Naval Accommodation Humour. A Home is Where The Heart Is!

I had referred to naval accommodation humour in one of my earlier posts here which had got some appreciation from my 12 readers. So, and seeing how Dabang 2 was as popular as Dabang 1, I thought why not pull off a sequel! So here I am again.

Let me start by stating upfront that the Navy is a big believer in self-reliance. It lays considerable emphasis on indigenisation of our war fighting capabilities and out of the three Services, it would not be wrong to say that the Navy is most self-reliant. Ordinarily, I am too, all for self-reliance.

However, while self-reliance for a Nation is always a good thing, the Navy has perhaps in its zeal, gone overboard by extending this concept to accommodation for its personnel – where the system leaves one pretty much to fend for himself.  Consequently, when it comes to ‘Makaan’, from amongst ‘Roti Kapda aur Makaan’ from dear Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, the Navy merely says ‘Ha! Gotcha!’

I got married in 1990 while posted in Mumbai and The Wife (you know how wives are), was already planning our home to the minutest detail even before she shifted to Mumbai – the curtains she would like (Pochampalli prints apparently), the front rug, candles in the bathrooms (lavender), China dishware, some throw cushions (in pastel shades), etc.  Me meanwhile, and in keeping with the naval philosophy that nothing is completed until the beloved paperwork is done, filled up my application for ‘married accommodation’, in triplicate, got it signed by my Commanding Officer and submitted my forms to the Accommodation Lord, all the while dreaming naively, about a life full of pastel shades ahead.

I asked the Lord how long would it take to lay hands on the keys to my ‘home’. He told me, somewhat airily, ‘about two years!’ Quite obviously I had misheard, and hence I repeated my question. He clarified, with all the compassion of a deflated basketball, ‘at least’. I guess he cared little for naïve dreams or marital bliss. We in turn had to resign ourselves to a long period of pastel-shaded-cushionless existence.

What followed was an unending loop of booking ‘transit accommodation’, (which could only be booked for one month at a time), sending The Wife to her parents on completion of the month, making a roster of coursemates proceeding on leave, shifting into their houses for that duration, sending The Wife home again, rebooking transit, getting the wife back for a month, and so on. The Naval system, always a votary for self-reliance, must have nodded appreciatively at the degree of self-reliance I had achieved.

Within six months of non-existent naval accommodation, me and The Wife had about had it. Stuff self-reliance was our new motto. Now it so happened that we were, ‘detailed’ one fine day, to attend some random party, mysteriously called a ‘reception’ in the Navy. These ‘receptions’ are fairly formal affairs and comprise mainly the top brass with a smattering of junior officers to add a sheen of egalitarianism. I happened to be one of those junior officers.

The lack of pastel shaded cushions already having sapped our joie de vivre to a level just above that of the saddest lost puppy, both self and The Wife stood in one corner, putting on an imitation of Balraj Saini that Balraj Sahni would have been proud of. (Why Balraj Sahni? Well remember any of his movies? He personified moroseness – Always clad in a dhoti and a jacket, a tattered briefcase in hand, he would mumble with deep pathos – ‘What to do? Munni’s school fees are due, Chunni’s marriage is also nigh, the landlord has already sent three reminders for the rent. Tinku meanwhile needs new clothes and mataji’s operation will cost 10,000 rupees . Where will I get the money from, what will I ever do’ – Ok this doesn’t sound as poignant in English, but dear readers try and talk to yourself in Hindi along these lines. You will understand my and The Wife’s mental state.)

Fortunately, all ‘receptions’ serve liquor and liquor, blessed liquid, alleviates moroseness. So, purely as a palliative mind you, I was quaffing Solan No 1 down in healthy doses when an Admiral (let’s just randomly call him Admiral KKK), seeing us two youngsters standing alone, sauntered across to mingle. “So how’s life with you two young lovebirds?” was his opening gambit. We, perhaps under the misperception that nothing lightens moroseness as spreading it, responded by citing our accommodation woes, bitterness at the hand life had dealt us seeping into every sentence. Admiral KKK was having none of it though. He, the very picture of joviality recalled ‘his days’ when sharing accommodation with friends led to a gala life full of camaraderie, joy and lifelong friendships. He added something along the lines of having lived for two years out of suitcases. Apparently, it was rollicking fun, and he guffawed as if naval accommodation is all about humour.

I on the other hand found his guffawing grating, and perhaps encouraged by the Solan No 1 quaffed, stated, “Sir, every senior officer says the same thing. But now that you are in a position to do something about it, why don’t you do something?” Admiral KKK, as any sober person would expect, was quite taken aback; frank opinions particularly, being a concept as Wodehouse would say, c. only by it’s a. in the Navy.

I could sense that his BP was heading north at the rate of knots and his joviality heading south at matching speed. However, taking a deep breath, he calmed himself with admirable reserve and said, “Well young man, you must understand our difficulties, (something along the lack of funds, long winded bureaucratic approvals, etc). And even if we wanted to construct new buildings, where is the space in NOFRA (the naval residential area)?”

Now let me, as an aside, tell you that it is amazing how quickly stewards materialise, restorative drink in hand, whenever there is an Admiral around. Me, taking full advantage of this, picked up a glass of the offered premium scotch (meant, I learnt later, for the Admiral and costing Rs 60 per peg those days) from a hovering steward, took a long swig, and finding it much better than the Solan No 1 (Rs 60 per bottle) served to Lieutenants, took a longer one. Thus fortified, I continued with the discussion, “Sir, I have a suggestion.” The Admiral was seemingly agog, “Tell me, tell me.”

“Sir”, said I, “let us take the Fleet House.” (Admiral KKK started visibly. Hindsight tells me that perhaps I should have led with some other house, cause unfortunately, the Fleet House was the very house he was staying in. It is a massive G + 1 bungalow with spacious gardens, out houses, garages, servant quarters, etc). “There is just one family staying there,” I continued, “and if we could demolish that and instead build a 20 story building in its place, upto 80 families could be staying in the same area. The Admiral himself could be given a huge penthouse on the top floor in recognition of his seniority, thereby creating a win win for everybody. By similarly demolishing all other Admiral’s bungalows in NOFRA (there were another four), at least another 400 families could stay where only five are staying presently.”  

By now The Wife, having herself ingested some rum and coke, and never one to be left out, was getting into the spirit of things. With visions of pastel shaded cushions resurfacing in her mind, she started giving approving looks and vigorous nods that would do the keenest front bencher proud. She even added some verbal addendums to the discussion – mostly emphasising that if ever there was an idea more steeped in soundness, she had never come across it. Admiral KKK was, I could see, somewhat nonplussed as he clearly had no counter to, (in my mind), my well reasoned suggestion.  Or maybe the sight of a Lieutenant quaffing his premium scotch reminded him that he was standing with an empty glass. In either case, he merely said, rather limply I feel, “Well, that’s a somewhat unique suggestion. Excuse me, let me meet some others…..” and cheesed off.

On contemplation the next morning, The Wife pointed out that perhaps alcohol, while having many wondrous qualities, it is not particularly suited to sober discussions with Admirals. I guess she was, irritatingly, right.

Be that it may, we spent our remaining time in Mumbai without a house, shifted to Kochi, remained houseless and then onto Vizag where we got our first taste of marital bliss and pastel shaded cushions. But how we got that house is another story on naval accommodation humour that I will come to some other day……