By the time I reached for the Airforce Officers’ recruitment, the queue had grown like an acromegalic python. Tailing myself to the hundreds-long line, I looked at my Dad, who was standing beside me as my moral cheerleader. “No chance” I tossed my brows, looking at the hundreds arrayed ahead.

It was the zonal level recruitment process for Junior Air force Officers that was going to happen there. People had come from every edge of the state and I was also one of them. Though started early from home, I could make it only at the end of this large queue, which sprouted from the famous Marthoma School that stood on a tiny mount in the heart of the town. The queue looked zigzag from beneath, as if forcibly bent by the road on which it stood: when the road bent right the queue bent right, when the road bent left, the queue also bent left.

As the school ground was opened for the written test, the queue found its way into it. The big ground ate the queue so quickly and the test started off in a short time.

Almost eight hundred candidates had come for the test and the available seats were just 60. Questions on English grammar, general knowledge and more were listed on the question paper and the time was just 30 minutes.

Suspense prevailed in the school premises once the test was over. Some of the guys had already left, as they had performed so miserably in the test and thus there was no hope left for them. Others waited impatiently for the result announcement, which was bound to happen in a short while.

The results came through a loudspeaker announcement. One of the Officers came forward and read the names of victorious candidates. The ones, whose names were announced, went forward and stood near the officer. The result announcement was almost over. Only three or four people left to complete the required seats. I looked outside as to find a way to get out before the whole scene gets over and it becomes difficult to walk out. My Dad was more optimistic and asked me to wait till the last. It was Candidate 59. My hopes were already sunk but I still looked up to see who was going to be the 60th hero of the day.

“The next candidate is….”, I looked around as to see who would raise a hand or shout a “It’s me”.

“ ……..Santosh Wilson”, the announcer paused.

“ Heh! Was that me?” After making sure that there was no other Santosh Wilson, I smiled at my Dad. The officer asked to me to join the Bandwagon and I was supposed to answer him with some details.

“ What is your age?” He asked me looking into my High school certificate.

“16 years sir”

“Ok, Date of Birth?”

“Eleven Four Nineteen Eighty…..I paused, two or three? If you had asked me what was my biggest confusion in life that time, I would never think again to say my date of birth. I had to remember two date-of-births, as in my records the date of birth was entered differently.

“What? “You forgot your date of birth? “ Though he asked the question to me only, it went beyond even the thousands of ears which surrounded me.

Laughter. Kookoooys. I sweated.

“Two sir” I completed.

“You don’t even remember your date of birth. Isn’t by wonder that you have passed this test?”

“Then it is Eleven Four Nineteen Eighty Three sir.. I’m sure” I negotiated like a Mysore street seller.

“Hmm… ok… all of you are selected.. come tomorrow for your Medical Fitness Tests” He winded up the whole drama.

Next day. Medical Fitness test.

The test would take two days. First day the candidates were supposed to undergo medical tests and the next day would be physical fitness rounds.

What followed was tragic. While stepping into the camp room, I never thought even in my wildest dreams that I would have to strip my clothes. Sad part was that I was not alone. The whole gang had been in the room, stripped off already, and watching others stripping. Cool and comfortable, they were sitting there in their best possible poses. They smiled, as they watched my confusion.

‘What have you got in your pants, gold coins?”, they looked at me tellingly. Without any further hesitation, I removed my outfits and joined the underwear party! Some red, some blue, some torn and some grayed, in general, it was a Communion of Underwears.

As time passed, the striptease came out to be more shameful. I told you already that the premise was belonged to a school. As the school time approached, boys and girls had chirped in to the place. They peeped, squeaked and did everything they could do, just to have a glance and a naughty smile.

“Lying Naked
exposed and defenceless,
to the knives and swords
that are words.
Only a thin blanket
of self worth,
to cover my cold and open
heart.”

Our sufferings came in the form of hopeless frowns at each other. The whole day, we found us sitting in the lounge waiting patiently for our turns to go in and get tested. I had noticed that the ones who came out of the room had an ugly expression on their face.

During my turn, I went inside in silence. I had no guess of what was going to happen.

“Come here” One of the doctors told me. I went to him.

“Remove this” He pointed down at me.

“Err.. sir.. this is my last…. I have not worn anything inside this” I tried to educate him of the deadly situation.

“What?”

He did not get me. So he did what I did not do. I stood aghast!

“Good.. Now cough”. He ordered as if holding my remote control on his hands.

I obeyed him like a tamed beast.

“That’ it…. Alright.. go and wait” I was relieved. I couldn’t help having the same ugly expression from clouding my face.

There were few more tests that took two complete days to get over. And one of the last was Feet test. I was told that I had a ‘Pes Caves Foot’. Arched Foot, it meant. It axed my chances.

I wasn’t unhappy. I was still in the striptease mood. All I felt was a getaway in getting out.

Out in the waiting room my Dad was there. I gave him my Report card. He looked at it for once. Then slashed it into maximum pieces possible and flung it in the ground.

Didn’t he say “damn it!”??? Because he never liked failures.



((Poetry- Thanks to Mr David Anthony)

I was moved. From the height of pride to the bottom of vulnerability. The grime of misfortune stank my senses and spoiled the mood. I cried aloud in mind.

It’s all about a mother. A mother with HIV. A mother of 3 kids. I was watching a TV news program called Kannadi and this plight of a mother stuck me in.

She was gifted with AIDS by her husband, who died a year before: leaving her to fight for life, oh no, not just for her life alone, but also for her 3 blossomed kids. Later, she went to her native village in Kerala with her kids.

Surprise! Nobody discarded them! They were allowed to stay there. Aids means help too, the good men of that village stood by the word!

But one condition; the kids shouldn’t be staying with the mother. The villagers feared that the non-HIV kids too would get affected if they stayed with her. So they split them and put them up in a childcare home, like how we pluck flowers one after the other and throw them all into a basket.

She stood there with a smile that conquered the world watching her. It was a smile of having nothing to hope for. Her smile drilled into the world, which addressed her as a mother! Hey World, you have succeeded in splitting the motherhood and the childhood, but could you ever cut the umbilical cord of love that flooded around you?? You can’t.

It’s not about AIDS. It’s not about a widow’s woeful life. It’s all about the partition. It’s only about the wall built in between a mother and her wingless children. Whatever she is, there is no better justice than letting her stay with her kids!

Moral: Dying is inevitable. Dying of AIDS is just not.

Making money comes so naturally as an instinct! From lollypopping boys to age-over uncles, every one is by default money-keen. We drink, we breathe and we money-make-think. Making money is a such an obsession for all of us, a fact I came to affirm yesterday.

Long time after posting my last entry, I have been awaiting such a good spark of inspiration.

I saw Pizza Hut guys making money out of their work within their work time. They made money with a simple thought, which I had to appreciate in mind saying Hurray!!

The two guys who go to the same route for home deliveries would meet at a certain junction after delivering the pizza. From that point, one guy would stop his scooter’s engine as the other one would push it with leg. Doing like this a dozen of times a day, they would save a whole lot in their petrol budget and pocket a good deal of money at the end of the day.

What else to say than Hurray!, when these guys are making money not only smartly, but greenly too?