Hi Friends, 
I'm posting the cover and an excerpt from my book - 'Boots, Belts, Berets' published by IndiaInk (Roli Books), for all those who might be interested....
I will love to have your feedback on it...creative criticism welcome!
The book is available online, too. Try www.rolibooks.
  com

.........All wishful thoughts of a siesta after the heavy meal evaporated as soon as we reached the squadron. A senior sporting cauliflower ears arrived importantly and announced that the afternoon was reserved for bike issue. In the NDA, a bike is the only means of commuting for the cadets and possessing it ensured that we saved our energy as well as time.  

‘At least we won’t have to run from place to place like prehistoric creatures,’ opined Bertie.

The OG coloured bicycles came with the squadron name and the bike number marked on the rear mudguard. I thumped mine appreciatively.

The responsibility and maintenance of the bike was on us, we were informed by the Ustaad.

Nath was the only one who didn’t seem particularly pleased with his bike. After spending some time fingering the contraption he sighed loudly a couple of times. He looked more and more depressed as he lugged his bike to the squadron.

We had scarcely parked the bikes when a senior informed us that it was time for ‘Cabin Cupboard’ parade.

‘What’s that?’ we wondered.

‘Couldn’t be a punishment I am sure,’ remarked Maachh.

He couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

In simple terms ‘Cabin Cupboard’ meant organising our rooms to a set layout. 

We were taken to a room and shown a demo layout.

‘There should be no deviation,’ said the sixth termer with a voice like a peacock crying for rain. All that screaming and shouting at the juniors must have done the trick, I concluded. With a rasping voice like that he couldn’t be ignored. ‘Everything should be placed just as displayed. You don’t have the liberty to exercise your interior decoration talents.’

‘Any doubts?’ the chap with peacock voice threw us a threatening look. ‘You have 20 minutes to set your rooms,’ he ended.

‘By Jove,’ lamented Bertie in an undertone. ‘20 minutes for a job that will not take less than an hour.’

‘Put all your junk in the black steel trunk. There should be not a speck of dust around.  All items in the cabin must be cleaned and folded.’ More instructions streamed out of the senior’s mouth.

I stared ruefully at my room. It looked as though a tornado had swept through it, with clothes strewn all over the place, shoes flung along the walls, their laces knotted, berets, belts and socks occupying a major part of the floor and bed. The Puttie parade, with its umpteen dress changes in limited time, had turned the cabin into a dumping ground. There was no way I could create a semblance of order. Wistfully I thought of my mother who had spared the rod and spoilt her child, as I went to work.

Stop working and stand outside your room, an announcement encroached into my attention precisely after 20 minutes. I quickly darted out of the room and stood in a ramrod straight pose outside my door.

The sergeant began his inspection. He entered the first cabin and we heard a lot of loud shouting, banging and the next instant all the stuff was flying out of the room and landing into the corridor. Seconds later, a crestfallen cadet emerged from the cabin looking numb with disbelief. In two minutes the sergeant had demolished his labour of twenty. It was a repetition of the exercise in all the rooms.

‘You morons, get your act together. The next inspection will take place in half an hour.’ If ever there were an award for ruthlessness the sergeant was sure to bag it.

A hectic thirty minutes later, I took a step back and admired my handiwork. Every object in the room was in the right place, neatly arranged. Even he won’t be able to find any fault now, I thought smugly.

I couldn’t have been farther from truth.

The brute entered my room and threw me a blistering glance after which he went on to pore over shoelaces, mosquito net poles and peeped under the bed where I had stuffed much of the assorted stuff; just as I had seen my mother do when we had unexpected guests.

‘The shoes laces are twisted, and look at all this dust.’ The sergeant announced running his finger on the mosquito net poles. The temperature in the room had dipped by at least ten degrees and I shivered. ‘You call this cleaning?’

My right eye flickered ominously as he strutted around hunting for more flaws. And when he stood on his toes and ran his index finger along the top of the door, I resisted an urge to jump out of the window. Grinning rather unpleasantly, he displayed his grimy finger and wiped it across my face. ‘The next time I will make you lick it clean,’ he said.  His impersonation of a Bollywood villain was perfect.

With his excellence at nit picking, the sergeant could have cleaned up the heavily infested scalp of a baboon in five minutes flat. The clothes were not folded properly, the shoes not lined up properly. The bed, chair, tables were not properly aligned. In short everything was wrong with the room.

He chucked my possessions around the room mercilessly, and allotted a new deadline for me to tidy up once again. Diabolic smile lit up his face each time he entered the room. Six times I did up the cabin and six times did he emerge triumphantly from it, having found innumerable faults.

By then my head was spinning rather perilously.

Cabin cupboard continued till it was teatime.

If I thought the tea would be a pleasant affair, I was mistaken.

----

Each squadron has a tearoom on the first floor corridor. The room is equipped with a huge boiler. Come teatime and a waiter from the mess arrives with a huge tray laden with snacks and the tea making paraphernalia. The Cadet Quarter Master Sergeant’s (CQMS) room stood right across the tearoom.  It was here that the snacks were brought and counted. The rules set by the seniors were quite simple.

Rule 1 - If a senior decided to have more than his share of snacks it came from a first termer’s share.

Rule 2 - Seniors never went to get their tea; the first termers brought it to them.

Rule 3 – The seniors had their favourite mugs. Breaking them was blasphemous and could take you to the seventh heaven.

Teatime was the worst time for the first termers. It was the time when the squadron was in full strength and there was utter chaos. With so many seniors around we were hard pressed to serve them in time and, more importantly, to their satisfaction.

That evening I had to carry nine mugs of tea for the seniors. Naturally, I could not remember their names, cabins numbers, faces and terms and, most importantly, the identity of the mug owners. It was a good exercise for the brain. I could well imagine the plight of the chokra waiters in small restaurants jam-packed with customers.

The tea was boiling hot and the mugs scalding. My fingers were almost blistered with the effort of dispensing the brew. All the first termers were suffering the same plight and many spilled the tea, causing minor accidents. The only positive thing about the exercise was that we were getting trained for an alternative career, should be decide to quit the army prematurely.

To add insult to our injuries, the rascals left no snacks for us. 

It was party time in the CQMS’s room where the sixth termers assembled and pigged on the snacks meant for us. We were issued with enamelled mugs, which could hold almost a litre of tea, and there was no restriction on the amount one could pour down the gullet. After all the slogging we did, even the terribly concocted tea tasted divine.

‘One of these days I am going to pour boiling tea on the CQM’s crotch,’ declared Mitra, wickedly. For the moment we satisfied ourselves by conjuring up the image of the chap hopping around with a burnt prick.

My hands cupped around the mug I was dreaming of the things I would do to extract revenge when I was called by CSM (Cadet Sergeant Major) and asked to make an announcement. 

‘Pay attention Golf squadron – all first termers to report to the ante room at 5pm sharp’. I yelled, mimicking the CSM, feeling like a hero. In that instant also came the realisation of the power one enjoyed while yelling out a command. No wonder the chaps were always on a high.

It was already 4.45pm and we had no clue about the location of the anteroom. When I dared to put forth the collective query before the CSM, I was made to execute a couple of front rolls.

‘That will teach you not to ask questions, that is our prerogative,’ he roared. ‘I want you to take bath, and then report by 5pm at the ante room.’

The information that the anteroom was at the end of the ground floor corridor came to me the hard way.

By now I had resigned myself to the fact that whatever we did would always prove to be wrong and endless punishments were our ultimate fate. One didn’t question God!

I sprinted back to my room. Bath was something that I really needed after the grime that had accumulated during the hectic schedule and the haircut. It wasn’t just the dirt; the smell of perspiration from my body would have shamed a skunk. 

Sometimes in life we have to satisfy ourselves with small achievements. This was definitely one of those times. I achieved a bath and a change of clothes within record time.  My sprinting feet skidded to a throbbing halt near the anteroom just in time to join the last of the first termers trooping in. ...............

----

The book is available online, too. Try www.rolibooks.com