By
Maj Gen VK Singh
The year was 1966, or
perhaps 1967. The place was Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, which was then a
protectorate of India. The ruler was known as the Chogyal (Maharaja), while his
spouse was called the Gylamo (Maharani). Gangtok was also the headquarters of
the Army’s 17th Division, then being commanded by the intrepid Major
General Sagat Singh, who later earned laurels as the ‘real’ victor of the
Bangladesh war in 1971. At that time, Gangtok was a small town, with just a few
dozen odd motor cars, which belonged either to the Chogyal or the Politcal
Officer, an important personage akin to an ambassador. Of course, the Army had
its own transport. There was one cinema hall and one hotel – the Norkhill. All
the shops in the market were owned by Marwaris, who also controlled the state’s
finances and ran the only bank in the town.
It was about 4 pm in the
afternoon, and we were watching a hockey match between officers of two units in the town’s
only ground, below the Norkhill hotel, which also served as a race track for
local pony races. Soon, there was crowd
of onlookers, most of whom had never set
eyes on a hockey stick before. Many of the hotel’s guests were also watching
the game, seated on chairs in front of the hotel, which overlooked the ground.
When the GOC arrived, he asked his ADC, Captain Ahin Dev, “Who are those pretty
ladies? I have never seen them before”.
When he was informed that they were film stars, who were in Gangtok for
the shooting of “Jewel Thief”, he asked his ADC to give them his compliments
and ask them to join us for a cup of tea.
Very soon, we were joined
by Dev Anand, Vijay Anand, Vijayantimala, and Anju Mahendru, among others.
During the small talk during tea, the GOC came to know that Anju Mahendru was
engaged to Garfield Sobers, the West Indies cricketer. He asked her: “Why?
Don’t you find Indian boys good enough?” She blushed and said something non
committal. Sagat was himself a strapping six footer, who was known as a ladies’
man. When the celebs were leaving, he asked them how long they intended to stay
in Gangtok. ON being told that they would be here for almost a month, he
extended them a standing invitation to the Black Cat Institute or BKI, as the
Officers’ Institute was known. After they left, he called Jogi, who was
loitering nearby. “Jogi, you are relieved of all duties for the next one month.
Your assignment is one that concerns national pride. You have to change Miss
Mahendru’s mind about marrying Sobers.”
For the next one month,
Jogi became almost a part of the film unit, going with them on shoots, shopping
and sightseeing. With his local contacts and the GOC’s blessings, he was able
to solve many problems and the film crew welcomed him in their team. With
nothing much to do in Gangtok, evenings were invariably spent in the BKI, where
music and dancing was laid on, in addition to drinks and food for the guests. When the unit left Gangtok, Jogi bid them
adieu with a heavy heart. Ultimately the Sobers – Mahendru marriage did not
come off, but it is not known if Jogi had a hand in it. However, he did succeed
in another mission – one of the starlets in the team became ‘friendly’ with
him. Jogi did not reveal the details, but it was said that she had invited him
to stay with her when he visited Bombay next.
Before someone asks “Who
is Jogi?” I think it is time to introduce him to the reader. Jogi is not his
real name, which is just as well. Apart from the obvious risk of beatings by
fathers of his numerous girl friends, he could have been even killed by some
jealous husbands. His 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 12th
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 master stroke 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 hapless driver, we learned later that the poor man had been given
twenty eight days for negligence.
Another time, while we
were on camp, I lost my jungle hat. The Commandant was to visit us next day so
I was a little worried. When I expressed my fears to Jogi, he told me not to
worry. Sometime during the night he slipped away, returning after fifteen
minutes with a brand new jungle hat. It had an unmistakable resemblance to the
one worn by one of our instructors, but Jogi refused to divulge its origin. But
he did make sure that I sprinkled a fair amount of dirt on it, to make it look
old and grimy enough to pass for a cadet’s jungle hat. The next morning we were
surprised to find that our instructor was absent - we were told that he had reported
sick.
When we were both
commissioned into Signals, no one was more surprised than Jogi. He had always
been mortally afraid of mathematics and we wondered how he was going to survive
in a technical Arm. But Jogi soon adapted himself to his new calling and did
creditably on the YO’s course at the School of Signals. At the end of the
course, Jogi was posted to Gangtok and I
to a neighbouring unit of Signals in Kalimpong. As young officers we were often
on duty at the same time in the signal centre, and had long chats at night
after the messages were cleared. Each day, he would give me commentary of the
day’s events and update me about Gangtok, especially his latest conquests. He
soon became an expert on Sikkim and its history.
It was from Jogi that I
learned that Darjeeling had once been part of Sikkim and was gifted by the
ruler to the British in 1835. After India became independent in 1947 she signed
treaty with Sikkim according her the status of a Protectorate with the Chogyal,
Tashi Namgyal recognised as the monarch. After his death in 1963, his son
Palden Thondup Namgyal became the Chogyal. He married Hope Cooke, an American
by birth, who became the Gylamo. She tried
her best to look, dress and talk like a Tibetan noblewoman. Many people said that
she worked for the CIA and her marriage was ‘arranged’ by the American
intelligence agency. According to Jogi, the Chogyal was in the habit of making
a couple of trips each year to North Sikkim, where custom decreed that a local
damsel be offered to him every night. There was fierce competition for the
honour, as having shared the Chogyal’s bed increased the girl’s stock in the
marriage market. Sadly, the new Gyalmo put a stop to it when she came to know
about it.
At that time Lieutenant
General Sam Manekshaw was the GOC-in-C Eastern Command in Calcutta. Unlike
other Army dignitaries, he usually stayed in the Palace when he visited
Gangtok. The first time Jogi went to the Palace to oversee the installation of
a telephone for the Army Commander, he was almost thrown out. As part of good
‘signalmanship, he ordered the linemen to clip the wires to the wall, which had
wainscoting of very old teak wood. When the caretaker heard the nails being
hammered, he ran into the room, shouting at the top of his voice. “The Gylamo
will be very angry when she sees what you have done”, he said. Hearing the
commotion, the Gyalmo soon entered the room. After the initial frown, she soon
broke into a smile and told Jogi not to look so glum. After this, Jogi became
her most ardent admirer.
Apart from his duties in
the Signal Centre, Jogi was also second officer in the Line Section, which was
commanded by Captain Thomas. During most of the day, Thomas was out with the line
party, repairing or maintaining lines. Everyone in the unit talked about his
devotion to duty and commitment to his job. Once, when Thomas was on leave,
Jogi decided to accompany the line party. Carrying lunch in their haversacks,
they set off at about nine in the morning. After climbing uphill for about a kilometre,
they reached the Zero Pole, from where lines diverted to various brigades. The
Havildar asked Jogi to wait there, while the rest of them went ahead. He said
they would be back around lunch time. Jogi was surprised, but the Havildar told
him that this is what Thomas did when he accompanied them. Not wanting to break
the standard procedure instituted by Thomas, Jogi agreed, and stretched out for
a nap.
He had hardly settled
down when he heard a foot fall. Soon, a
pretty young girl arrived on the scene. Finding Jogi near the pole, she asked
him why Thomas had not come. She was the Jailor’s daughter, and the reason
behind Thomas’s ‘devotion to duty’. Jogi told her that Thomas had gone on
leave, but had given him the task of looking after her until he returned. After
hesitating a bit, she sat down beside him. When the line party returned, she
was still there. The Havildar told him that they were going to have lunch under
a tree about a hundred yards away, and would be ready to move back after an
hour or so. Next morning, Jogi again accompanied the line party. Since he was
the only officer in the Line Section, he was relieved of duties in the Signal
Centre. The procedure continued for the next two weeks, until Thomas returned
from leave. On his first day out with the line party, Thomas returned earlier
than he usually did, complaining of a headache. Of course, he made sure that
Jogi got little time to sleep for the next couple of weeks. Everyone
commiserated with Jogi, but he had committed what was just below what is
regarded in the Army as the cardinal sin – stealing the affections of a brother
officer’s wife.
For a subaltern, Gangtok
had few attractions. One could go for a movie in the town’s only cinema hall,
where the balcony was reserved for officers (and their companions) and tickets
were delivered in your seat. When the GOC wanted to see a movie, it started
only when he arrived. Usually, the entire front row in the balcony was left for
him and his staff. The Chogyal and Gyalmo had their own box, and if they
happened to be present, the Chogyal would walk down to the balcony and request
the GOC to join him. Once in a while
there would be film troupe to entertain troops in forward areas, the most well
known being led by Sunil Dutt, who had recently got married to Nargis. After a
late night party in the BKI, the GOC rang up Jogi, who was on duty in the
signal centre, and told him to get a call for Sunil Dutt who wanted to talk to his
wife in Bombay. At that time, all exchanges were manual and trunk circuits were
on physical lines. Using all his persuasive skills, Jogi got the call via
Siliguri, Calcutta, Delhi and Poona. After going through five exchanges, the
speech was very faint, as expected. Jogi, who was himself sitting on the
switchboard, volunteered to act as a relay. For the next ten minutes or so, he
did exactly that. Sunil Dutt thanked him profusely and the GOC gave him a pat
on the back. Everyone wanted to know what exactly had been spoken between the
two famous film stars, but Jogi refused to tell.
Jogi’s CO had a passion
for bridge. After lunch, the CO, 2iC and two other officers regularly played
bridge, and the sessions sometimes lasted till late evening. On Sundays, they
started playing after breakfast and finished only near dinner time. Once, when
the regulars were on leave, they fell short of a fourth hand. Jogi was asked if
he knew how to play bridge and he confessed that he did not. The Quartermaster
was given the task of teaching the game to all the subalterns within a week. They
were given a book by Cuthberton and told to go through it. Classes were held for
about two hours every day, after which the Quartermaster announced that they had
picked up the game. But Jogi had other ideas. He realised that once he became a
part of the foursome, it would be the end of his visits to the cinema, not to speak
of trysts with the Jailor’s daughter. When the game started and he was asked to
bid, he said “Three no trumps.” The CO gave a quizzical look and then asked him
show his cards. After seeing his hand the CO said, “This chap can never play
bridge.” Jogi was unceremoniously ejected and another officer took his place. Looking
suitably crestfallen, Jogi left the room, his smile returning as soon as he was
out of sight.
A couple of miles down
the road to North Sikkim, there was a small palace where the dowager Maharani
(the Chogyal’s mother) lived. It was said that she had been banished from the
palace by her husband, the previous Chogyal, after she returned from a
pilgrimage to Tibet and gave birth to a girl. The nobleman who accompanied her
was suitably punished, and the Maharani was sent in exile. It was only after
the arrival of Hope Cooke that she was allowed to enter Gangtok again. The
girl, who was known as the Chogyal’s half-sister, was a permanent invitee to
all parties in Gangtok. Understandably, she was Jogi’s favourite dancing
partner.
One day, information was
received that a senior officer was coming for a visit to the unit. The 2iC
recommended that Jogi should be the liaison officer (LO). In view of Jogi’s age
and inexperience, the CO was hesitant, but later agreed. Jogi tied up all
arrangements, even finding out what the visitor liked to eat and drink. Just a
day before, he told the 2iC that one of his good friends who had been his ADC
had informed him that the general – he was a former Commandant of the Staff
College – liked to smoke a particular brand of cigars that were made especially
for that institution. There was a flurry of telephone calls, as far afield as
Delhi, but the cigars could not be procured. However, Jogi told the 2iC not to
worry.
When the visiting general
officer arrived, he was pleasantly surprised to find a framed photograph of his
wife on the table next to his bed. “Where did you get this from,” he asked. “It
is nothing, Sir”, replied Jogi. When the general went to the mess for dinner,
and sipped his drink, there was a frown on his face. “What whiskey is this, he
asked.” When he was told that it was Glenfiddich, he broke into a smile. “I
never thought you will have this here,” he said. “The canteen does not stock
it, and I have to get my quota from my friends in the Foreign Service.”
However, the piece de resistance was
yet to come. After dinner, brandy and cigars were served. When he picked up a
cigar and saw the Staff College label on the wrapper, he broke into a wide
grin. ‘Where in the world did you get this? If you don’t mind I’ll take two,”
he said, putting one in his pocket and lighting the other. When he was told
that the whiskey and cigar had both been procured by Jogi, the general was
effusive in praise, saying that he must be a wizard.
After the general had
said good night, the 2iC cornered Jogi and asked him how he had managed the
photograph of the general’s wife, the whiskey and the cigars. Shrugging nonchalantly, Jogi told him that he
had heard that the lady had once won a beauty contest in Mhow, and asked one of
his friends to get the photograph from the Guerra, the official photographer at
that time. As to the whiskey, Jogi’s friend (the former ADC) had told him of
the general’s fondness for the single malt, and Jogi had managed to borrow a
bottle from the Palace cellar.
“And what about the
cigars? Where did you get those?”
“Oh, the cigars. Actually
I pinched them from the general’s suitcase, while he was having a bath. Don’t
worry, Sir, I am sure he will not miss them.’
After spending three
years in our respective units, Jogi and I were sent for the degree course at
the College of Military Engineering in Poona. There was wide speculation
whether he would ever manage to complete it, but Jogi had no such worries. In
fact he enjoyed the course, and made sure that others did too. He was an
inveterate prankster and had ample opportunity to display his talents in the
CME. During a function in the club, Jogi asked a couple of us to step outside.
Within a matter of minutes, we had changed the panels of all the Lambretta
scooters parked outside. At the end of it, each scooter had panels of a
different colour on the two sides. Having done the needful, we walked inside,
the pictures of innocence. After the function, everyone left, without noticing
anything amiss in the darkness. Next morning, there was utter confusion, with
everyone looking for someone with whom he could exchange his panel. It took a
week to sort out the mess, after all
scooters were ordered to be brought to the car park in the mess, the panels
removed and kept at one place, and everyone asked to pick up two that matched
the rest of his scooter. The story was the talk of the town in Poona for
several months, but the culprit was never identified.
Jogi and I shared a room
at the CME. Of course, we were regular visitors to the Tambola and dance
sessions at RSI on Saturday evenings. Both of us had scooters and in the
beginning we went together, one driving and the other riding pillion. After a
couple of months Jogi suggested that both of us take our own scooters. I soon
found out the reason. By this time Jogi had a number of girl friends, who he
said liked to go for a drive afterwards. These ‘drives’ took quite a while, and
he often returned in the early hours of the morning. In April, the CME had the
famous ‘River Dance’, where the dance floor was on a raft in the middle of a
river. It was one of the highlights of Poona’s social calendar. Each officer
was permitted to invite one guest, and there was keen competition among the
damsels in the city for an invitation.
Of course, Jogi invited the girl who was his current favourite and
prevailed on me to invite one of her friends. Mid way through the party, he
asked me for the keys to our room – he said his girl friend wanted to freshen
up. When the duo returned after an hour, I told them that they had missed the
best part of the show. They gave each other a knowing look, before Jogi said,
“That depends on what you think is best.”
After spending a year and
a half at Poona, we went to Mhow for the second leg of the course at the
Military College of Telecommunications (MCTE), as the School of Signals had
been renamed by then. Compared to Poona, Mhow had very few attractions. But Jogi was not deterred and joined a ‘dance
school’, where he soon made many friends. He was also a shameless flatterer,
and complimented every lady he met, for her looks, her dress, her complexion or
her cooking. His favourite lines – “I mistook you for your daughter”, or “You
look hardly out of college” – never failed to hit the target. As a result, he
got many dinner invitations and rarely dined in the mess on weekends.
Jogi had an aversion to
anything compulsory, such as dinner nights and fire practices. ‘Waste of time”,
he used to say, and never attended these parades. Of course, his absences
fetched his extra duties, and he soon became well known to all the chowkidars and was frequent visitor to
the college quarter guard. It was during
this time that we met a certain officer who gave us a very interesting piece of
advice. He told us that if one wanted to have a good time in the unit, he
should make sure that he mucked up the first important assignment that was
given to him. “You will never be given any job after that”, he asserted.
Most of us shrugged it
off as a joke but not Jogi. After the course he was posted to the armoured
divisional signal regiment in Jhansi, where he resolved to try out the scheme.
Soon he had his chance. It was the first of the month and Jogi was detailed by
the Second-in-Command (2iC) to draw the cash from the bank for payment to the
men. At about eleven in the morning, Jogi drove off in Jeep, with a guard of
one and two and a cheque for forty two thousand rupees (in the sixties, that
was enough to pay the whole unit). When
an hour had elapsed and Jogi had not returned, the 2iC telephoned the bank
manager, who told him that the money had still not been drawn. Getting worried,
he sent an officer to see if Jogi’s vehicle had broken down. At about one
o’clock this officer returned and reported that he could not find Jogi or his
jeep.
A worried 2iC walked up
to the CO, who was about to leave his office – he was due to tee off at two in
the afternoon. When he was told that Jogi was missing, he was visibly annoyed.
Jhansi was a dacoit infested area, and the guard with Jogi was carrying rifles,
a very attractive commodity in that part of the country. “My God,” he exclaimed. “I hope they haven’t
been kidnapped”. Needless to say, he decided to skip his golf, and started
giving instructions. The Military Police was informed and so was the Divisional
Headquarters. Parties were despatched in all directions and the local
authorities and police stations were requested to block all roads leading out
of the city. In the meanwhile, all work in the unit was suspended. The CO
remained in his office, fuming, and all officers missed their lunch.
At about four o‘clock,
Jogi drove up in his jeep, along with the guard (he had been seeing a movie, he
told me afterwards). The 2iC pounced on him like wounded tiger. “Where were you
all this time? And why have you not drawn the money?” he asked. Jogi’s reply
was classic. With a sheepish grin, he answered, “I could not find the bank,
Sir.”
The 2iC almost had a
stroke, and had to be helped out of his chair. The CO, when he was told, was so
wild with rage that he could hardly talk.
Of course, Jogi was the unit orderly officer for the next one month, but
thereafter he lived in sublime bliss. He was never troubled by courts of
inquiry, audit boards, courts martial and such other demons that plague
officers during their regimental service. Whenever someone who was not aware of
Jogi’s exploits happened to suggest his name, the 2iC would groan. “Not him,
for God’s sake. I want to retire, not to be cashiered.”
With
each passing year, Jogi matured and so did his technique. Many old matrons in Gangtok,
Poona, Dehradun, Mhow and Wellington still get a glow in the eyes when they
talk about him. His exploits in the several units he served in 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.
12 Aug 2009
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