Cantonment capers: What’s there in a name when two’s company and three a crowd ?

An NGO recently hit upon a novel idea to encourage slum children to study. In slums of Cuffe Parade,

Govandi and Mankhurd in Mumbai, doorstep schools run by the NGO rewarded meritorious students by naming roads and lanes after them.

These special students then inspired others also to join the doorstep schools, take their education seriously and aspire for similar honour. It reminded me of my own attempt at naming a landmark and how it ended in utter failure.

The story is nearly 37 years old.

We, I and Kris Rau who was my batchmate from medical school, were posted to a small military cantonment in upper Assam. This place was then as remote as it could be, though connected by rail to Pune, so what if it took nearly three days and required changing four trains en route just to reach our place of posting!

We were newly commissioned officers of Army Medical Corps and not the first ones posted to this almost forgotten station. Its only claim to fame were that it was the most lit up station on the painfully slow route of Arunachal Fast Passenger of yore, and it boasted of a transit halt for all the officers and soldiers travelling to western Arunachal Pradesh.

The transit camp was located on one side of the quaint little railway station, separated by a largish ditch filled with rainwater. The ditch must’ve been dug to obtain earth for the construction of the platforms, and the copious rainfall in the region would have filled it up in no time.

The Military Cantt was a dull place. Barring a somnolent Service Officers’ Institute that came to life once in a blue moon, and a Cinema Hall that was famous for showing absolutely C Grade films, there was not much entertainment available. At least the married folks had their ‘married accommodation’ and their spouses to keep them entertained. But Single Officers had a particularly difficult time after working hours, unless they could convince their superiors and visit Tezpur, 35 kms away. There, one could take in a movie, eat at a half-decent restaurant or even meet a girlfriend if one had been enterprising enough to find one.

Young Hariharan was enterprising alright. He had found himself a local college going girlfriend at Tezpur. He would often find himself important errands for the unit

that could only be completed at Tezpur. And on that pretext, he would call on his girlfriend as well. The visits would be all too brief and would leave him with a lot to be desired.

But on a particular Sunday, he managed to get permission to make a ‘social’ visit to Tezpur. There was only one problem. It was a ‘dry day’ for military transport. So, he decided to approach his mate Tech Officer Cheema and borrow his shiny new Yezdi motorcycle for the trip. After a brief negotiation, Cheema agreed to lend the bike provided he could also accompany Hari, so that he could have dinner at Tezpur.

The two young men were soon on their way to Tezpur. The girlfriend was called upon and invited out for a dinner. Some great conversation and sumptuous dinner later, it was time to say goodbye and go back to their station and unit. That is when the young lady got propositioned to accompany them. She was promised that she would be dropped back on that shiny new Yezdi early next morning. It being a Sunday evening and a gentleman’s promise to deposit her back at her hostel at dawn, she accepted the invitation his time, the Yezdi had three riders.

Hari was to drive, Cheema was to be the pillion rider and the slim young lady was to sit between the two of them.

It was a lovely summer evening, just the kind to shoot some breeze on a speeding Yezdi. The road had scant traffic and there was a bomber’s moon on the Eastern sky. The bike with its three riders just flew through the miles. But such close physical contact has its own perils.

Things rapidly progressed from pleasant to steamy hot as they entered the military cantonment.

The roads here were smoother and the bike gained speed. Now this is when the mobike screeching down the road running parallel to the railway line hit the perimeter road,

forgot to take a turn and literally flew through the air till it splashed into the centre of the railway ditch.

The protagonists of our story just about managed to crawl out of the algae-covered waters of the ditch. The young lady, distraught, shocked and covered in mud let off a stream of choicest expletives much to the amusement of a small crowd that had gathered at the edge of the ditch.

I was told that a change of clothes was arranged for her and she was sent back on a late-night State Transport bus to Tezpur. She vowed never to return. The bike could only be recovered a few days later with the help of the local EME Battalion’s Recovery vehicle. It cost a princely sum to have it washed and serviced. It was made functional but was a lot less shiny now.

When we were narrated this story, an immediate thought occurred to me.

The roads in the cantonment had all prosaic and dull names like Purvi Marg, Paschimi Marg, Seema Marg etc. All the overhead water tanks were named after various rivers in India. Ganga, Yamuna, Godavari made sense because they provided us water. But the poor railway ditch did not have a name!

It was witness to and part of a historic event and was still entirely nameless. Besides, there was nothing to show that as one zipped down the road parallel to the railway track, the dark rectangle beyond the Seema Marg was a ditch!

So I got a wooden plank on a stem painted ‘Hariharan Ditch’ in fluorescent colours and planted this piece of signage bang opposite the place where the Engineer Park Road met the Seema Marg.

Alas! It lasted only two days.

The Station Headquarters did not appreciate my effort at all. And the ditch went nameless once again.