressed in trendy faded hippy denims and would teach us all the subjects. Neither the teacher nor the students ever felt fatigued. She not only groomed us in studies, but also groomed our personalities. I still wear the same hair style that she carved out for me in 1977!! There were no PTMs as she would meet our parents every now and then and help them to understand our growth patterns. We were so fortunate that she took us right from the Prep School till Class VIth. She brought out our talents to the fore and I had the honour to lead the School’s dramatics team under her tutelage. It was great excitement as I would present the School’s credentials to the Chief Guest during the School’s Annual Function.

With a heavy heart and tears in our eyes, me and Satyapal bade farewell to our middle school and joined the VIIth class in Model School, Rohtak. Miss Taru Gupta wished us all the success and continued to monitor our progress as we kept meeting her every now and then. Model School was a big school. Each class had 03 sections and the competition was large. Coming from a smaller school, we were outsiders as compared to the older students. We had to carve out our places in the new school. The hard work of studies started getting noticed and during the Annual Day selections, I was picked up for a small role in the famed English play enacted only by our School in the entire district. The English plays used to attract large audience especially from the University and Medical College which were Rohtak’s attractions. The role was that of a servant of a rich lady. The play began on a right note but halfway through the play, the lead actress forgot her lines as I made my scheduled entry to remove the tea cups!! The curtains were drawn as audience kept rapt silence. Backstage, the play director gave a dressing down. The lead actress, a Class XIIth student pointed an accusing finger towards me, a VIIth class student for forgetting her lines!! The play director, a lady teacher, slapped me hard without investigating the matter. The Assistant Play Director, Mr Ishwar Singh Varma, was watching the whole incident unfolding. He held me tight and wiped my tears away. He took me under his wings from then on.

Next year, Mr Ishwar Singh Varma became the play director as the previous year’s failure was still fresh in the minds of the School’s management committee. Mr Ishwar Singh gave me the lead role of a 70 year old widower who manages to marry a young girl whom his son also likes!! It was a challenging and demanding role and a central character for a Class VIIth boy. The play went like a song and we re-enacted the play for 02 more occasions. Mr Ishwar Singh Varma always kept his hawk eyes on us as we grew in the School. He would always counsel us and keep our focus on the righteous path. His admonishments were never to break our growth pattern, but he would guide us always to meet the looming challenges on the horizon. His famous lines on my report card were,” Intelligence is only 1%, 99% is the preparation.” He silently and effectively nurtured our energies and helped all my classmates to transit from School to meaningful institutions. We last met him at his house, when Satyapal, Vivek Chugh and me went across to present him a Tie as a mark of our eternal respect to the man. Satyapal and I were already in the NDA and Vivek was heading towards his MBA in the Kurukshetra University.

As I moved ahead into my life, my association with Teachers has continued to grow deeper and deeper. All my teachers have influenced my destiny with their actions and thoughts. They have set forth the challenges and helped me to achieve my aims. In each role of life, a teacher emerges. The first machinery round on a mammoth Air Craft Carrier with a senior Lieutenant of the Electrical Department or the first Dive under the careful watch of the Executive Officer of the Submarine could not have been enjoyable had the Teacher inside them not emerged out. They held my hands as I went through the challenges of meeting the ultimate operational tasks of the Indian Navy.

The creative angles rest inside each of us. Teachers emerged here also and nudged the writer inside me out into the open. My writing bug was kindled by Wing Commander Unni Kartha (popularly known as Cyclic in Blog circles) and Colonel KL Vishwanathan (or Kelly). Both these gentlemen are my Squadron Seniors from the Foxtrot Squadron of the National Defence Academy. Their writings stirred my Hornets Nest and keep me going on.

The latest teacher who has made a difference into my life is Brigadier Rajiv Divekar, the present Director of Symbiosis Institute of Management Sciences. He has guided my latest thesis which I am submitting for my MBA degree. The process has been smooth and the final prints are ready for submission.

We begin our lives with friends and teachers. They are the witnesses as our lives get shaped, moulded and transforming into new avatars. They are never away from us and keep waiting for us to come back to them to seek our solaces. Can we ever pay them back for what these individuals did for us? As times have changed at a fast pace, we are witnessing a more student-teacher disconnect than the connect that should have been achieved by all the modern gadgets at our disposal. A course is getting over again in my life and I am moving on. A new teacher is emerging in my life again. This time, he is oceans away into a University in the US. He is my virtual teacher and will start teaching me the nuances of Business Finance using Digital Tools through a MOOC. I am not alone in this World with my Teachers and friends all around me. All it needs is to take a break and connect with these wonderful human beings again to regain the bliss of humanity.     

THE BACKPACKER

Pioneers travel the roads less traveled by motley humans. The destiny keeps them on their toes and they never reach their wits end. The spirit of adventure and will to move beyond the fog keeps their imaginations locked onto newer and newer targets. They just move on. This story is about one such pioneer- Sardar Sham Singh.

Sham Singh was born in 1890 in Village Purkhali of Ropar District of undivided Punjab into a Jat Sikh family. The family owned a small tract of land and used to till the lands and rear a few buffaloes to sustain their living. He was all of 19 years when he came to know about farming opportunities in Burma (Myanmar of today). His mother wanted him to get married and settle down like the other boys of Village Purkhali. Sham Singh had other ideas. The spirit of adventure to the unknown lands of Burma had overtaken him and in January 1910 he set course for a 4000 Kms journey from Ropar to Burma. He was the only one in all the adjoining villages to have set on this journey. Holding his frugal belongings and modest money, he bade goodbye to his parents and started the journey to Delhi. As the images of his village fell behind, his mind drifted to the future that beckoned him. Crossing the vast plains of Punjab which would one day bear the City of Chandigarh, he reached Delhi. Resting in Gurudwara Sarais, Sardar Sham Singh began a hard toil towards Burma from Delhi.

Crossing the states of UP, Bihar and Assam, Sham Singh finally reached Imphal, Manipur in late April 1910. He had hopped from place to place, working along the way and generated money to ensure his sustenance during the journey. At Imphal, Sardar Sham Singh took the directions for moving into Burma. A small caravan of bullock carts was shaping its journey towards the hamlets of Moreh and Tamu. The international borders had not been drawn when Sham Singh reached Tamu after a 5 days journey from Imphal to Tamu. Language became his biggest barrier but that did not deter the tough 19 year old lad to scale his way up inside Burma. Finally, traversing miles away from Ropar, Punjab; Sardar Sham Singh reached Lashio in upper Burma. Lashio is the largest town in northern Shan State, Myanmar, about 200 kilometres northeast of Mandalay. It is situated on a low mountain spur overlooking the valley of the Nam Yao river. Lashio was the administrative center of Lashio Township and Lashio District and was also the administrative center of Shan State (North). At Lashio, Sham Singh finally dug his anchor and soon he picked up an employment with a generous Burmese gentleman named U Maung.

The tall and strapping Sham Singh was soon tilling the lands of U Maung and learning the new language and culture. He was by now almost 4000 kms away from his home. U Maung was also very happy with the hard working Sikh and adopted him as a part of his family. Sham Singh had turned 25 when U Maung suggested that he marries a local girl and settle down in Burma. U Sham, as he was popularly being called agreed to the matrimony and soon he married a Shan girl. U Sham raised his family and soon he had land holdings of his own. His wife bore him 3 daughters and a son Mehar Singh in 1932. Young Mehar was an energetic child and would visit the fields with Sham Singh. Soon, the news of fighting forces of the Japanese Imperial Army started reaching Lashio state. U Maung and Sham Singh were very worried as the clouds of the big war were nearing them.

To cut off China from Allied aid, Japan went into Burma, captured Rangoon on 08 March 1942, cutting the Burma Road lifeline to China. Moving north the Japanese took Tounggoo, Burma, and then captured Lashio in upper Burma on 29 April 1942. U Maung had bid goodbye to his good friend U Sham and his family in Feb 1942 and promised to look after his properties and belongings. Sham Singh and his wife trudged back the same route that Sham had taken almost 03 decades back. Crossing into Manipur, Sham Singh and his family crossed the British Indian troops and received the news of Punjab from the troops belonging to Punjab. Finally, in May 1942, Sham Singh arrived at Village Purkhali, Ropar with his family. It was a tearful reunion with his kith and kin. His mother had expired a decade ago waiting for him. His father was not keeping very well. Sham Singh went back to tilling the meagre lands that the family held. His wife and children, meanwhile, were trying to adjust to the new surroundings, language and food barriers. The only common subject was the fertile lands of Burma and Punjab.

The clouds of partition and the pangs of new atmosphere kept Sham Singh unsettled in Punjab. A letter from U Maung arrived in 1946 and Sham Singh prepared to move back to Lashio. As the family moved out of Purkhali towards East, they crossed scores of families which were displaced towards the West. U Maung and U Sham had a tearful reunion at Lashio and true to his words; U Maung restored all the lands and belongings of U Sham. Once again, U sham began tilling his lands. His son Mehar Singh had no interest in the lands and wanted to open his own shop. The location of Lashio is unique and the population comprised of Shan, Chinese and Burmans. Mehar Singh soon set up a shop of textiles along with U Maung’s youngest son and the business prospered. He married 02 of his daughters to Burmese men and settled their families and the third daughter was married in Punjab.

The events of life turned again in 1962 and the geo-politics of Burma took a new turn. Once again, Sham Singh and his family had to shape course towards Purkhali, Ropar. U Maung once again took charge of the family’s belongings. Back at Purkhali, Sham Singh and his family came to known as ‘Burma Wale’. Sham Singh had got his meagre share of the family’s lands and got down again to stitch his life. In 1966, he got the news of U Maung’s illness. He and Mehar Singh along with the ladies started back for Lashio. India and Burma, by now, had an International Border. Reaching Manipur, Sham Singh had a tough time reaching Moreh, Manipur. Moreh, by now had become a closed establishment and one had to have a permit to visit this border outpost. Sham Singh struggled his way through and crossed over to the Tamu town on the Burmese side. Using all his links with the affable Burmese, Sham Singh and Mehar Singh reached Lashio. They got resident’s permit in Burma and once again cleared the dust from their locked house and shop. U Maung breathed his last in the lap of U Sham and now it was U Sham’s turn to look after his friend’s family as an elder. The family continued to stay till U Sham suffered a minor stroke in 1982. He was 92 years of age. It was his grand wish that he wanted to die in Purkhali, Ropar. Mehar Singh brought Sardar Sham Singh back to Ropar in 1983 and the state was in its own turmoil. The big locks in front of houses silently told the widespread migrations towards the East from Purkhali but not as far as Burma. The city of Chandigarh was by now touching base with Ropar. The bustling activities and migrations did not miss Sham Singh’s much travelled wisdom and in 1984 he persuaded Mehar Singh to move out of Purkhali and return to Lashio once again. As he bade farewell to Mehar and his family, Sham Singh knew that he would not meet his son again. In Jun 1985, the night had blacked out Village Purkhali. Sham Singh lay on his cot in his mud house at Purkhali. Soon, the day’s heat melted into the night’s cold and Sham Singh’s soul left his body. His grandson Balbir Singh found him lying with a smile on his lips as he tightly held his sacred “Guru Granth Sahib”. The strong Sardar had finally left for his last journey at the age of 95.

Mehar Singh reached Purkhali locking his shop and properties and handing them over to U Maung’s son. The family had now decided to settle down forever in Purkhali. The connect with Burma remained through Mehar Singh’s 02 sons who had settled down at Moreh, Manipur. Balbir Singh, the eldest son of Mehar Singh married Jagjit Kaur from Moreh. She too had a Burmese connection as her mother is also the Kayan tribe of Burma. Mehar Singh never liked the tilling of lands and kept his interest alive in business till he passed away in 2007. Balbir Singh has great passion for tilling of lands and the affable Burmese looking Sikh continues to till his meagre lands in Village Purkhali. The see-saw of life is unique and Balbir’s son Manmeet has no interests in tilling of lands and desires to join the Army.

Lying almost 09 Kms away from the main road leading from Rangeelpur to Ropar, Purkhali bears a testimony to the epic journey undertaken by the Backpacker Sardar Sham Singh. Criss crossing 4000 kms, Sham Singh always came back to Purkhali to settle down. Each time, the circumstances pushed him to his limits and he had to find his solace at Lashio, Burma. His family has continued to be spread from Punjab to Manipur to Burma. His surviving grandchildren are still struggling to settle down their lives as they still remember their Lashio connect and U Maung’s family which is still waiting for their return. Balbir Singh wishes to take Manmeet to Lashio to show him the closed shop and their house. The Backpacker’s genes are turning into small tides and who knows if someone from Purkhali again undertakes the arduous journey!! All the best Manmeet....

PS:- This story does not end here. We traveled to Village Purkhali, Ropar on 23 Aug 2014 to link up with Sardar Balbir Singh and his wife Jagjit Kaur. Jagjit happens to be a childhood friend of my wife Aparna from Moreh, Manipur. Jagjit was absolutely hale and hearty when she saw us off from Purkhali on 23 Aug 14 after we went around the village shrouded in olden images. As I was completing this story on 31 Aug 14, we got the tragic news that Jagjit Kaur expired today (31 Aug 14) after a fever of a few hours. The root cause is not yet known and the warm welcome accorded by Jagjit and Balbir are still fresh in my mind. RIP Jagjit.

 

THE IRON COFFIN'S SENTINEL

In July 1898, a small boat fell beneath the waves in New York Harbor, off Staten Island. The event caused great celebration. For the boat was called the Holland, and she was designed to sink. And she did this so well that on April 11, 1900, Holland was bought by the U.S. Navy and thus was the world's first successful submarine service born. Holland’s first dive was only to 12 feet, and it lasted for just 11 minutes. These days, submarines easily go deeper than 1,000 feet, travel to the farthest reaches of the planet's oceans, sidle up close against enemy shores and often stay submerged for months at a time.

 

John Lowe, the first submariner and the man at the helm during Holland's first dive, had much in common with the nearly quarter of a million men who have served on the submarines over the last 106 years, men who proudly call themselves "bubbleheads'' and who, for the most part, believe that they are all a little bit nuts. Why else would anyone purposely sign up to serve on a ship knowing he was going to risk not just enemy torpedoes and depth charges, but also asphyxiation, drowning or implosion under crushing ocean pressures. Submariners have always been a completely volunteer force, a group of men struck with a brand of patriotism that outweighs their own sense of survival. They go because they've asked themselves the question, "What else?" 

 

The tragic loss of any submarine around the world has a special kind of impact on the nations operating these technological marvels. A special kind of sadness erupts around the globe, mixed with universal admiration for the men who choose this type of work. One can not mention the submarine and its gallant crew without observing in the same breath how utterly final and alone the end is when a boat dies at the bottom of the sea and what a remarkable specimen of man it must be who accepts such a risk. Most of us might be moved to conclude, too, that a tragedy of this kind would have a damaging effect on the morale of the other men in the submarine service and tend to discourage future enlistment. Actually, there is not evidence that this is so. What is it then that lures men to careers in which they spend so much of their time in cramped quarters, under great psychological stress, with danger lurking all about them?

 
 Togetherness is an overworked term, but in no other branch of our military service is it given such full meaning as in the so called "Silent Service". In a Submarine, each man is totally dependent upon the skill of every other man in the crew, not only for top performance but for actual survival. Each knows that his very life depends on the others and because this is so, there is a bond among them that both challenges and comforts them. All of this gives the submariner a special feeling of pride, because he is indeed a member of an elite corps. The risks, then, are an inspiration rather than a deterrent. The challenge of masculinity is another factor which attracts men to serve on submarines. It certainly is a test of a man's prowess and power to know he can qualify for this highly selective service. However, it should be emphasized that this desire to prove masculinity is not pathological, as it might be in certain dare-devil pursuits, such as driving a motorcycle through a flaming hoop. 

There is nothing dare devilish about motivations of the man who decides to dedicate his life to the submarine service. He does, indeed, take pride in demonstrating that he is quite a man, but he does not do so to practice a form of foolhardy brinkmanship, to see how close he can get to failure and still snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. On the contrary, the aim in the submarine service is to battle the danger, to minimize the risk, to take every measure to make certain that safety rather danger, is maintained at all times. Are the men in the submarine service braver than those in other pursuits where the possibility of sudden tragedy is constant? The glib answer would be to say they are. It is more accurate, from a psychological point of view, to say they are not necessarily braver, but that they are men who have a little more insight into themselves and their capabilities. They know themselves a little better than the next man. This has to be so with men who have a healthy reason to volunteer for a risk. They are generally a cut healthier emotionally than others of the similar age and background because of their willingness to push themselves a little bit farther and not settle for an easier kind of existence. We all have tremendous capabilities but are rarely straining at the upper level of what we can do, these men are. The country can be proud and grateful that so many of its sound, young, eager men care enough about their own stature in life and the welfare of their country to pool their skills and match them collectively against the power of the sea.

 
 In the early days of the Submarines, John Lowe was convinced that only submarines - a fleet of 50 at least - could protect the nation's shores should an enemy do what he was certain any enemy would. The idea of subs as the ultimate coastal picket, guarding against all enemies who may venture near, lasted until World War I - when German U-boats demonstrated in a lethal campaign against merchant shipping that submarines could be very effective as a blue-water force. Submarines were equally deadly during World War II - and it wasn't just Hitler's Navy that posed the threat. U.S. submarines crippled the Japanese Navy and destroyed Tokyo's merchant fleet, mounting their first successful attacks within days of Pearl Harbor. Along the way, the United States lost 52 submarines and 3,500 men.

After the war, submarines fell out of the spotlight, but the calculated insanity that sent men out beneath the waves never diminished - nor did the question, "What else?" If anything, both reached new intensity during the Cold War, in missions that were just as much a question of life and death as they had been during the years when depth charges routinely blew holes in the Pacific.

These new missions were so deeply cloaked in secrecy that thousands of men went out - often for months at a time - never telling anyone where they were going, or why. They didn't tell their wives, their children, their parents, their best friends. And for good reason. The mission had moved beyond one of mere stealth to one of utmost secrecy. And submariners had become more than hunters. They had become spies. It was their job to venture to the shores of the enemies, sometimes straight into the enemy’s harbors. It was their job to trail,
a push of a button away from sinking, the enemy submarines.

To do this, submariners suffer from confinement and from the dangers of the ocean depths. Submariners stood by as many submarines were lost with all hands - and they watched as many of their own families fell apart from the imposed distance of time and silence. Their own families think that they are involved in mere exercises, perhaps in a few "cat-and-mouse games". The public is generally told that the submarines themselves are technological marvels almost able to drive themselves. What is left out is that these marvels often are held together with shoestring, spit and the creativity of the men who ride in them.

Submariners have always made up their own rules, their limits are often drawn on the spot by victory and disaster. There is no other way. They are always attempting feats that had never been considered possible, moving as quickly as their technology and the technology of their adversaries and allow - dreaming it up as they go along.

Amidst all the controversies, the Silent Service has managed time and again to reinvent itself - and has been proving that submarines can play a crucial role in the kind of high-tech wars that will be fought in the 21st century. Today, spy satellites scour the surface of the globe, but still can't effectively peer under- water. Submarines remain the best of the nation's stealth weapons. This is far from the world that John Lowe could have imagined when he guided Holland into New York Harbor a century ago. But it is a world that the Silent Service is well-equipped to dominate well into its second century. It's the modern answer to the old question: "What else?''

Happy Birthday.

(Courtesy:- Internet Research) 

The Chief of Smoke, a true jagirdar of the World Wars

The Chief of Smoke, a true jagirdar of the World Wars

THE PRICE (OR PRIZE!!) OF FREEDOM

At the stroke of the midnight hour, India became free on 15th Aug 1947. It then remained a dominion of the British Empire till 26th Jan 1950 when the Constitution of India declared India as finally a sovereign Nation. A price had to be paid for achieving the Independence and the prize of Independence continues to ask for the price even today.

                

Early in the 20th Century, Ernest Shackleton, a British Adventurer, set out to explore the Antarctic. This was the one remaining conquest- crossing the continent via the southernmost tip of the Earth. The land part of the expedition would start at the frigid Weddell Sea, below South America, and travel 1700 miles across the Pole to the Ross Sea, below New Zealand. The cost of the expedition was estimated to be about USD 250,000. The World War-I was raging and with limited finances, Shackleton set out with a crew of 27 men on his 350 Ton Ship Endurance. The ship got stranded in harsh winter and icy conditions, drifted off North and finally got crushed under the pressures of ice.  She sank on 21 Nov 1915 and the crew evacuated themselves to the tiny Elephant Island. Shackleton left 5 men behind and embarked on a 800 miles of journey through rough seas to find help. Eventually, he found help and rescued his entire crew. Not a man died and not a man mutinied.

                

Somewhere in 1986 and in Shackleton's mould, Alok was a strapping young Captain from the Corps of Engineers. Bubbling with energy, Alok would meet each challenge head on. In 1986, he got married to Neena who dreamt of being a lawyer.  Soon, they were blessed with a charming girl- Aneela. A year after the birth of Aneela, Alok's posting came to Border Roads and he was posted to the remote Dibang Valley of Arunachal Pradesh to make the first of the motor-able pathways. After settling in Anini, the district headquarters of Dibang Valley, Alok came on a short leave to fetch Neena and little Aneela to his remote location. With dreams still in her eyes, Neena was happy as she undertook the journey to Dibrugarh. Soon the three passed Itanagar and met with the Blue colored Border Roads Jeep. Alok's driver was an affable old Sikh. Alok's helper loaded the family's luggage onto the Jeep's top and the family soon commenced their journey to their destination- Anini.

               

was amused as Alok sat between her and the driver and the Jeep circumvented the boulders and dirt tracks. After over 4 hours of bumpy ride, where at many places the luggage from the top fell down as the Jeep created steep angles of inclination, they reached a river bed. Neena thought that they must be trying to wash the Jeep. Her amusement increased as she saw an approaching river raft. The Sikh driver drove the Jeep onto the Raft and the family set out on a winding 2 hour journey down the winding river. Finally, the Jeep set for another hard patch of journey through the boulders and then came across a large pond. The Sikh driver got down and knelt in front of the Pond. Neena was highly amused and Captain Alok sat still as young 1.5 year old Aneela maintained her sleep due to the constant yaw , pitch and roll!! After a silent prayer, the Sikh driver started the Jeep, clutched the 4 wheel drive and waded through the Pond. The Jeep waded into wheel deep water and came out safe at the other end.

               

Soon, Neena and Alok settled down into their Border Roads Accommodation at Anini. Alok moved on with his pioneering works of creating roads in the most inhospitable terrains and Neena would wait days on end before Alok would come back home. Young Aneela was Neena's constant companion. A clear weather at Anini would mark the arrival of the Indian Air Force's medium lift MI-17 choppers. The chopper would land at the helipad near Neena's house. The humming sound of the big blades of MI-17 would make the entire town run towards the helipad. The MI-17 would be loaded with all sorts of assorted items including the animals which were being moved from place to place. Neena would pick her share of fresh but shriveled vegetables and an occasional letter. Young Captain Alok was an influential name in the area and soon the IAF Pilots developed a high regard for the young lady with her small daughter. The chopper's next stop used to be the site where Alok was blasting through the tough terrains to make the motorable road. At times, Neena and little Aneela would hitch a hike amidst the goats, hens and other locals to visit Alok for a small picnic rendezvous. These rare family re-unions were cherished with a quick bite along-with the brave IAF Pilots who kept their rotors turning before the weather packed up. The MI-17 would again lift up and drop Neena and Aneela at Anini before shaping course for Dibrugarh.

               

Finally, the day came , when Alok laid the last piece of the road and connected the Eastern most tip of the Dibang Valley with the mainland India through a maze of roads. He became the pioneer as he powered his vehicle up the road to the last point on the Indo- China Border. The news of his achievement was rewarded with a posting to Pune. Neena and 04 year old Aneela mazed their way back from Anini to Pune via Dibrugarh along-with Alok.

              

The independence of India is a gift of the toil and hard work of many many Indians. They all contributed in their own ways to achieve the independence and the contribution has continued through the 68 years since Independence. The Independence would continue to demand many more sacrifices. There are still roads to be laid and there are still places where a hovering Helicopter stirs the citizen's frenzy.  I have not seen our venerable freedom fighters, but for sure, I have met Alok Sir and Neena M'am. Aneela is now married and settled with her husband in Pune. Alok Sir has since retired and is now at New Delhi. We spent the Independence Day's eve with Col Alok Bajpai/Fox/52 and Neena M'am and re-lived their fond remembrances of the tough times at Arunachal Pradesh. Today, the town of Anini is a favorite tourist destination and it is due to the grit of many an Indians who have enabled the transformation.
               

Do you have it in you? If yes, then keep the prized freedom intact and continue to pay the price for enabling this freedom as it is a never ending process.

             

Jai Hind.