Ah Coursemates! Devils in disguise. But then angels too!

“There is not a word yet, for old friends that you’ve just met” – Jim Henson

We were a batch of 297 coursemates at the National Defence Academy (NDA). And even though we all went our separate ways towards careers in the Army, Navy and Air Force on graduation in 1986, our joy on meeting remains exactly that – indescribable. It is almost as if we never parted. Maybe it is the shared rigours of our training days, or maybe it is our imperfections that make us perfect friends.

Then of course I have my 66 naval coursemates, a smaller subset largely, of the 297. Quite obviously, we have kept bumping across each other occasionally during our careers, and what with the Navy being a smaller Force vis-a-viz the Army/Air Force; our bonds are even stronger.  We try and meet once every 2-3 years in a ‘Reunion’ and we had one recently in a quaint corner of Kerala a few days back.

Forty of us converged at Kannur, wives in tow, from Kochi to Bhubaneswar, to Pune to Shimla – literally from all parts of the country. And by God was the excitement high! Our Reunion began in a way, almost from the time each couple stepped out of their houses – for a barrage of photos kept all others informed about the progress being made – “all packed and ready, leaving the house now, in the taxi, waiting to board, boarded, landed, going to the bathroom, reaching the venue, yes I can see you….”

There was a lot of squealing on sighting each other at Kannur, lots of hugs and lots of back slapping. Old forgotten nick names were dusted and brought out – “Oye Takle, Motu, Auks, Fullpacks, Rambo, Admiral, ……” Stories that the wives had never heard were narrated with great gusto and embellishments, which while forcing some of the men to give sheepish looks, astonished the wives no end. Many wives started looking at their husbands with new eyes, mostly suspicious ones!

The blessed organisers (again a set of somewhat harassed coursemates) had taken great pains to organise Golf, water sports, a cruise in the serene backwaters, shooting, beach combing, horse riding, etc. However, and as is usually the case with fauji reunions, liquor took centre stage. And the same blessed organisers ensured that there was enough of it; for lunch, dinner, and strangely breakfast too, on all three days. The first evening itself saw people quaffing quantities that would have made seasoned tipplers raise their hats in awe. So much so that at the end of the evening most stated fervently, “Aaj thoda zyada ho gaya, enough for me, no liquor henceforth”. But then we are also people who cannot disappoint the organisers and the stewards, who had taken great pains to set up the bar. So, and purely out of obligation mind you, lunch next day was followed by similar solemn declarations but no decrease in consumption! And then the next dinner, and the next lunch and –  you get the drift.

There was dancing too. And lots of it. I have come to realise that all ladies are exceptionally gifted dancers. And men, while at one on a scale of ten in proficiency, make up for it by infusing energy and awkward contortions, where I would rate them at 21 (again out of ten). By God can they butcher even the simplest of steps! Mostly because I suspect, that men (particularly those fortified with firewater) are always under the mistaken impression that the PT they did at the NDA is a worthy substitute for the waltz!

And noticed the difference between the Mars and Venus people when it comes to photography? Ladies love it, men don’t. A group of women may be chatting seriously on affairs of the country, maybe arguing even, but should someone shout, “Photo”, faces turn automatically towards the camera, teenager like pout in place, and elegant poses struck as if born so.  Similarly, if one needed the ladies to disembark quickly from a bus, the same shout of “Photo” would see them out of the bus like champagne spouting out of a well shaken bottle!

Which brings me to two gentlemen, whom for the sake of anonymity, we’ll just call Mr NKR and Mr SSP. They decided that they might as well utilise the excellent massage services provided by the hotel that we were staying in. Good wholesome plan. But then hasn’t Robert Burns said, “All the best laid plans of men and mice often go awry?” Now, going for a massage implies of course that one has to divest all clothes and in lieu, a small towel is expected to protect one’s modesty. Both the gentlemen, having luxuriated at the spa with an invigorating massage, thought, so – “Why spoil our clothes by getting them all oily? Let us just dash across to our rooms and bathe there”. A quick glance towards the rooms showed them that all corridors were empty and a sharp dash thus, almost suggested itself. Mr SSP did have serious reservations on the course of action decided, but then he saw Mr NKR, clearly the more daring of the duo, suddenly make a break for it and reach the safety of his room in a jiffy. Thus emboldened, he too dashed nimbly, and, reached outside (as opposed to, and this is critical, inside) his room undetected, only to gain a deeper understanding of the philosophical meaning of Robert Burn’s utterance.

Allow me to explain. What does one need to enter a room? A key, right? Well, Mr SSP had none. His wife apparently was off somewhere and had conveniently, you know how wives are, omitted to inform the husband of this minor detail. So here was Mr SSP, clad in a towel which he wished could have been of more generous proportions, standing in the corridor, his eyes darting wildly like a startled mustang. The thing with hotel corridors, dashed things, is that they don’t remain empty for too long – sooner or later someone will pass through. And a lady did. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately), being a coursemate’s wife, she did not avoid eye contact coyly and move on. On the contrary, she found the scenery fascinating. However, realising the gravity of the situation, she felt she must do something. So, she did the only thing any other compassionate human would do, viz – pull out her phone…….. and click….. and share. Other ladies seeing the shared photo soon started converging on the arresting sight and their appreciative oohs and aahs added not a little, to Mr SSP’s discomfort. It would suffice to say that had there been a Doctorate for hangdog looks, Mr SSP would have been awarded one straight away by any University.

All good things must of course come to an end sometime and so did our Reunion. But not before the organisers ordained that all women would wear Kerala sarees and the men a mundu (pronounced moonduh I’ve learnt) for the grand finale. That the finale also entailed clambering onboard a boat for a cruise caused what can only be called, lively anxiety, amongst the non-Tamilian/non-Keralite men. And even though the thoughtful organisers had catered for ‘velcroed’ mundus, most of us, wary as we were of a wardrobe malfunction, took the extra precaution of belting up over the mundu. Some wore shorts too , and I distinctly remember one particularly wary guy, wearing a pyjama underneath. Notwithstanding these prudent precautions, all men could be seen walking carefully like Kimono clad Geishas, in a quaint shuffle of dainty tiny steps. Till of course the drinks hit us about 45 min later, and the Geisha imitation was discarded. Oblivious to everything, we danced and we jumped and fortuitously, the Velcro/belt combination stood us well.  The only wardrobe malfunction we witnessed was from amongst the Tamilian/Keralite gentlemen, who perhaps confident about their knots, had foregone the velcro/belt combination. I guess overconfidence does indeed kill, but also compensates by bestowing merriment, levels of which went sky high!

Ah Coursemates! The farewells on completion of our Reunion were mingled with the joy of having met and a certain hollowness at the imminent parting. Coursemates, like parents and siblings, are thrust into our lives without choice. And yet, the relationship is beyond that of blood. A relationship that provides hundreds of little moments of fun; moments that make us forget our worries, moments to be cherished in our old age.   Having got acquainted as mere teenagers aeons ago, we have been through so much together over the intervening 40 or so years. We’ve had highs that we celebrated together, and we’ve had lows that we commiserated together. Coursemates have been there when all else seemed bleak and they’ve been there when the sun was shining. We have all grown, got married, had children, seen the children get married and some of us are now grandparents.  Some have succeeded in life and some have met disappointments. But what would success be, if one didn’t have coursemates to celebrate it with? And how unbearable the disappointments would be, if one didn’t have coursemates to pick us up? Many of us have been separated for years and yet nothing has really changed. There is indeed no word yet, for the joys of old friends you’ve just met!

In memory also of our coursemates who are no longer with us. Cheers guys, for before long, we will meet again somewhere over the rainbow, in Valhalla. The nation owes you a debt of gratitude.