Backlash to Today

By Dr. Sudhir Andrews

"Spanning from 1946 during British colonization to 2023's era of 'economic colonization,' 'Backlash to Today' is a unique historical anthology interwoven with the author's life. It intricately portrays nine decades, capturing the essence of each era through lifestyles, fashion, dance, and music while chronicling significant global and Indian occurrences—disasters, terrorism, assassinations, crimes, deaths, wars, and civil disturbances. Beyond a mere reflection, the book offers a broader philosophical perspective. The author foresees humanity's imminent demise due to irreparable climate change, power-hungry leaders, terrorism causing global instability with economic collapse, the looming specter of nuclear annihilation, and the dread of an untreatable pandemic. It aspires to impart a glimpse of these nine decades to future inheritors of the Earth, whether human or alien. This ambitious work aims to serve as a time capsule akin to the profound significance of the Dead Sea Scrolls, providing a visceral understanding of the times lived and the looming challenges facing humanity."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Rose Publishers
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1940-1949

A BACKDROP TO MY FAMILY

Not many would have read or heard about the life of a child in the Armed Forces, much less the Indian Air Force, for which my father flew, before and after the Independence of India.

The children of the Defense Services officers were outgoing, privileged and adaptable to change. Our fathers had postings to new places almost every three years and therefore we adapted to new environments, relationships and schools. We embraced the latest fashions and were often the trailblazers of modern ideas. We all spoke immaculate English having mostly studied in convents such as Jesus and Mary, St. Columba’s School, Carmel Convent, St. Anthony’s Convent, Loreto Convent, St. Josephs College, Sherwood College etc. During those times, co-ed schools were a rarity. Boys' schools were mostly run by Irish Brothers or English Headmasters, while girls' schools were mostly run by Irish nuns. These institutions imparted discipline, social behavior, and western etiquettes, grooming us to become well-behaved individuals. Convent-educated children had a distinctive style of communication, attitude, and manners. It is no surprise that Indian parents preferred to send their children to these convents.

My father, as a young pilot, flew Vulti-Vengeance dive bombers in the Royal Indian Air Force (RIAF) in World War II, in the Burma operations, against the Japanese. He told us tales of how wily the Japanese intelligence was. They mingled with local Burmese having the same slanted eyes and colour. They knew exactly where the British-Indian aviation fuel dumps and arsenals were stored and relentlessly bombed them. The Burmese were bent on conquering India by getting a foothold in the North-East of India. My father flew on his bombing missions from Kohima airfield in Nagaland and stopped their advance. He noted that Indian pilots were very good fliers and normally succeeded in their missions against the Japanese hidden in the Burmese tropical jungles. The pilots hailed the American involvement in the war after the debacle of Pearl Harbour. The American Pacific naval fleet was all but vanquished. With this new development in the Pacific, the English forces in Burma hoped it would distract the Japanese towards American interventions in South Asia. One fine day, the Japanese suddenly withdrew from their Indian campaign. As predicted, the Japanese troops were needed elsewhere.

Following the Japanese withdrawal, my father relocated to Peshawar where he covered the British-Afghanistan operations. He had gone through rigorous and exacting training as a pilot cadet and graduated with flying colours! His long years in the RIAF made him a perfect Anglophile in attitude and behaviour, which he passed rather strictly onto us children later. He married my mother when she performed at her college play in Hyderabad. Stricken by her, he soon married her. She swooned over him in his handsome uniform. He took her to Peshawar (undivided India) as a new bride and impressed her with a sprawling bungalow and liveried Pathan butlers. Such were the values, status and style that officers got then. I came into this world in July 1946 at a British military hospital in Peshawar An antiquated photo that survived many decades, shows me in the arms of a pretty young British nurse who delivered me. It is the Pathan servants at home who called me Raja Sahib which became my pet name ever since.

We spoke only English at home, though my mother and father would break into Telegu the dialect of our home state Andhra Pradesh. They spoke it especially when they wanted to exchange secrets from us children without realizing that we were onto them as time went by!

I grew up as an anglophile, with a British outlook despite being rooted in India, unlike Anglo-Indians who have mixed parentage. My birth took place at a time when three very important events in the history of the world happened. One was the end of World War II in August 1945, when the world was awash with the scars and stories of war, turning me into a World War II buff to date! My interest in wars and other world events grew, listening to my father and his fellow officers.

Then came the unimaginable – the end of British rule after about 200 years and the consequent independence of India in 1947. The British had left behind several legacies including the English language, laws of governance, a robust bureaucracy, the railway network, post and telegraph services, gorgeous hill resorts, country-wide Dak (postal) Bungalows, CPWD (Central Public Works Department) Guest Houses, Gymkhana’s and Social Clubs, excellent educational schools and their mindsets, norms of behaviour, and discipline among the armed forces and civil services.

Finally, came the holocaust in 1947 of the partition of India into two separate countries on religious grounds – Hindus and Muslims. Britain created Pakistan for the Muslims, split into West and East Pakistan, while India remained a secular state with a largely Hindu population and a sizable Muslim population who decided to stay on in India. The Muslims along with Christians, Buddhists, Sikhs, Jains, Parsis (Persian descendants), etc. were collectively the minority. The partition had killed about one million people and displaced about twenty million families. My family were Protestant Christians. We came from a lineage of great Brahmin grandfathers, surrounded by lore as to how they became Christians.

By 1955 my family consisted of an accomplished and highly motivated father who brooked no weakness or indiscipline; a bright and intelligent mother who shone with a lot of love, compassion and deep spirituality. Then my beautiful and brattish sister Suman, a year younger than me, had the license to challenge my strict father as his pet child; finally, in 1954 my cute twin sisters Sunita aka Bonny and Sunila aka Lulu, were charming bundles of babyhood then.

Partition - My First Train Ride

Where do I start? In 1947 I guess during partition, as a one-year-old. I related with the world through my senses then. My mother, later filled in the gaps that I didn’t understand, to give this period a context - the Partition of India. We arrived at the railway station of Lahore in divided India, from Peshawar.

I dismounted from the Air Force jeep and gawked at the carpet of red - the shirts of swarms of coolies who balanced luggage precariously but expertly on their heads. The smell of dung and hay pervaded the atmosphere as horse-pulled Tongas (canopied transport on two wheels) jostled for parking space at the railway station. I also sensed a strange chemistry of the moment. The palpable anxiety of people.

The smell of coal and steam on the platform replaced the smell outside. People rushed about in anxiety, anger and fear. Sheltered in the warmth of my mother’s arms, I saw a train for the first time, led by a hissing black behemoth like a mythical dragon, called the locomotive or steam engine. I thought it would be in for one good joy ride. People huddled on the train's roof like monkeys on a parapet. Strange, but I didn’t know any better. As a Flight Lieutenant (now in the Indian Airforce), my father had access to an elite carriage reserved for former British military officers. A luxury we can only fantasize about right now. Another scent assaulted me as we boarded the railway carriage. It came from, I’m told, the disinfectant called phenol used to sanitize the attached bathroom and the floors of the coach. Two small caged fans hung from the roof of our compartment and swayed dutifully. The green leathered sofa cum beds along the shuttered grilled windows on each side gave me the feeling of comfort from the bustle outside. The customary haggling by my mother with the coolie caught my attention in amusement. Once the entry door locked, we were back to our cocoon, shut out from the surreal atmosphere outside.

Fleeing during Partition

As I grew older, I learnt that we were fleeing from Pakistan to India during the holocaust of the Partition of India into West and East Pakistan. I never knew then, the significance of that train journey nor the change of history, when India shredded into other nations. I witnessed a keyhole view of that historical period. I fell into a light slumber but rudely awoke to the whistle of a shuttle engine belching steam in anger on the parallel line. Apparently, I cried, unable to fathom this new sound. My mother hushed me to sleep. I wondered where my father was. Apparently, as the only officer on that train, he received orders to commandeer the train at the engine, leaving me and my mother alone in our coach.

The coach jolted! The journey of my life had started. The rhythmic clickity-clack of the wheels on the rails below, and the gentle sway of the coach presented the perfect cocktail for a sound sweet sleep. Suddenly, the train squealed and jerked to a stop. I awoke in fear to a bewildering silence. My mother eagerly looked out of the window for signs of the abrupt train stoppage. Without warning, I heard blood-curdling screams which I had never heard before. I immediately sensed that something terrible had happened. There were more screams and more and more! My mother hastily shuttered the windows and double-locked the entry door. I felt my mother’s anxiety. I cried uncontrollably. The Muslims of Pakistan were slaughtering the Hindus on the train. The killing mob moved from coach to coach unleashing their executions. The ear-piercing shrieks came closer to our coach. I felt her anxiety as she cradled me on her lap. Suddenly, a loud banging on our door startled us. The banging became more forceful and urgent. My mother’s quick thinking saved the day for us. She opened one window and shouted at the hooligans to stop. I then saw two faces covered in blood, clutching at the open window grill as they surveyed the coach within. That sight left a life-long impression on me which arose several times in my life explained later. She showed her necklace with a gold cross. She also held out the Bible to them from within. Fresh from British rule, they left us alone. We were grateful for being Christians. They were looking out for Hindus only. I now wear that gold cross as a stark reminder of that dark past.

The moving cortege

Amongst that cacophony, we were comforted to hear my father’s voice outside the carriage. Mother hastily let him in. He comforted us. He became my hero as he ventured back to the engine. How did he have the courage to roam so freely? I learnt later that the mob didn’t kill men in military uniform. Apparently, he returned to the engine driver and directed him to clear the barricade of tree branches that the hooligans laid across the rail tracks, to forcibly stop the train. He ordered the engine driver to go to the nearest village station on the Indian side, to access a phone. (There were no mobile phones then). He needed help to disembowel the train carriages of their dead bodies. The local District Commissioner cobbled together a crew to accomplish that demanding work at a remote station in the new India. The train then gently rumbled into a sluggish cadence, putting me back to sleep. At the very least, I was aware that the train had temporarily transformed into a mobile cortege. The individuals on the roof had also vanished, maybe dead in a field. The rest of the journey became a haze moving to Amritsar and then onto Ambala via Ludhiana via train.

My father’s first Assignment Post-Independence

My father transferred from Ambala to New Delhi soon after independence. Air Marshal Subroto Mukherjee led the newly formed Indian Airforce. He tasked my father to take over the Communication Squadron (Comm. Squadron in Airforce lingo). The Comm. Squadron flew VIPs on official visits around the country. He narrated to us how he cycled to the Palam Airport from the Air Headquarters, which were barracks then in Central New Delhi quite a distance away. Today it is unimaginable. He quipped that the journey on cycle wasn’t too bad as the Budh Jayanti Road had young British young WAC (Women Auxiliary Corp) women giggling their way to work at the Army Cantonment. At Palam airport, two British officers awaited him at a lone Porto-cabin. With a sneer, they flung the keys to the filing cabinet on a sole desk and showed two Dakota planes parked away further. It’s yours now they sniggered. That was the handover! They ran off to a plane tasked to take the English officers back to England. On one occasion in his new assignment, my father had the privilege to fly a sitting Prime Minister and two future Prime Ministers to Leh. They were Pandit Nehru, the young Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi as a kid.

Our First Home in New Delhi

We lived within the Palam airport premises in family accommodation for officers. A common courtyard spread along the u-shaped row of barracks converted to residential houses. I grew into a knowledgeable two-year-old by then and recall our first car – a light-blue Hillman Minx. I remember my mother learning to drive and crashing it into the compound gate! My mother also gave birth to my sister Suman in that period. I had a playing partner now. Apparently, I tried to poke her eyes to confirm whether she was real or a doll!

Our First Republic Day Parade

My sister Suman and I witnessed the first Republic Day parade, she at the age of one and me at the knowledgeable age of two, the next year in Delhi. We saw in awe, the soldiers, sailors and airmen, dressed in ceremonial uniforms, in separate trucks heading for the parade. We were especially fascinated by the sailors. We always saw them in picture books only. Here they were for real. We drove to Rajpath (the erstwhile Kingsway), a ceremonial stretch of a three-mile road from the Viceroys residence (now the President’s residence called Rashtrapathi Bhawan) to the India Gate at the other end, built in memory of soldiers killed in World War I on behalf of the British. The entire route had tiered green benches for adults while we children sat with other children on Dhurries (cotton carpets) in front, giving us a grandstand view. We were enchanted with medaled officers in their resplendent uniforms. It was a moment of pride for us to witness our father among the group of senior officers. The pavilion reserved for the senior officers was located next to the President's enclosure. The Presidential carriage, a grand legacy of the British, driven by horses, escorted by uniformed President's bodyguards with lances, was used by President Rajendra Prasad and Prime Minister Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru to arrive at the event. We also had the opportunity to see all the ministers and their wives. We children tried to recognize them but failed miserably! A 21-gun salute accompanied the national anthem as it played. We stuck our finders in our ears to mute the roaring canons.

Of course, the parade was magnificent with armoured military-ware, primarily the tanks. The March Past strode by in full military splendor accompanied by brass bands. Themed floats of different states, a sight we never seen before, came after the March Past. Schoolchildren followed with traditional dances. We children gawked at camels and elephants for the first time. We ended with a flypast of hand-me-dawn old military planes. All were propeller-driven at that time. I guess, as a new nation, we were handed down all the discarded military ware of World War II. (Incidentally, the sequence of the parade has not changed till today after 75 years, except for advancements in technology).

During this decade two significant events took place. While I was too small then to understand their significance, flashes of talks by my father and his cohorts stayed with me to substantiate later on.

WARS

First Indo-Pak War (1947-48)

1947 announced the first Indo-Pakistan war over Kashmir. At that time Jammu and Kashmir (J&K) stood as an independent princely state. The English gave Maharaja Hari Singh of J&K, a choice to ascertain whom he would like to accede to – Pakistan or India. While he pondered on this offer, Pakistan precipitated a war on 22nd October 1947 by sending tribal militia from Waziristan, now in Pakistan's hands, to occupy J&K to pre-empt the state’s accession to India. The Maharaja decided to accede to India on October 26, 1947, and requested military assistance from India. As narrated by Field Marshall Maneckshaw in an interview later, Pandit Nehru dithered whether to accept Kashmir or not, in the presence of Lord Mountbatten, Sardar Patel and a young Brigadier Sam Maneckshaw. Sardar Patel threw the question to Pandit Nehru to decide on the accession of Kashmir. Pandit Nehru reluctantly accepted it after some hesitation, and Sardar Patel immediately instructed Sam Maneckshaw to send troops to Kashmir. My father along with others was involved in ferrying standby troops to Srinagar airfield which had not been captured by the Pakistan militia as yet. Apparently, the Indian troops drove the marauding tribals back and were on their way to expelling them from Kashmir altogether when Pandit Nehru inexplicably called a halt to the victorious Indian soldiers, saying that he would refer the matter to the United Nations. While the Modi government has termed it the Himalayan Blunder there is new evidence from The Guardian newspaper in the UK, that accessed classified secret files lying at the Nehru Memorial Museum in India. They claim, that the then British General Sir Francis Robert Roy Bucher who led the Indian army, advised Pandit Nehru on November 28, 1948, to halt the progress of Indian troops because they were untrained and tired. The officer ranks of India's military were deficient in leadership qualities. As a solution, Nehru was advised to seek diplomatic resolution through the United Nations. is The British speculated that suspected Nehru of embracing the Soviet Union as a model for Indian governance. The Cold War hung as a dark cloud over the Western allies and the USSR. The UN negotiated a general ceasefire on January 1, 1949. By then, Pakistan occupied one-third of Kashmir, now called Pakistan Occupied Kashmir or POK. Pakistan called it Azad Kashmir. The fact still stands that Nehru listened to this advice instead of checking with General K.M. Cariappa destined to take over the leadership of the Indian army after the British left. He also did not consult the Indian officers in the front. The backlash of that decision is felt till today.

India had the Kashmir Valley, Jammu and Ladakh. Pandit Nehru believed that Kashmiris determined their own fate and imposed the Article 370 which meant that India had no say in their internal matters. After the separation of East Pakistan in 1971, the political and military establishment of Pakistan aimed to gain control of Kashmir. The split of Kashmir is still a bone of contention between the two neighbors to date. However, after 75 years, Prime Minister Modi made a classic move to withdraw Article 370 and bring Jammu and Kashmir directly under Indian administrative control in 2023.

Source: World Wide Web

Pathfinder: Dr. Mahipal Rathore

The Guardian Newspaper, UK reportage of documents from Nehru Memorial Museum

Field Marshal Sam Maneckshaw’s interview on U-Tube

First Arab-Israeli War (1948-49)

The Arab-Israeli war headlined the second world event in this decade. My father’s officers spoke endlessly about it over mugs of beer, in our living room. The aftermath of World War II revealed the horror of the mass extinction of six million Jews in Nazi Germany’s concentration camps. With the world’s sheer disbelief and mass sympathy for the Jews, the United Nations approved the Balfour Declaration proffered by the British as they held the Mandate to govern the Middle East region after World War I. The Declaration gave the Jews their own homeland - Israel. They located the area in the Biblical desert of Canaan and later Judea under King Solomon of the Jews. The Ottoman Empire later scattered the Jews who co-existed with Arabs as nomads for several decades. Under the new mandate, the Palestinians were given the West Bank of the Jordan River, including Jerusalem which is important to three religions of the world – Christians (the Holy Sepulcher), Jews (King Solomon’s Temple Wall) and the Muslims (Dome of the Rock); and the Gaza Strip, a land 41 miles long and 14 miles wide, in the South West of Israel. As soon as Israel's first President, Ben Gurion, hastily declared the independence of the country, the neighboring Arab states of Lebanon to the north, Syria and Iraq to the northeast, Jordan to the east, and Egypt to the southwest, launched an attack on Israel. The Arab nations did not accept the Balfour Declaration or acknowledge the existence of the state of Israel. It is the sheer ingenuity and grit of the Israeli fledgling army that they defeated the Arab States taking the Golan Heights of Syria, East Jerusalem, and Gaza to use as buffer zones in the eventuality of other wars. These areas are still a bone of contention and a flashpoint of the Middle East. The backlash of this enmity is felt till today when on October 7, 2023 Israel and Hamas (Terrorist group based in Gaza) went into a brutal war.

Source: World Wide Web

Documentaries: The Arab-Israeli Wars

CHAPTER 2

1950-1959

The Transfer to Agra

The 1950-1959 were memorable for my family as my father was posted to Agra, a quaint town known for the Taj Mahal, an ancient wonder of the world. The 1950’s enfolded memorably. My father got posted to Agra, a quaint little town known for the Taj Mahal an ancient wonder of the world. It had however a strategic air field of the Air Force at Kheria, specifically meant for transport planes and fighter jets. It had the American Douglas Dakota, the workhorse of World War II, especially on D-Day, the strategic landing of Allied forces on the Normandy beach that started the fall of Nazi Germany. There were also the twin-tailed American Fairchild Packets that ferried larger loads and troops. My father flew the Dakota through thick and thin, like the rescue mission to Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) during a devastating flood in that island. He dropped food packages from his Dakota to Sinhalese people marooned on their roof rooftops.

As a Squadron Leader, he acquired the task to commission and head the first Paratroopers Training School (PTS) of India. I got to see famous generals and some royals, all aspiring to be paratroopers. Many dined with us at our home to complete some long-lasting bonds. Entry to the airbase was secured by a password to the sentry. The password remained Friend for many years! But then again, the security threats, as we have today, were non-existent then.

Our Homes at the Airforce Base

Our homes in Kheria the Airforce base adjoined one another built on a linear style with corrugated cement roofs. We had an independent living room, dining room, and two separate bedrooms. Each house had a garden in front divided by hedges from neighbouring houses. I remember lying on the front lawn, surrounded by marigolds and snapdragons, watching yellow Tiger Moth biplanes loop in the sky like wasps. Apparently, they were the first stage of flying for an air cadet till they graduated to the single-winged orange coloured Harvards which did the same loop-the loos. The drones of aeroplanes taking off and landing were our daily soundtracks at the base!

We also had a kitchen garden at the back of the house. We grew red tomatoes, green chillies, purple brinjals, yellow cauliflowers and cabbages. They looked so colourful when ripe. Today they would be called organic vegetables at exorbitant prices! The kitchen stood separate from the main block but connected by a canopied corridor. In those days we used charcoal which emitted smoke when lit. Food, cooked on charcoal, had an aroma and taste that are nostalgic. Without refrigerators, we had meat-safes which were wooden box structures with wire-meshed sides to allow fresh air to keep meats and breads fresh. How the food did not putrefy is a mystery! My mother would accurately portion the raw materials to the Khansama (cook) to leave no food behind. In those days households also portioned out food for the cooks! We kept in a hutch with red-eyed white rabbits with red-pink noses. We fed them lettuce which they guzzled without coaxing. When cleaning the hutches we held the rabbits by their long ears and they dutifully did not complain!

Indoor Décor

The government MES furnished the living rooms for their practical usage rather than their aesthetic value. We ended up with monastic furniture perhaps adorned by our tasseled cushions. We did not have fancy luggage as we have today. We had voluminous crates, to carry kitchenware, blankets and pillows, on transfers every three years. We needed to be mobile at a moment's notice. The crates required four people to move them, but they also served as comfortable seating. We spread a Kashmir carpet over it with luscious cushions. Everyone knew the secret below the Kashmir carpet! The living rooms had fireplaces and mantles used by the British in winter with logs and grates. As we Indians didn’t live their lifestyle, we pushed green potted bush plants to fill the gaping hole. The mantelpiece displayed our prized curio or family picture. They served to display Christmas and Diwali cards during the season. We did not have the impersonal stylized forwarded greetings on the mobile as we have today. Cards were a beautiful and personal way to wish each other. My cousin had a personal collection of her prized cards that she displayed in an album she curated herself. In Christian countries, news channels would alert citizens in advance to send cards to foreign friends and relatives, which was a great service. The cards were sent by post with postage stamps. This spurred me to philately with a wonderful collection of stamps. I had a foreign stamp album with country names non-existent today, like Yugoslavia, USSR, Ceylon, Burma, Siam, Indo-China, Rhodesia, Tanganyika etc.

Coming back to indoor décor. The roofs were high and tall on the principle that hot air rose. So unreachable ventilators were provided near the roof. However, we were provided with long poles with brass hooks to open or close them. That provided us with air conditioning! We had fans with long spindles that shook so violently, controlled by regulators that operated only on zero or full! The fans threatened our lives with each swirl!

In Agra, we now possessed a steel-blue foreign Fiat with a fog lamp at the radiator center. Suman and I cried as we said goodbye to our prized Hillman Minx, We were attached to our cars like family members.

Medical Care

Our go-to doctor operated from the medical clinic called MI room (Medical Inspection Room), of the airbase. For serious ailments, we went to the Army Hospital. However, the best alternative doctor for all seasons had to be our mothers. She managed ailments with a clutch of medicines including the despicable Seven Seas Cod Liver Oil for constipation; the lovable sweet red liquid Zephrol cough mixture; the Aspro tablets in their pink aluminum foil, for headaches and fever; the purple bottled Milk of Magnesia for stomach disorders; the pink coloured Lacto Calamine lotion for skin bursts like chicken pox, measles, pimples, boils and prickly heat; burning Tincture Iodine for bruises and cuts; a purple paint for throat problems; Vicks Vaporub for congested chests and noses; and finally gauzes and bandages to wrap all problems away! With these handfuls of medicines, we miraculously passed our childhood.

The Liberators are coming!

While learning to ride bicycles with a friend, we had unrestricted access to the runway in the evenings devoid of air traffic then. As we wobbled along the centre of the runway. A squadron of four-engine Vultee B24 propeller-driven Liberator bombers had queued up in the air to land. They were discarded World War II bombers by the UK, having moved to jet engines. Of course we heard them approaching us and moved to the edge of the runway, not off it on the adjoining grass. We were witnessing a historic moment when India got their first bombers. However, neither the incoming pilots nor the control tower knew our intentions. We suddenly heard loud shouts from the balcony of the control tower. We thought they were cheering the pilots as they landed. We also clapped as each plane landed. Military police came and seized our bicycle and escorted us to the control tower. We were so scared and ashamed and hoped that they did not complain to our respective fathers. They did! We got an unforgettable pasting from them! In the past, it was considered acceptable to physically discipline children in public.

Tragedies at the Airbase

Air Crashes

Each morning at six, a formation of twin-propelled Douglas Dakotas took off one by one with a roar of screaming engines to drop paratroopers on practice jumps, at an open range away from Agra. My father led the formations always. Then on a couple of occasions, a dreaded siren wailed to announce a plane crash. The whole airbase panicked. Housewives ran out in various states of dishabille. In such an emergency, the station blocked the residential phone connections (black ones with a dial) to keep the airbase communication free for the emergency at hand. Each wife panicked, some crying and some screaming, not knowing whose husband had crashed. The sight of a black plume of burning aviation fuel in the distance confirmed the horror. We children left for school early by the station bus before the planes were scheduled to land. We did not witness the panic. By the time we returned in the afternoon we saw all the officers gathered in sombre silence at the Motor Transport Section (MTS) as they had a large tarred area to accommodate the gathering. The centrepiece of the gathering had a coffin (or more) draped with the Indian flag. The school bus hastily passed by to drop the children to their respective homes. Our mothers waited at their house gates to receive us to tell the news. Sometimes it was my friend’s father who crashed and I had the urge to run to his home to comfort him. My mother held me back saying that they needed space to grieve.

In another incident, my sister Suman pushed a pram of our twin sisters, born in 1955, for a morning walk. She rushed back home excitedly telling my parents that that she saw ‘bombs’ falling from the planes. My father who led the formation everyday had the flu that day and therefore delegated the task to his deputy to lead the formation. Just then the ominous sound of the siren howled and we were paralysed. Two Dakotas had crashed into each other while preparing to land. The loud sound of the crash and the debris falling are what my sister assumed were bombs. Luckily they had para-dropped the troopers already leaving only the crew. We could see the dreaded black plumes of two crashed Dakotas on the horizon. Many wives tried to cross the fields to reach the spot but were sent back by the military police. It was customary for the squadron commander and his wife to announce the death of an officer to the respective wives. Despite his illness, my father rushed to the squadron office to learn the names of the officers killed. There were twelve. Many of my friends’ fathers had been killed and it was painful. My parents had to face some very difficult situations breaking the news, of which two are worth mentioning.

A newly wedded Flying Officer and his bride were about to depart on their honeymoon. They both carried their black steel trunk (the usual luggage piece those days) to their gate. The Flying officer had to collect his salary from the administrative office. He promised his wife to return in a jiffy. She sat on the trunk at the gate awaiting his return in a jeep that was provided to drive them to the railway station. The administrative office had not opened as yet. While her husband waited, another pilot said, Since you are waiting, why don’t you join me on this para-drop. It will take just fifteen minutes. He agreed to be a passenger to kill time! He flew on one of the ill-fated planes. Meanwhile, his bride waited for the jeep at the gate of their home in her resplendent red bangles, saffron mehndi (Henna painted designs on hands) and her wedding sari. Instead, she saw the official car of my father with my mother. She did not understand the meaning of this as she was new to the Air Force life. When my mother broke the news to her she went berserk in disbelief. She banged her head to the wall and smashed her bridal bangles screaming uncontrollably. The other neighbors hearing the screams joined my mother to console her. Her world turned upside down. So did ours! We shared her grief for days.

In another sad incident, an Anglo-Indian pilot, called his wife from Delhi that he was returning for lunch with a basket of mangoes for her. His Harvard plane never landed. Due to a technical snag, the plane crashed midway. Again my father and mother had to break the news to his wife. She refused to believe them. Saying, He just called to say that he was coming for lunch. I shall wait for him. She waited and waited…..

India’s First Jet

One day my friend and I were pedaling our cycles on the tarmac of an unused aeroplane parking strip. To our surprise, we saw a toy-like plane without propellers being attended to by a few airmen. It was India’s first jet plane – the De Havilland Vampire. The airmen explained that the plane was a jet and did not need propellers. We wondered how it could fly. We asked them to let us have a peek inside the cockpit. A small ladder led to it. The cockpit was so small that we wondered how a pilot would fit into it. It seemed that even we could fly it! It had two tails to boot. We asked the airmen to take us for a ride. They shooed us away. With excitement, I went home to recount my findings to the family. My father showed me how a jet worked. He asked for a balloon and blew into it till it was full. He then released the balloon that propelled it forward. That became my first lesson on jets.

Festivals at the Air Base

On a lighter side, festivals were celebrated robustly by the entire air force station. One was the Christmas party at the officers’ mess in the early evening. There were clowns, magicians and ventriloquists performed by officers with such talent. We also participated in party games and had sumptuous eats. Everyone dressed in their fineries. The officers had hard liquor to match the children’s joy-making. The high point of the evening was when Santa Claus appeared in the air! A Dakota plane strapped Santa in the doorway of the plane and flew at an angle so all could see him. There were enough fair Anglo-Indian pilots on the airbase to look like Father Christmas. One would dress as Santa and waved to us from the plane door. The plane flew at a tree-top level for us to clearly see him. He wore red Santa clothes, a snow-white beard and moustache. We children were simply awed at the sight, one that most in India could not have seen. It stayed in our minds forever. Some of us kids were scared of course! We all sat in each other’s car and drove to the airport to receive him. We were all excited and trembling in anticipation as the Dakota landed and taxied close to us on the parking apron. He stepped out with a Ho-Ho-Ho! Older kids rushed to him while the younger ones shrunk in fear behind their mother, but curiously peeping!

We then went back to the Officer’s Mess with him in an open car. We sang carols to please him, the most popular one being Jingle Bells…. which all sang in full gusto. When we reached the mess, came the time for the presenting of gifts. Parents had come earlier to leave them at the foot of a baubled Christmas tree in the mess hall. We kids sat on the carpeted floor in a semi-circle anticipating our gifts as he called out the names one by one. It is worth mentioning that all our toys were from England. A plane flew