HUMOUR IN AND OUT OF UNIFORM
ON A SLIPPERY SLOPE
(An Oily Tale)
Unforgettable Memories of
my Navy Life
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This is humour to be taken with a pinch of salt
Copyright Notice:
No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.
PROLOGUE
The best thing that
happened to me in the navy were the two glorious years I spent in Mumbai (then
called Bombay
Both my ships were based
at Bombay
We sailed for a few days,
sometimes visiting various ports, but for the remaining days we were tied
alongside in Bombay Dockyard which is in the heart of the city.
I loved sailing,
But more than that, I
loved spending time in a harbour like Bombay
It was the happiest time
of my life.
And like I said, it was
the best thing that happened to me in the navy.
The worst thing that
happened to me in the navy was my unexpected to transfer to Jamnagar ,
which put an end to my happy time in Bombay
I was looking forward to
an appointment to a shore billet in Bombay
In fact, a few months
earlier, I had been informally told by a senior naval officer that I would be
appointed in the Naval Dockyard at Bombay
But, someone pulled
strings, and I was on my way to Jamnagar
After a fantastic time in Bombay , the desolate naval base at Jamnagar
My only aim was to get out
of that dreary place as fast as possible.
That is why, when the
first opportunity came, a temporary duty to Bombay
And on my journey from Jamnagar to Bombay
Part 1
1000 Hours (10
AM) Sunday 26 October 1980 Navy Base (INS Valsura) Jamnagar
I was all set to proceed
on Temporary Duty to Bombay (as Mumbai was known
then – I shall refer to Mumbai as Bombay
The 3-tonner truck arrived
at my cabin in the Wardroom (Officers Mess) to pick me up.
“Why have they sent a
bloody 3-tonner for an officer? I am going on duty. I thought they would send
me a staff car or jeep,” I asked the driver.
“Sir, both staff cars are
out – one is with CO who will be going to town with his wife for shopping and
lunch – the other staff car has been taken by the Commodore who has come from
Delhi – he left early in the morning with his family for pilgrimage to Dwarka
and Okha – and the XO has taken the jeep to town – he has gone to see a movie
with his family,” the driver said.
I seethed at the feudal
culture still prevalent in the services where senior officers treated government
resources as if they were their own personal fiefdom.
As an officer proceeding
on duty I had the first claim on a staff car – but I would have to ride in a
truck since senior officers had commandeered the cars for their personal enjoyment.
I took my small bag and
got in beside the driver.
Instead of proceeding to
the main gate, the driver diverted the vehicle to the Married Officers
Accommodation.
Lieutenant Commander “X”
(a “Schoolie” Education Officer) was proceeding on leave to Madras
I got down, let “X” sit
with his wife and small daughter in front with the driver, and I sat behind in
the 3-tonner.
At the guard room, there
were a few sailors and their families, proceeding on leave, and some
libertymen, waiting to take a lift in the 3-tonner, to Teen-Batti, near the
Jamnagar Railway Station.
In those good old
“metre-gauge” days, there were only two trains from Jamnagar
1. The Saurashtra Mail,
which originated at Okha and passed through Jamnagar
and
2. The Saurashtra Express
which originated at Porbandar and passed through Jamnagar
The morning Mail was
convenient for those going towards Bombay
The evening Express was
ideal for those going towards Delhi
Of course, both trains had
connecting broad gauge trains at Viramgam towards Bombay
At the guard room, I
reported to the Officer of the Day (OOD).
The OOD made an entry in
the ship’s log book that I was leaving “ship” and proceeding on Temporary Duty.
Lieutenant Commander “X”
had also followed me into the OOD office to make an entry regarding his
proceeding on annual leave.
As I started to walk out,
the OOD said: “Wait – you have to carry some items to Bombay
“Items?” I asked.
“Yes, you have to carry
three oil tins,” the OOD said.
“3 oil tins?” I asked.
“Yes, and deliver them to
these addresses,” the OOD said.
He gave me a chit with the
names of 3 Commodores, their designation and phone numbers and their home
addresses in NOFRA, written below each name.
Now, in those good old
days, as far as Naval Officers were concerned, Jamnagar
1. The Unique Colourful Bandhani (tie and dye) Sarees
2. Soft Lohi Blankets-cum-shawls from Digjam
Mills
3. White Uniform Buckskin Shoes made to order by a
cobbler in the heart of old Jamnagar
4. Luscious Rasgullas and lip-smacking Farsan from Shrikhand Samrat near Mandvi Tower
And, last but not the
least,
5. Groundnut Oil (which was much cheaper in Saurashtra than in Bombay
I would have had no
problems if someone had requested me to carry the other items.
But there was no way I was
going to carry three huge cumbersome 16 Kg tins of groundnut oil.
I came out of the OOD
office and saw some duty sailors loading 3 large 16 Kg oil tins into the 3
tonner.
The OOD had also come out
of his office and was watching the proceedings.
I looked at the OOD and
said: “Sorry, I can’t take the oil tins with me. Please ask the sailors to
unload them from the truck.”
The OOD looked at me in
disbelief and said: “What? You are going on Ty Duty to Bombay
“Sir, I am not going on Ty
Duty to deliver those bloody oil tins – the purpose of my Ty Duty is something
else,” I said.
“Don’t act smart. The
Commanding Officer (CO) desires that you have to carry these oil tins and
deliver them to the 3 Commodores whose names are written in the chit I gave you,”
the OOD said.
I tried to reason with the
OOD: “Sir, please try to understand. I just have one small bag. In Bombay
“Look here, I told you
once – you don’t try to act smart – the CO has directed that you carry these
oil tins. All officers going to Bombay
“Well, I am not going to
carry these bloody oil tins for sure,” I said, “and now I have to go –
otherwise I will miss my train.”
“Don’t try to take “panga” – I told you that the CO has
ordered you to carry these oil tins,” the OOD said.
“Then you can tell him
that I am not going to carry these bloody oil tins,” I said firmly.
“If you act funny and
disobey orders, they will transfer you out,” the OOD warned me.
This was music to my ears.
So, I said to the OOD: “I
would be the happiest person if they transferred me out of this godforsaken
place.”
Lieutenant Commander “X”
was hearing the argument between me and the OOD.
“X” looked at me and said
in a patronizing manner: “Why are you making such a big issue out of this –
everyone going on Ty Duty takes some items that senior officers want
delivered.”
Bolstered by the support
from “X”, who was a Lieutenant Commander, the OOD said, “You will bloody well
have to obey the orders of the CO – do you understand?”
I had my doubts whether
the CO had actually ordered me to carry the oil tins to Bombay
“Are you accusing me of
telling lies?” the OOD said getting angry.
“I didn’t say that,” I
said.
“You will not leave the
base unless you take those oil tins – do you understand?” the OOD shouted at
me.
“Listen, Sir – I told you
very clearly that I am not taking those oil tins with me. I am getting late and
I will miss my train. If you detain me any further I will not proceed on Ty
Duty,” I said firmly.
As I said earlier, I
thought that the OOD was bluffing that the CO had ordered me to carry the oil
tins.
But it seemed that the CO
had indeed done so, because on hearing my refusal, the OOD went all berserk –
he picked up the phone, dialled furiously, and then started talking excitedly,
about my refusal to carry the oil tins.
I wondered who the OOD was
talking to, but the way he was saying “yes sir, yes sir” in an animated manner,
it was either the CO or someone senior at the other end of the phone line.
Soon, I heard the OOD
mention the name of Lieutenant Commander “X”.
And then, the OOD gave the
phone to “X”.
Now, it was “X” saying
“yes sir, yes sir” on the phone.
The upshot of the
conversation was that now, instead of me, “X” would carry the oil tins to
Mumbai.
On reaching Mumbai, “X”
would dutifully deliver the 3 oil tins to the 3 Commodores in Bombay ,
and then he would catch the Dadar – Madras Express in the afternoon and proceed
to Madras
PART 2
1200 Hours (12
noon) Sunday 26 October 1980 on board the Okha Viramgam (metre gauge)
Saurashtra Mail just departed from Jamnagar Railway Station
I sat in the old style first
class compartment (which you see in old black and white Hindi movies) in the
metre gauge train which ran from Okha to Viramgam.
The berths were
fore-and-aft, the compartment was bright, airy and roomy due to the three large
windows on each side alongside the lower berths.
The train had left
Jamnagar at 1130 (11:30 AM) and would reach Viramgam at 19:30 (7:30 PM) –
covering a distance of roughly 300 kilometers in 8 hours – so you can imagine
the slow speed of the train as it chugged along unhurriedly pulled by an
archaic steam engine belching smoke and soot as it puffed along.
It was a most boring
journey, with hardly any big railway stations, except Rajkot
But I had come well
stocked – a bottle of Hercules Rum, a “surahi” of drinking water (acquired at
Jamnagar station and topped up with cool water from the water cooler), and some
boiled eggs, aloo parathas and potato fingers (packed from the Officers Mess).
My co-passengers in the
compartment were the “schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X”, his wife and small 3
year old daughter – and, of course, the three big oil tins, placed
strategically at a safe place near the bathroom door and guarded zealously by
“X”.
The moment the train
started from Jamnagar
In those good old days,
passengers were permitted to drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes in first class
compartments provided other passengers did not object.
There was no question of
the “schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” objecting, since I had poured him a
drink too – though his wife was giving me dirty looks as if I were spoiling her
husband.
At the first stop, a small
station called Hapa, the Train Conductor appeared asking if we wanted to order
lunch at Rajkot
His eyes lit up the moment
he saw the bottle of rum.
I offered him a drink.
He pulled out a large
stainless steel glass from his bag, and I poured in a generous tot of rum.
He did not add water to
the neat rum, but to my utter shock, drank the neat rum in one gulp – straight
“down the hatch”.
“Sir, don’t worry,” the
Train Conductor said, his morale high, “railway refreshment room food in Rajkot
Three hours later, at
around 3 o’clock, with half a bottle of Rum and generous amounts of tandoori
chicken, butter chicken and rotis inside me, I was satiated enough for my
afternoon siesta, and the moment I hit the bunk, I fell into deep sleep.
I woke up around 6 o’clock
in the evening, and had a cup of refreshing masala tea, at largish station
called Surendranagar Junction, where the train had halted for a long time for a
crossing.
The moment that train
started, I had a shower in the spacious old-style bathroom of the first class
compartment, and was ready for the evening action, commencing with a
“sundowner”.
It was still one hour to
go for Viramgam – there was time for a drink or two.
The “Schoolie” Lieutenant
Commander X” and his wife were sitting on the opposite berth with their
daughter, looking utterly bored.
The Lieutenant Commander’s
eyes lit up the moment he saw me taking out the rum bottle – but his wife gave
him such a stern look that he refused my offer of a drink.
I noticed she had been
giving me angry looks throughout the journey.
Maybe it was because I had
made her husband drink in the afternoon.
Or, maybe, because she was
annoyed that her husband was saddled with the three bulky oil tins, thanks to
my refusal to carry them.
I think it some
frustration was building up in her and she could hold it no longer, so she said
to me: “We were thinking of visiting my relatives in Matunga and then catching
the Madras Express in the afternoon at Dadar. And now we have to go all the way
to Colaba to deliver these oil tins. Our full morning will be wasted. It is all
because of you.”
“All because of me?” I protested.
“Yes – you refused to
carry the oil tins so my husband is forced to carry them,” she said.
“He could have also
refused,” I said.
“It is very well for you
to say this – you are a non-bothered type – and you are a junior Lieutenant –
but I am in the promotion zone – my Commander’s board is next year – and as it
is in the Education Branch there are so less vacancies that it is very
difficult to get promoted – so I have to do whatever they tell me,” the
“Schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” said bitterly to me.
I felt bad for him, but I
was not going to be emotionally blackmailed by him or his wife into taking on
the burden of carrying and delivering the oil tins.
So I just looked away out
of the window at beautiful sight of the setting sun and sipped my “sundowner”
rum-paani and nibbled into the “mirchi pakoras” which I had picked up at a tiny
station called Lakhtar where the train had halted for two minutes – these
“bhajjis’ or pakoras were the only “small eats” available on this rather
desolate stretch of railway.
By the time I finished my
rum-paani, it was dark, and I could see that we were approaching the
marshalling yard of Viramgam Junction, and the train was slowing down.
So I secured my bag and
got ready to shift to the broad-gauge Saurashtra Mail which would take us to Bombay
“X” was hovering around
his precious cargo – the 3 large groundnut oil tins.
“Sir, why don’t you just
leave the bloody oil tins over here and say you forgot them in the train,” I
joked.
“Please keep quiet – you
need not worry about the oil tins,” he said angrily.
“To hell with him,” I
thought; and I took my bag and got down on the platform.
“X” was haggling with the
porters for carrying the 3 oil tins.
PART 3
2000 Hours (8
PM) Sunday 26 October 1980 on board the 6 UP Viramgam – Bombay (broad gauge)
Saurashtra Mail just departed from Viramgam Railway Station
The new broad
gauge first class compartment seemed spacious as compared to the ramshackle metre
gauge coach.
Once again my
companions in the four-berther were the “schoolie” Lieutenant Commander “X” and
his wife and small daughter.
In the broad
gauge, the 3 oil tins fitted in below the berth where “X”, his wife and
daughter were sitting.
I sat on the
opposite berth.
I polished off
the remains of the bottle of rum.
This time “X”
politely declined my offer of a drink, maybe because of the stern looks his
wife was giving him whenever he looked longingly at the rum bottle.
By the time I
killed the bottle, it was almost 9 PM, and Ahmedabad Railway Station had arrived.
I had a quick
dinner of Puri Bhaji on the platform, and then I hit the sack.
I let “X” and
his wife take the two bottom berths and slept on the top berth above “X” – the
oil tins were on the opposite side below the berth where Mrs. “X” slept with
her daughter.
I was in deep
sleep when there was a big bang.
Then
everything went topsy-turvy.
The
compartment had toppled and was lying on its side.
My legs were
on top of my head.
I realised
that our train had derailed.
Suddenly the
lights went off and it was dark.
“X” and his
wife were shouting: “What happened? What happened?”
I told “X” and
his wife that the train had derailed and they should remain where they were
till I got the door open.
Luckily the
compartment door was on the upper side of the toppled compartment.
The moment I
swung my legs down, I hit oil.
Yes, an oil
tin, or all the three oil tins, had burst, and there was oil all over.
Nevertheless,
I got down, and tried to pull myself up to the door.
It was a
slippery slope and soon I was covered with groundnut oil.
Suddenly, the
compartment door was yanked open.
It was the
Train Conductor with some people.
They had a
torch.
They threw in
a blanket and told us to hold it tight.
Then, and one
by one, they yanked us out into the corridor – the lady and her daughter, “X”
and me, and then we carefully climbed down out of the bogie.
Soon, after a
small walk along the railway track towards the rear of the train, we were
sitting on a bench on the platform of Miyagam Karjan Railway Station.
I looked at
the station clock – it was 2 AM (0200 Hours on 27 October 1980, to be precise).
Talking to
people, we came to know that it had been a freak accident.
Some wagons of
a goods train coming from the opposite direction had got derailed seconds before
our speeding train passed it, and our engine had hit the derailed wagons and
gone off the rails, derailing the first few bogies off the track.
Luckily, ours
was the last bogie to be derailed – the bogies in front had got badly smashed.
I thanked my stars
that I was alive and well.
Suddenly “X” asked
me: “Did all the oil tins burst – or only one?”
“I don’t know.
I was worried about saving our lives, not about the bloody oil tins,” I said.
“I think we
should go and try and get the oil tins,” he said.
“Are you
crazy? I just about managed to get our bags out. The bloody train is derailed.
The bogie is lying topsy-turvy. It is pitch dark. Sir, please lets thank God
that we are safe and sound, and for heaven’s sake please forget about the oil
tins,” I said.
“But the CO
will be angry if I don’t deliver the tins,” he said.
“Sir, what’s
wrong with you? Be happy that you, your wife, your daughter – all of you have
narrowly escaped death. You want to go in there again to get those oil tins?
Suppose you break your legs, or even smash your head and die? Is it worth it?”
I said.
Suddenly his
wife interjected and said to her husband: “Yes, yes – it is too dangerous. You
don’t go anywhere.”
We spent the
whole night at Miyagam Karjan.
At around 3 AM
I saw the station master – I told him I was a Defence Officer and showed him my
I-Card, and he kindly allowed us to sit in his office, and put a couple of
benches for us to lie down.
I woke up at 6
AM, washed up in the Station Master’s bathroom and got ready.
“X” and his
family were nowhere to be seen.
I asked the
Station Master about them.
“Oh, your
companions got up early and must having tea on the platform. A relief train has
already arrived from Baroda Bombay
PART 4
1130 Hours (1130
AM) Sunday 27 October 1980 on board the Relief Train to Bombay just departed
from Miyagam Karjan Railway Station
The railway
accident repair team did a spectacular job, and by 1100 Hours, they had cleared
the down track.
First, a test
engine was sent across the repaired track, and shortly thereafter, our relief
train was on its way to Bombay
As I came to
my seat, I saw Mrs “X” and her daughter, but “X” was not there.
“Where is your
husband?” I asked Mrs “X”
“He has gone
to the brake van?” she said.
“Brake van?” I
asked, surprised.
“Don’t you
know? He finally went and retrieved those oil tins – two of them are intact.
The railway porters were removing luggage from the brake van on the derailed
train – he paid them some money and they got out the oil tins and they have put
them in the baggage compartment of the brake van of this train. So he has gone
to check whether they are secured properly,” she said.
“Is he crazy?”
I said, instantly regretting my words.
“I don’t know
what will happen now? We will miss our connecting train, Dadar Madras
Express...”
“Don’t worry,
Ma’am. We should reach Bombay Central latest by around 8 o’clock, maybe even
earlier. You can catch the Bombay Madras Mail which leaves around 10 PM from
VT. I know someone in Central Railway – I will see to it that you get a berth…”
“But he will
insist on delivering the oil tins…”
“You don’t
worry about those oil tins, ma’am – I will deliver the oil tins,” I said.
PART 5
1900 Hours (7
PM) Sunday 27 October 1980 Bombay
We, Lieutenant
Commander “X”, his wife, his daughter, and I, were walking towards the exit of
Bombay Central Railway Terminus when a man stopped us.
“Are those
your oil tins?” the man asked, pointing to the 2 oil tins being carried by the
porter.
“Yes,” I said.
“You have to
pay octroi,” he said.
“Octroi?” I
asked.
“Yes,” he
said, “if you bring anything for sale you have to pay octroi.”
“But the oil
is for my personal consumption,” I said, “ and I am a Defence Officer.”
“Oh – then
show me the octroi exemption certificate,” he said.
I was in no
mood to argue, and the amount wasn’t that much, so I paid up.
“The next time
someone asks me to get an oil tin from Jamnagar, considering the porterage and
octroi we have paid, I will just give him the difference in price between
Mumbai and Jamnagar and tell him to buy the oil tin in Mumbai,” I remarked
sarcastically to “X”.
We took a taxi
to VT, dropped off “X” and his family, and I proceeded to the Navy Command Mess
with the two oil tins.
Luckily, one
of the Commodores on the list was posted in Headquarters, where I had go for my
work.
The Commodore
was not in office, so I told his PA to have two oil tins collected from my
cabin in Command Mess – I had instructed my civilian bearer accordingly, so the
tins could be collected anytime.
I gave her the
list of 3 Commodores and told the PA to request the Commodore to deliver the
second oil tin to any one of them.
When I reached
back to my cabin in the afternoon, the civilian bearer told me that the two oil
tins had been collected.
Disappointed at having
lost one day in Mumbai due to the train accident, I caught the 5 Down
Saurashtra Mail back to Jamnagar
EPILOGUE
One month
later, after returning from leave, “X” landed up in my office at Jamnagar
“You delivered
the oil tins?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said,
“Commodore “Z” collected both the oil tins.”
“The canteen
officer is asking for money?” he said.
“What money?”
“For the 3 oil
tins.”
“Didn’t you
tell him we had an accident?”
“Yes. He said
he will write off one oil tin – but he wants the money for the other two.
Didn’t the Commodore give you money? Did you ask him for it?”
“Well, I
didn’t even meet him – and I didn’t even know that I had to ask for the money – in fact, I
don’t even know how much the bloody oil tin costs,” I said.
“Then what do
we do?”
“Well, tell
the canteen officer to ask the CO to write a DO letter.”
“That’s a good
idea,” Lieutenant Commander “X” said.
“And Sir –
make sure you include the porterage and octroi charges and the taxi fare as
well,” I said, tongue-in-cheek.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings
and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The
characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright Notice:
No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.
Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)
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