A glorious tradition
By Ranjana Malik

I GREW up in Dehra Dun, a quiet, somnolent town, a paradise for the retired officers, so I was used to seeing Gentlemen Cadets of the Indian Military Academy strutting around town. On weekends, they were everywhere, in grey suits with grey felt hats precariously perched on their heads, incongruously riding bicycles. The Bi-annual Passing Out Parade was a moment of frenzied excitement. The whole town was overrun by visitors. Hotels and restaurants teemed with guests and there was a general air of festivity. In our town with tongas, the few taxis charged phenomenal sums to transport people to the Indian Military Academy.

My memories go back to the early fifties, when in two summer terms sons of close friends of my father won the Sword of Honour. I can hazily recall those Parades as a six-year-old, frock-clad child sitting cross legged on the coir mat, I remember the Passing Out Parade (POP) as a colourful mela. There were occasions too, when we got up at 4 am, feverishly rushed to be dressed by 5 am. So that we could leave for the IMA to view the spectacular event. There was the much-talked-about parade for the Shah of Iran and his breathtakingly beautiful Queen Soraiya. We were brought by our school to witness this.

In June, 1960, my brother was commissioned into the Army and I have distinct memories of that Parade and the excitement of spotting him as he smartly marched past. The dance in the evening and the Pipping Ceremony at midnight were magical moments. In mid-1968, when Ved and I decided to get married, the first place Ved brought me to was the IMA.

In December, 1982 I was present at the Golden Jubilee Parade of the IMA which was reviewed by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. She wore an elegant black coat and her head was covered with her sari as she took the salute. She stood smartly, ramrod straight, as she reviewed the parade in an open jeep. This occasion was a moment of great rejoicing since there were hordes of invitees and gallantry award winners.

Then, as a proud mother, I came in 1991 to see my son commissioned into the same regiment as his father was. My heart swelled with pride and with a lump in my throat. I watched him go into Chetwode Building, stamping on the "final step" to the haunting strains of "Auld Lang Syne". What a glorious tradition — the son following in his father’s footsteps! This was, indeed, a poignant moment for both of us.

On May 13, 2000, I watched the parade once again. It was a cool, cloudy morning and I rode in a four-horse carriage to the parade ground, accompanying my husband, who was the Reviewing Officer. I watched him take the salute, heard him recall his own Passing Out Parade 41 years ago and listened to him exhort the GOs to give their best to the nation.