BORN, RAISED, AND TRANSFERRED

• How growing up as a child from the Services shaped my love for travel

If you have heard of places named Dhana, Mamoon, New Mal and Samba, chances are you are a child from the armed forces. If one or both of your parents was in the Army, Navy, Airforce or related Corps, you qualify as a BRAT (Born, Raised and Transferred). Brats are bound to have travelled the length and breadth of the country and studied in multiple schools across the years.

The current inability to travel has made all of us reminisce about past travels, dig out old photographs, and relive our best travel memories. When I look back at my childhood, the charm of moving to a new destination every couple of years, the train journeys that led us to them, the camaraderie among the families of fellow … who were more than family, exploring a new cantonment with every posting, moving to a new school, making new friends … It’s those experiences that have helped me lay down my roots in new places without a worry, helped me adjust to new places and experiences – and got the travel bug to bite me.

From the verdant valleys of Kashmir, the untouched hills of Tuensang (Nagaland), the sleepy town of Dhana, colourful Gujarat, untouched Ranikhet, the very colonial town of Wellington. are some of the places we lived in. But our exploration of the country wasn’t just limited to these – we managed to see places close by as well. A road trip through Diu, Veraval, Porbandar; the first sight of the majestic Nagarjuna Sagar Dam, the Khasi hills of Shillong and beyond, hill stations like Coonoor and Palampur, the shores of Rameshwaram, the tea gardens and making way for elephant crossings in the Dooars, the mist laden sightings of the Kanchenjunga from Kalimpong, the otherworldly terrain near Leh, the very proper military station of Mhow… so many memories bring a smile to my face as I type this. At the time, we didn’t really think of it as a “road trip” or checking items off a bucket list – We just saw this as a part of our lives, of making memories.
I’ll always associate the song “For he’s a jolly good fellow” with the dining out / farewell dinner for my father, that ended with him seated on a special chair, hoisted up on his fellow officers’ shoulders, with them singing heartily. After multiple farewell lunches and dinners, there would be a warm send-off at the railway station, occasional garlands of marigold, packed lunches to sustain us while we enjoyed our journey. My brother and I would jump across the top bunk, pretending to be Tarzan.

Before the fun train journey across the country that led us to our new location, came the tedious process of packing. My mother remains a pro at the task thanks to her experience in this field – in the absence of professional packers and movers, across 20+ postings, not even a glass has broken when she would pack up our entire home. The same can’t be said for me, though. Starting at an early age, my brother and I would be given small jobs to help her with packing. I was most certainly not an asset on her team – I’d be given old newspapers to wrap up items in. Hours would pass, and I’d be found sprawled on the floor, reading every single newspaper, having forgotten the packing task conveniently.
The next stage would be to wrap up items in gunny bags / hessian cloths, and start giving a fresh coat of paint to large steel trunks. My father’s name and rank, plus our latest destination would be stencilled on to the trunks. My brother most diligently sat and helped with the stencilling. (While I was busy whiling away time reading newspapers instead of packing).

We had no access to emails and cell phones, like all children back then. The disadvantage perhaps was, not being able to remain in contact with friends from our school after we moved to a new school. It was easy – C/O XYZ APO (Army Postal Office) address could sustain a friendship through letters only so much. The interest and pace petered out, but we never seemed to mind. Today, I am connected to many fellow Brats living all over the world – our common experiences bringing us together.

Childhood was, for all of us, a simpler time then than it is now. For us cantonment dwellers, it meant living in the cleanest, most organised part of the town / city – an area replete with greenery, the typical red ochre / gerua colour marking the trees and flower pots, our days and evenings spent in the Unit library, cycling to go and play basketball or swim.

There were also places that had creepy crawlies aplenty. I’m so used to them that things like cockroaches don’t bother me. In some places there was no access to fresh milk or a television signal, so we made do with what we had. My mother learnt to make mithai with milk powder and we got to watch every single movie released between 1985 and 1987. Every. Single. Film. We were not a discerning audience, and the weekly movie screened in the army-run cinema was the only screen time for us. I still remember the lines to really weird songs like “Jalaya hai, Jalayenge”. I know, totally face palm situation, right? The only purpose it ever served was make me a valuable team resource in an antakshari.
Our dads were real life heroes for us and for all our schoolmates, but it’s the moms from the Services who are some of the strongest women you’ll meet. Multi taskers, strong enough to deal with the worst news life can throw at anyone, and being mom and dad for their children. Whether it was creatively using whatever rations were available in remote locations or dealing with creepy crawlies that you had never seen before, there was nothing a Services mom could not deal with without breaking a sweat.
Life as a Services child taught us to value the experiences and people in our lives much more than our possessions- everything was temporary anyway: that is a big learning from our constant moves.

We learnt to adapt and to adjust with new people and surroundings – even the most introvert among us brats can easily slip into a conversation with anyone and everyone. We learnt about a spirit of community that transcended all differences, and very early on, learnt to accept the here and now as the place to be savoured, until our next move. For me, the most OG (to use the lingo my kids use) will always be the armed forces’ colour – OG or olive green.

Today I am happy to travel as often as I can. Unlike many friends, I do not get homesick after a few weeks on a trip. When I went to Law School for a five-year course, for the first time in my life I had to stay in the same place for longer than I had stayed in any one place. After a year or two, I started to get restless and eager to move. That is no longer the case. I have been living in Gurgaon for almost two decades now. Have I laid down my forever roots here? Who knows? I’ll always be a bit of a gypsy at heart. Join me as I share my travel experiences with you.