THE ADMIRAL AND THE COCA-COLA

By Ramesh Chandra Khankeriyal

There are memories which time does not quite erase. Instead, it settles upon them gently, as dust settles upon an old road, and somehow the things beneath remain recognisable. The great events of childhood may fade—their dates, names and circumstances becoming uncertain—but some insignificant object, some sound, some smell or some small disappointment can survive with remarkable precision.

One such memory takes me back more than half a century, to the Army cantonment at Jabalpur in the early 1970s: broad roads beneath spreading trees, the measured movement of military vehicles, the white-clad children of a school PT display, a distinguished naval Admiral, and a bottle of Coca-Cola.

I was six, perhaps seven.

My father was an Army officer, and our family lived in the separated quarters of the cantonment. My brothers and sisters and I attended St. Joseph’s Convent, Cantonment, Sadar Bazar, an old and respected missionary school.

I had only just begun school, and the world was consequently still new enough to demand explanation.

The cantonment seemed enormous to me. Its broad roads passed between trees, military establishments, parade grounds and rows of quarters. Army vehicles came and went with a deep mechanical rumble. I remember Dodge trucks, Tata vehicles and other sturdy machines of the period.

I knew nothing of their engines or military purposes.

I knew only that they belonged to the Army.

That was enough.

The officers in uniform fascinated me even more. Their clothes were immaculate, their shoes polished, their movements deliberate. They seemed to possess a dignity that ordinary men did not. I watched them with the seriousness of a child who knows that something important is happening but has not yet learnt precisely what it is.

The Army was, to my young imagination, a world of order and authority whose boundaries I could see but whose rules I could not yet understand.

Not far from our quarters was the military dairy. There I saw Jersey cows for the first time. Their appearance was unfamiliar, and I regarded them with the curiosity reserved by children for creatures that seem to have wandered into their world from somewhere else.

Milk was collected in huge containers and processed.

And then came the astonishing discovery:

Milk became butter.

I knew nothing of the science involved. But I had begun to understand that the adult world was full of transformations. Things went into one place in one form and emerged somewhere else in another.

There was another transformation that interested me greatly: ice was manufactured at a plant near the military hospital.

The hospital itself was one of the places through which I passed on my way home from school. I remember particularly a circular pond with a fountain in the middle. Beneath the rippling water were fish of many colours, and I could remain there watching them far longer than any sensible child should have done.

Inside the hospital there was another marvel—beds fitted with little wheels.

A bed that moved!

The invention seemed almost magical.

But what remains especially vivid is that the machine-made ice from the nearby plant was transported in bullock carts.

The new and the ancient travelled together: machinery producing the ice, bullocks carrying it away beneath the Indian sun. At six or seven, I had no philosophical explanation for this strange companionship. I simply found it wonderful.

In front of our quarters ran the national highway. Private Tata vehicles passed along it, heavily loaded with goods. Some were uncovered, while others were hidden beneath tarpaulins or similar coverings, so that their actual contents remained invisible to me.

To my childish imagination, every such truck was bound for somewhere distant.

I imagined the road stretching towards Mandla and the eastern parts of Madhya Pradesh, and then farther still—to Bengal, Orissa, distant ports and places whose names I knew long before I could imagine their geography.

I knew little about maps.

But I knew that roads led somewhere.

The highway therefore seemed to me like a great line drawn across the country, disappearing beyond the horizon and continuing into an unknown world.

History was moving around us too.

The Indo-Pak war of 1971 was still fresh in adult conversation. There was talk of the Army, Pakistan and the large number of prisoners of war captured during the conflict. Figures approaching ninety thousand were mentioned with a gravity that made the number almost incomprehensible to a child.

I did not understand war.

I did not understand captivity.

But I understood that when adults discussed these things, their voices became different.

Yet childhood goes on, indifferent to the gravity of history.

There were religious functions, family gatherings, school programmes, songs and films. Cinema was becoming an increasingly vivid part of the cultural atmosphere. Films such as Dost, and later Sholay, belonged to the cinematic world that surrounded those years.

And among the small pleasures of that world was Coca-Cola.

In those days, its brown glass bottle had a special attraction for a child. The drink was dark, sweet and, when properly chilled, wonderfully refreshing. The bottle itself was part of the experience: cool against the hand, shining with beads of moisture, and producing that faint, satisfying sound when opened.

I knew its taste.

I knew its sweetness.

And I knew the pleasure of drinking it slowly.

At that age, one did not need a grand occasion for happiness.

Sometimes a cold bottle of Coca-Cola was occasion enough.

But there was another object across the road that fascinated me.

Opposite our quarters was a large open ground. Beneath a great tree stood an abandoned kiosk.

It had four wheels, partly sunk into the earth. It had a canopy-like covering and a small door with a lock.

No vendor came to open it.

No goods were displayed.

It simply stood there.

For me, however, an abandoned place was not necessarily an empty place.

I would look at that locked door and wonder what might be inside.

Sweets, perhaps.

Toffees.

Biscuits.

Something more precious than all of them.

Why else would the door be locked?

I had not yet learnt the adult truth that a lock may remain long after the reason for locking a door has disappeared.

So the kiosk became a private mystery.

I never opened it.

I never discovered what lay inside.

And therefore, in my imagination, it remained full.

Then came the special school function.

We were told that Admiral Jal Cursetji of the Indian Navy would be the chief guest, and we children were to participate in a PT display.

For days we practised.

Arms up.

Arms down.

Turn.

March.

Stop.

Again.

We were very young, but the rehearsals acquired an almost military seriousness.

Our PT uniform was the familiar dress of those years: white vest, white shorts, white socks and white Bata PT shoes.

Everything was white.

For those few minutes, we ceased to be merely individual children. We became a formation. We moved together, stopped together and raised our arms together.

Then the great day arrived.

The Admiral came.

The function began.

There were teachers, parents, guests and children. There were commands and movements and the peculiar excitement that descends upon a school when an important visitor has come.

We performed.

I remember the white uniforms.

I remember the commands.

I remember the watching faces.

I remember the Admiral.

And I remember that Coca-Cola was to follow.

After the performance, bottles of Coca-Cola were to be distributed among the children.

I waited.

One child received a bottle.

Then another.

The bottles moved steadily along the line.

I watched them carefully.

The brown glass caught the afternoon light. Children held their bottles with both hands, as though they had been entrusted with something precious.

I waited.

My turn would come.

Why should it not?

I had taken part in the display. I had worn the uniform. I had followed the commands.

The bottles became fewer.

Still I waited.

Then the attendant looked into the crate.

There was nothing left.

He looked towards us.

“Finished.”

That was all.

For a moment I remained where I was.

Perhaps another crate would appear.

Perhaps someone had made a mistake.

Perhaps there were more bottles somewhere else.

But no second crate came.

The children began to leave. Some were already drinking their Coca-Cola, lifting the brown bottles to their mouths, the dark liquid and tiny bubbles visible through the glass.

I stood there with nothing in my hands.

I did not cry.

I did not complain.

There was no particular person to blame.

The bottles had simply run out.

The afternoon was beginning to soften when I walked home.

The large ground opposite our quarters lay almost empty now. The heat had begun to withdraw from the earth, and the dust was settling. The old tree stirred gently in the warm breeze.

And beneath it stood the kiosk.

I stopped.

It looked exactly as it always had: four small wheels half-buried in the earth, its weather-darkened body beneath the canopy, its little door closed and the iron lock hanging from it.

I looked at it for a while.

In the fading light, it seemed somehow more mysterious than before.

I wondered again what might be inside.

Sweets, perhaps.

Biscuits.

Toffees.

Or something I had never imagined.

I stepped a little closer.

The lock remained firmly in place.

From somewhere in the distance came the muted sound of an Army vehicle. It grew fainter as it travelled along the road and disappeared beyond the trees.

I looked once more at the little locked door.

Then I turned towards home.

The kiosk remained beneath the tree.

The lock remained upon the door.

And whatever lay behind it could wait for another day.

Himalayan Live Bureau