JOGI AT THE NDA

JOGI AT THE NDA

By

VK Singh

Jogi (not his real name), whose exploits at the NDA, IMA and in the various units he served are the stuff of legends. Jogi has been compared, variously, to a glass of champagne, a surf-topped breaker, a million-watt bulb, a Chopin sonata, even a misguided missile. One of his instructors at the NDA once remarked that he was ‘intelligent to the point of insanity’.

I first met Jogi on 12 July 1961, the day we joined the NDA. It was also the day that the Kharakvasla dam broke, flooding half of Poona City. Ever since then our course is called the ‘Dam Busters’, with Jogi living up to the name more than anyone else. His name being a twenty-five letter, triple-barrelled, tongue-twisting monstrosity, he was promptly christened Jogi, as he is known even today. Being in the same squadron, we soon became friends. Jogi was a quiet sort of chap, who liked, in his own words, to stay out of trouble. This, I found after the first six months, was not only difficult but well nigh impossible. Jogi has never, for all his good intentions, managed to stay out of trouble for any length of time, except when he was laid up in hospital for a fractured collar-bone or measles, both afflictions to which he seemed particularly prone.

            I remember, vividly, the case of the ‘missing horse’. For a bet – he never gambled, but was an incorrigible wagerer – Jogi stole a horse from the NDA stables, rode it all the way to Poona, let it loose on the race course, and was back under his blanket before reveille. The stallion was found on the third day, and Jogi was eventually caught after one of the riding instructors remembered having seen him feeding sugar cubes to that horse. There was hell to pay, not only because of Jogi’s irresponsible behaviour, but also that of the horse – as a result of the escapade, a mare in the Poona stables became unfit to ride for the coming season. There was a touch of romance to the story, but the owner of the mare did not see it that way - it had cost him the Western India Derby, he complained bitterly.

Jogi was also, I think, the World’s first ‘streaker’. Long before the sport was born or the term coined, Jogi, again for a bet, streaked from his cabin to the mess, a distance of some two hundred yards. The feat was performed on a Sunday afternoon. It resulted in a minor accident (a motorist was so fascinated by the sight that he did not see the scooter approaching) and an old lady, visiting her grandson, swooned and fainted. Jogi won a treat in the café, and fourteen days restrictions.

Jogi’s piece de resistance at the NDA was the affair of the truck. We were returning from Poona after a movie on a Sunday evening, when we spotted a three-ton truck (or 3-Tonner, as it is known in the Army) standing on the road side. It was one of our vehicles, so we thought we might get a lift back. The driver was missing – he had gone for a packet of cigarettes, we learned later -  but had left the ignition key, dangling very temptingly. Jogi reached a quick decision, got into the driver’s seat, pulled me inside, and before I knew what was happening, we were hurtling along at 50 miles an hour. As the distance to the Academy decreased, my fears increased.  Jogi brushed aside my suggestion to by-pass the check post and enter the campus from another route. Driving right up to the check post, he stopped the truck, got out and went straight to the telephone. He asked for the Adjutant, and then I heard him saying: “Good evening, Sir. This is Cadet …….. I found one of our trucks lying unattended in the town. There was a large crowd of civilians around it, and I am not too sure there hasn’t been some pilferage also. I thought the best thing would be to bring it back. …..Thank you, Sir, I was only doing my duty. Good Night, Sir.” Next morning, the Squadron Commander called Jogi and gave him a pat on the back. As for the driver, we learned later that the hapless man had been given twenty eight days for negligence.

            With each passing year, Jogi matured and so did his technique. Many old matrons in Poona, as well as Dehradun (where we went after passing out from the NDA) still get a glow in the eyes when they talk about Jogi. His exploits in the several units he served in, and at Mhow and Wellington, where he did his training courses, would fill a whole book. Perhaps, some day someone will come out with his biography – he is too modest to write his own story. Among the Dam Busters, and his circle of friends and admirers, he is already a legend, and there is a view that sharing his accomplishments with others may not exactly please him.