The Soldier Who Became a Writer

A soldier I wanted to become, but a writer I ended up as.

Our drillmaster Mr. Devarathnam, "the tornado," walked into our classroom and announced, “Those of you willing to join NCC can go to my room after class hours for registration.” My bench mate, Bala, and I had been looking forward to our days in the NCC from the moment we stepped into standard nine. A glittering golden path to the heroic life of a soldier opened before our eyes.

That evening, when we went to the sports room, Mr. Devarathnam welcomed us with a broad smile on his pumpkin face. He gave each of us a set of NCC uniforms consisting of huge trousers, a baggy shirt, a pair of leather boots, and a cap with a pompom. ‘How on earth am I going to walk wearing these heavy boots?’ I wondered as I lifted a boot to test its weight. When I wore the uniform and stood before the mirror, what I saw was a scarecrow—not a budding soldier.

Our backs broke on the very first day of the parade. From one end of the playground to the other, we were marched repeatedly. “Left, right; left, right; left, right; left, left, left!” Mr. Devarathnam shouted as he walked, watching our steps like an eagle.

The one consolation in NCC was the free tiffin: four pooris with masala, provided at the end of the grueling parade. The pooris were cold and shriveled up, but they tasted like heaven in our exhausted and starved condition.

Somehow, a year passed. One morning, a notification appeared on the school notice board about an oncoming week-long summer camp for NCC cadets at Sathanur Dam.

Sathanur was Sahara-hot. The food turned our stomachs upside down. We were made to climb hills overgrown with plants bearing vicious barbs, carrying heavy rifles under the midday burning sun. They were not barbs; they were the fangs of scorpions. The worst part of the camp was the afternoon theoretical "under-the-tree" classes, during which we kept nodding off. Those caught dozing were made to run to a tree a kilometer away and back by the sadistic instructor.

The last straw came when we were told to charge and stab a dummy enemy’s straw-stuffed tummy with a bayonet, letting out a scream of hate and fury. We had to do this again and again until the instructor was fully satisfied with our performance. Bala was only "okayed" on his tenth attempt; one more retake and he likely would have plunged the bayonet into the instructor's belly instead.

The day after we arrived back in Madras, I went to Mr. Devarathnam and solemnly placed my NCC paraphernalia on his table.

“Sir, is it true that a pen is mightier than a rifle?”

“Yes, that is what people say,” he replied. “Then I prefer to become a writer and not a soldier. Please kindly allow me to quit,” I said, and immediately took to my heels as an angry Devarathnam sent his baton cartwheeling behind me.