The recruits had a good lunch; once again, the NCOs left them mercifully alone. They were then allowed some free time to doze or write home or even talk to each other quietly in their barracks as the burning sun rose high in the sky.
Venugopal was half dozing, his stomach satisfyingly full of rice and curry. Through his sleepy stupor, he heard his cousin Ramesh giggling. Half opening his eyes, he noted that at the other end of the barracks, Ramesh and Mahesh were sharing the comics section of a newspaper. The bunk they were sitting on was fairly narrow, so one of Mahesh's soft black legs was touching Ramesh's. Ramesh was half sprawled on the bunk, and his legs were stretched wide open, the big baggy khaki shorts allowing one to look up his crotch. Suddenly becoming aware of Venugopal's gaze, Ramesh blushed and moved his foot away from Mahesh's. He was furious at feeling guilty. What was wrong with sitting with a fellow soldier? Why did he have to analyze why it gave him such pleasure to have another soft black leg against his.
At 3.30, Guruswamy came in and blew a whistle. "At chaar baja (4 o clock) is rifle cleaning," he announced. The recruits hurriedly changed into their vests and baggy khaki shorts. They didn't wear their berets for rifle cleaning. They were marched outside underneath a tree where Guruswamy demonstrated how to clean a rifle. He warned them that they were responsible for the rifles they were issued. The boys were eager to see Guruswamy and get the exact idea of what was expected of them. Straining to see Guruswamy, Mahesh suddenly felt the rifle slip through his fingers and fall to the ground with a clatter.
"Oolo," screamed Guruswamy. "Fall out."
Mahesh jogged out of ranks, his newly issued rifle in hand.
"Give me twenty," screeched Guruswamy. "Wait, " as Mahesh dropped to the push up position. Mahesh sprang to his feet again. Guruswamy had suddenly realized that he didn't have his swagger stick. "Banchooth, " he told Mahesh. "Go get me a switch. Leave your rifle here."
Mahesh carefully laid the rifle down. While Guruswamy returned to his instruction, Mahesh stomach fluttering jogged off toward a bush. As a young boy, he had sometimes been sent by his grandmother to get a switch, but he had not guessed that at eighteen, he would be asked to do so again. His hand quivering slightly, he stripped a long thin green switch of its leaves and wrenched it off the branch. The NCOs from the second squad were observing him and laughing appreciatively. He also imagined the eyes of the soldiers in the second squad observing him. Finally, he had his switch. Mahesh jogged back to Guruswamy.
Guruswamy snatched the switch from Mahesh's trembling hand, after laying down the rifle with which he was demonstrating. "Push up position, " he said gruffly. Mahesh fell to the upright push up position, the rough gravel chafing his hands. "Down," screamed Guruswamy and whipped Mahesh smartly across the arse. Mahesh descended. "Count it aloud, " screamed Guruswamy. "Do it again."
"Up." "Eighk sir, " yelled Mahesh. Crack went the switch, and this time Guruswamy took care to swipe Mahesh on his soft black thighs leaving an angry red stripe. The pain from the switch was different from the swagger stick, Mahesh would reflect later. The switch had a more biting sting than the swagger stick even though the pain passed more quickly. "Down."
"Up." "Dho sir, " yelled Mahesh.
At the end of twenty push ups, Mahesh's face was flushed both with the exertion of the push ups themselves and with the effort of keeping in push up position knowing that the unforgiving switch would be descending. At some humiliating level, he was also aware that Ramesh must be watching him. He had enjoyed flirting with Ramesh this afternoon, and now Ramesh was witnessing him be abjectly humiliated by Guruswamy.
There was no hairy perv at the fence. He had gone home after the drill. Pity the hairy perv missing Ramesh's humiliation, but he will imaginatively reconstruct it in language a million years later. Romantic saps like Wordsworth may wax lyrical about imaginatively reconstructing their vision of a field of daffodils but for the hairy perv what will flash on his inward eye as his fist strokes his stubby penis is the glorious vision of a thin green switch rising and falling on Mahesh's soft black thighs, while the cute shapely khaki ass rises and falls, and Guruswamy's screech "Up . .. down" rings through the air, puncutated by the scared, sometimes slightly quavering with the pain, tones of an eighteen year old intoning numbers from one to twenty, "Theen sir," "Chaar sir," "Paanch sir." Faggotry for ever!