A cantonment is a ‘chavni’ in Hindi, and as per a dictionary it means ‘temporary living quarters specially built by the army for soldiers’.
For a city girl who had seen nothing but skyscrapers, having grown up in Bombay, the first cantonment I ever went to was only after marriage to a man in olive greens. And pray what was the name of the station — good ole Babina. It sounded more like a girl’s name than that of a town. And what is more, the reference point given was that it is: close to Bina. Was it another girl?
So let me start with the first day I got there. The train halted for barely one minute and a half, and we had 22 cartons of my trousseau brought along! Phew! But it was managed with military precision and loads of helping hands.
The two officers sent to escort us warned me to keep my eyes open till we reached the Officers’ Mess. On reaching the Mess I was promptly taken on a round, the display of silverware, the various trophies, the liveried waiters, the fine manners. All of them had me floored. (The room we had to live in was a different story altogether, though).
There is a common phrase associated with life in the Army: they say faujis know how to make ‘jungle mein mangal’!
Tunka Night Club, an imaginary happening place but in reality just a rocky outcrop where all new arrivals were promised a Saturday night to remember; Welfare, Ladies Club, bada khaana, all became part of my lingo. Phoolan Devi was supposed to be in hiding close by before her surrender. The shikaar stories were awesome, maybe a trifle tall yet they became part of the lore I would tell awestruck young friends on my visits home.
The army picnics were a lesson in organisation drills; MBAs wouldn’t do such meticulous planning for a financial kill to compare with that which was done for an afternoon’s thrill. Sukhwan Dukhwan Dam, Talbeit, Orcha suddenly became dearer than Juhu Beach, Chowpatty or Fort.
The ladies in the station flocked around this bambaiya, assuming that since I was from Bombay I was on first name basis with film stars. I didn’t have the heart to let them down and a vivid imagination fuelled by movie magazines helped. Two movie halls dished out stale Bollywood fare, which was lapped up because it was accompanied by loads of rum and salamis. There were stories of rats sometimes joining in for a bite of the latter, so there.
While the Budh Bazar held on Wednesdays — thus the name — was so much fun, five kilograms of tomatoes was happily bought for a rupee, tender green peas twice the price. Treats sometimes meant a ride to a certain hotel in Jhansi, all of 26 km away and on a two-wheeler, for a chana bhatura and tutti-fruiti. The English Book Depot was one link with the latest reads, and the Army Library a great second.
The samosas from Chachas are a distant memory but the tennis ball-sized gulab jamuns with a raisin in their heart were a treat no one can forget.
So how far-fetched does this experience seem to you? In today’s world where a WhatsApp message flies across the globe in nanoseconds, where socialising is done more on the web, can traditions like ‘calling on’ someone which meant going over to a fellow officer’s home at a very decent seven in the evening and staying for around 45 minutes only must seem like a fairy tale.
The camaraderie that we built within our own unit and among the brethren posted in the same station has survived unscathed over 34 years or so, and mind you all this was without any emails. We only had the snail mail, and all letters were routed through the Army Postal Corps. And we had the most fabulous of relations with dear friends who told you when you were going home at the end of a rather eventful year in more ways than one, do write and tell us if you are blessed with a he-baby or a she-baby!
There have been many cantonments since, but nothing that matches your first one!
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