Indian Defence Review

I knocked out the charpoy legs, loaded Kempy still on the charpoy into the MI4 and we went back to Chabua, unmindful of the missing portion of the tail rotor, the MI4 juddering and shaking all the way. 45 minutes later, when we landed, there was a big crowd on the tarmac, including the Station Commander and my CO, late Jayaraman. The docs took charge of Kempy and I think he was flown to Calcutta, never saw him afterwards, for a long time.

The CO took me by the elbow and marched me to his jeep. Never said a word. He went straight to the bar, where Durga the ever smiling barman poured us both a large Rum with water, the favourite drink in Chabua. There were many others too in the bar. Jayaraman, took a sip and I think he could not control himself any more.

“I don’t know what to do with you”, he said.

“First you broke the 12 O’Clock rule”, he waved the glass in my face. My untouched glass still on the bar counter. True to Rimcolian tradition, I always took bull shit standing at attention. In RIMC, it was believed that attention was the only safe position to ward off predation.

“I can understand that you came out of the hills at 2 O’clock, I can forgive you if it went to 3 O’Clock. But I cannot suffer in silence if you decided to clear the hills at sun set”. His voice was quivering with emotion. There was pin drop silence in the bar. All drinks lay untouched on the bar counter. He took another sip.

“You got into bad weather”. He paused. “No, not just bad weather, you f***ing had to go and penetrate a line squall and mapped the Sunasari river with your wheel to get out”. I began to wonder where he had heard that one. Then I realised that the army may still be searching for their Army Cdr. “I can understand if you left behind an army captain”, he said very softly. He took another sip of Rum and water.

“I can understand if you left behind a Colonel. I can forgive you even if had left behind the GOC 2 Div”. He paused, seemingly at a loss of words. “F***ing shit bag, you went and left the Army Cdr on a f***ing BSF picket and he is sitting on a charpoy right now”. Jaya banged his glass on the bar counter, and lit a cigarette. Through a smoke ring, he kept staring at me.

“You went and chopped up your tail rotor, and had the audacity to fly it right back to Chabua”, he said softly. I thought I could make out a note of admiration in his voice. “Sir”, I said pleasantly. “I shall go and pick up the Army Cdr first thing tomorrow morning”.

Jaya was my best friend, my guru, my only mentor, my only benefactor in all my years in uniform.

“You will do nothing of the sort”, he roared like a lion. “I shall pick up the Army Cdr myself”, he said. “You”…..he paused for effect. “You are f***ing going on permanent detachment to Chakabama”. He said with finality. Chakabama, a helipad in the middle of nowhere in Nagaland was the loneliest place those days, detachment in Chakabama was akin to solitary confinement. “But for now, Barman…..” he commanded, looking for Durga. “The drink will be on the house, put it all on Kartoos, he will pay for the drinks tonight”.

He then raised his glass, like a formal dining in night, “For now, let us drink to Kempy’s nose”.

“To Kempy’s nose”, we replied in unison, drowning the glass of large Rum and water in one single bottoms up. That night, we did bottoms up again and again, each time toasting to Kempy’s nose.

My bar book was closed that night, I had exceeded Rs 75, the bar book limit.

Considering that Rum cost Rs 3.50 a bottle, and water cost nothing, we drank around 22 bottles of Rum that night, all towards Kempy’s nose. Assuming that there were around 28 of us that night at the bar, including the Gnat guys on detachment at Chabua, that was around 10 large pegs each, all for good cause, Kempy’s nose. May be we all had one peg each and quite possible that Jagga Barar drank the extra 28 pegs. I think it was one of those nights when Jagga did not count the pegs using match sticks, lined up on the bar counter, one stick per peg. I think he lost count, like Counta Barar, who never counted.

Next morning I was packed off to Chakabama in the dicky of a MI4, and I am told I kept saying “To Kempy’s Nose” all the way from Chabua to Chakabama, rather silly of me. I stayed there for three whole months before Jaya relented and brought me back.

Kempy now has a wonderful nose. Makes him very handsome and dignified. Every bit like his illustrious martial predecessors from Coorg. I cannot take the credit, it was the Docs at Calcutta who made Kempy’s nose look Coorgi, handsome and accomplished. Me, I take the credit only for the incredible act of closing my bar book in one night, cheering for Kempy’s nose.