I still recall some of my friends and colleagues with amusement. One such person I can not forget is Capt Charles. Our Maratha Ganpats innocently called him "Charlas sahib". Well, those were the days in early fifties when our jawans were either semi-educated or outright illiterates. Charlas (Charles, if you like) was a smart officer and knew all the ropes about being a successful Adjutant of our battalion. Charles could be counted on to find a way out of a tricky situation. The young officer was not a green horn by any means. He had roughed it out as a regimental officer for over eight years of his 10 years service. But wait, somewhere, lurking in almost everyone is the dreaded Achilles’ heel. Inevitably, he had his own share of that. His fondness for the bottle, compounded by his aversion to the stiff-necked dinner nights. More chhuri kanta drill than the actual meal, as he put it.

The first bugle call for dinner (I'm not sure whether this custom is still in vogue) sounded to him like a funeral march. His grouse against dinner nights was out of the ordinary. For one thing it took far too long to finish and for the other, it was a 'starvation meal'. One could not eat it to his heart’s content. Besides, it took too long to finish. What a waste of almost two hours on such a compulsory 'parade'. Poor Charles! He would leave the table in a half-starved state. He ultimately hit upon a brilliant idea to get over his predicament. On the stipulated dinner nights, he would eat the spicy and tasty food from the jawans langar, washed down with liberal doses of rum. Just the kind of informal meal and drink he was longing to have.

One day, the GOC of our Division was invited for dinner in the mess. Inevitably, our Brigade Commander also. As mess secretary, Charles saw to it that all arrangements were complete and in order as per the mess customs including the menu. Time was fast approaching for the great event. The chief guest was scheduled to arrive at 8 pm, CO 15 minutes and the Brigade Commander 10 minutes earlier. Of course, Charles had to be there half an hour early to ensure that all arrangements were in order. The GOC's car arrived on the dot in the porch. The bugler duly sounded his arrival in keeping with the laid down drill. The chief guest was guided to the specially earmarked leather sofa.

After what looked like an agonising delay, the Mess Havaldar turned up, smartly saluted and on top of his voice roared Shriman, bhojan tayar hai.

Charles’ trouble had now started. He could never reconcile himself to such a vast array of knives, forks and spoons of different shapes and sizes. He would invariably start using wrong knives or forks for the wrong dish. At the first dish, he saw some signs of small amounts of sardines. Mercifully, he used the correct knife and fork for this purpose. The next item was simple looking. It was soup, looking like heated-up soap water. He used a small spoon to drink this little fare. The next dish was fried fish followed by the main fare. Roast chicken and that looked like peas. Now, cutting up roast chicken into pieces needs a fair amount of expertise. Using his knife and fork like a shovel and pick, he commenced cutting it up with all his might. Ultimately, his efforts yielded the desired results; or so he thought. A large piece slipped from his plate and like a misguided missile struck the Brigadier on his face. An uneasy silence followed; the Brigadier gave him a hostile look as though to say," "make no mistake, I shall bury you alive tomorrow".

Time for pudding. What could poor Charles do? He had just the large soup spoon to eat it. It was, so to say, not the done thing.

Now the toast had to be taken. He tapped the table thrice, got up with his glass in his hand. Just then, his memory failed him in his inebriated state. So did his trembling legs. He sat down in his chair and tried to recollect his wits. A young officer whispered something in his ear. He got up again. This time more confidently. "Mr Vice, the President. Mr Vice too got up, hesitated and in the meanwhile CO broke the ice and in a loud voice said, "The President".

The GOC left just after 11 pm, followed a little later by the Brigadier. The CO took Charles outside for a 'little chat' and gave him a piece of his mind for his goof-up. Both came back to the anteroom with the former seemingly looking satisfied for the dressing down he had given to Charles. Of course, needless to say that Charles looked pale and crest fallen.

From next day onwards, rumours had started floating around that Charles would as Adjutant be sacked any time. But no such thing happened. Charles survived much to everybody's surprise. The only people who had felt a bit of heartburn were some Captains and Majors’ ambitious wives. Their dreams and their aspirations were shattered. How nice it would have been if Kirpal, Fernandes or Desai occupied the prestigious chair. If only, if only Charles was awarded 'order of the boot' unceremoniously.