Dishoom Dishoom

As I have mentioned in some previous posts, the National Defence Academy lays considerable emphasis on physical fitness. This emphasis sees the Academy organising a large number of activities such as PT, swimming, drill, troop games, etc. This post relates to Boxing.

Boxing is introduced in the first term itself with an event called ‘novices boxing’, presumably to assess one’s competence levels. All cadets have to undergo this ritual.

Though I had never ever boxed in my life (other than minor scraps that kids have, centred around who will bat first in cricket), I had watched the movie Rocky umpteen times, enough for me, (or so I thought) to get a basic hang of boxing. Then Bollywood movies where a scrawny hero weighing 50 kgs bashes up villains weighing a 100 kgs each with some ‘dishoom dishoom’, contributed in bolstering my views that boxing is nothing but mind over matter. Thus bolstered, I was quite looking forward to the ‘novices boxing’ day. I, in my mind, could already see myself, Muhammad Ali style, ‘floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee.’

Everyone knows I guess, that champion athletes prepare themselves for the big day by what sports psychologists called visualisation. The power of visualisation apparently lies in its ability to influence psychological factors that impact positively on performance; basically running the event over in one’s mind and visualising exactly how one would pace or exert oneself when the event actually takes place. Apparently, this technique pays rich dividends. So, I visualised the hell out of visualisation.

I visualised to the extent that I had all but won the bout already. I visualised me avoiding all punches thrown by my opponent by my quicksilver footwork and deft swerves, me landing upper cuts and left hooks and cutting down my opponent via sharp short jabs and meaty crosses. I saw myself raising my hands in victory while barely breaking a sweat. I visualised me graciously telling my opponent, “well played, better luck next time.” So much so that I was saying to myself, Muhammad Ali style (again), “I’m too fast. I’m too smart. I’m too pretty. I should be a postage stamp. That’s the only way I’ll ever get licked.” My opponent on the other hand, was visualised as one who was left disoriented; akin to having been through a hurricane, a hurricane of my punches. Theoretically thus, I was well prepared. So much so that I was almost feeling sad for my opponent.

The big day came. Me being a very puny 47 kgs, the authorities found it very difficult to find anyone in my weight category. Ultimately, I was paired with a cadet (let’s just call him Cadet VK) weighing about 52 kgs. This minor difference in weight fazed me little, sanguine as I was that Stallone always triumphed over Creed or Mr T. Plus I was about an inch taller than him, which I felt, and aficionados would agree, gave me almost an unfair advantage.

The bout started with me proceeding as per my visualised plan, my mind icy cool and my footwork perfect. The thing with plans however, is that, and as stated so presciently by Mike Tyson, “Everyone has a plan till one gets punched in the face.” About 15 seconds into the bout, Cadet VK, very sneakily if you ask me, suddenly let a one-two fly – a short jab with his left and a haymaker with his right. So quick were his fists that I didn’t even see them coming. So here I was one moment, floating like a butterfly and there I was next moment stung by a particularly vicious bee. I tottered, a sea of black before my eyes. My legs threatened to launch a non-cooperation movement and my mind became a prey, in the words of Wodehouse, to the liveliest of misgivings. Seen those stars in cartoon movies when one gets bonked on the head? Well, I saw them, in plenty. I was left in no doubt that Iron Mike was indeed a prescient individual.

Fortunately, the referee intervened for a standing count. This gave me about 10-15 seconds to get my thoughts together. “Mind over matter” I said to myself, “think, think”, when the bout restarted. Cadet VK on the other hand, apparently had no finesse and hence did no thinking; for all the time that I was thinking, he was hitting. Things were looking hopeless. And then a brainwave hit me which essentially urged me to jettison all resemblances to Stallone and shift to survival mode. The balance of the bout was spent in me showing an admirable abhorrence, almost Gandhian, towards violence. Avoiding Cadet VK at all costs became my honourable modus operandi. So round and round the ring we went, he with what seemed like to me, a murderous glint in his eyes and me (I was told later) wild eyed like a panicked horse. The referee, very obviously not a fan of Gandhi, didn’t like this vague concept of non-violence one bit and he gave me some warnings but somehow, I lived to hear the gong declaring end of round one.

The one minute break between rounds found me contemplating, with considerable chagrin, that our blasted movies did not portray the correct picture. I was bitter and would, had time been available, written scathing letters to the Directors. However, the gong sounded for round two.

I am told that one can do anything with dedication, courage, perseverance and self discipline. I chose prayers.  I prayed that I would be able to exercise the same prudence that I had exhibited in the second half of round one, but my opponent, who too had time to ponder his next moves during the intermission, came fully prepared. My quicksilver footwork and deft swerves had in any case abandoned me 20 seconds into the first round. Resultantly, Cadet VK landed about four to five punches every 10 seconds. I landed one every 20. The ratio as is evident, was tilted heavily, and not in my favour. By the end of about 90 seconds my vision was hazy, my left eye was puffed, my ears were ringing, my arms felt like they were made of lead and my legs were rubbery. I was in short, beaten blue, whipped, clobbered, battered, crushed and stomped over. A far, far cry from the beautiful image of “I’m too fast, too smart, too pretty.” I was like the stamp – “licked”, thoroughly.

Fortunately, through all the fog in my head, I heard the referee (having mercifully decided that I had had enough), stopping the bout. In a bitter reversal of fortune, it was Cadet VK who casually sauntered up towards me with his hands raised in victory, nary a hint of sweat on his brow and whispered to me “well fought, better luck next time.” It was then that I biffed him a juicy one, right on his nose! While this may seem unsporting, in my defence, my mind was still groggy and in no shape to distinguish right from wrong. In the event the case had gone to trial, I could have pleaded insanity with conviction. In either case, the change in his expression from the victorious to the glazed as he went down like a sack of potatoes, was unimaginably satisfying and well worth the resultant opprobrium directed at me by the referee.  

I learnt later, though it was scant consolation, that Cadet VK was from the Rashtriya Indian Military College and had been an exceptionally proficient boxer in his school days. We went on to become good friends.