A story about 15 school boys sharing the same school as mine. I heard their story from my seniors in school, but never got the opportunity to meet them in person. Finally got to read about them again.

A picture that moved......

It was the spring of 1961.

Fifteen-year-old Arvind Bhat was invited by a friend to Odeon cinema in Delhi to celebrate her birthday by watching a film, Hum Dono, with her.

When Arvind returned to his hostel at The Air Force School, he could not stop raving about Dev Anand.

By a stroke of luck, the film was screened at the Air Force cinema in Willingdon Camp two days later and 15 class X students trooped into the darkened hall with their housemaster for the once-in-a-month treat.

Three hours later they emerged into the open, their minds set, their career paths decided and a life of glory unfolding before their eyes.

They had seen Dev Anand essay the role of not one, but two Army officers.

There was not a shred of doubt in their minds that this was what each of them was aspiring for.

Over the following days, the boys filled in the Service Selection Board (SSB) forms.

Magically, all were selected into the National Defence Academy.

They embarked upon distinguished military careers, crammed with citations and decorations, records and heroism, promotions and even martyrdom.

This is a story no filmmaker or author has yet thought of.

Truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction.

Unknown to Dev Anand, the celluloid hero had created 15 real-life heroes.

Exactly half a century after the release of Hum Dono, the dapper and debonair Dev died.

For the soldiers, the death of their hero rekindled a memory that remains as evergreen as Dev himself: a memory of that magical day in the theatre, which was to remain with each of them throughout their lives.

Bhat, now a retired Wing Commander settled in Pune, says: “As we sat mesmerised in the hall, each of us felt that we were seeing ourselves on screen. That Dev was telling us, ‘this is the path to take in life.’ It so happened that Sudhir [retired Colonel Sudhir Vasudeva] got a bunch of application forms for the SSB from somewhere. The deadline for submitting the forms was only a few days away. Within a week, all of us had filled in the applications, but there were still two forms left. I remember we actually went around to the other section and ensured that all forms were filled and submitted.”

At the age of 15, not many are sure what they want to do in life.

For these schoolboys, a military career had always been a priority option, as most of them were sons of Air Force officers themselves.

“Hum Dono proved to be the catalyst,” says Bhat. “It told us exactly what we should be doing.”

Since there was such little time to submit the forms, the students had to appeal to the principal, M.L. Renjen, to sign as their guardian. He was not pleased to sign all. Says Wing Commander (retd) Deshendra Renjen, the principal’s son: “Arun [retired Air Commodore Arun Karandikar] was a topper. He was such a brilliant boy. Dad wanted him to try his hand at other careers like the civil services. But Arun was adamant.”

Karandikar had, in fact, topped the school board exams and was invited by St Stephen’s college to join an undergraduate course. “But I had always loved flying. The film re-emphasised what was already on my mind,” says Karandikar, 65, who has folded his wings only recently. A Limca Record holder of 1996 “for the maximum hours [13,900] flown in military aviation in the world”, he embarked on a successful career in civil aviation after leaving the Air Force, clocking around 25,000 hours in all.

Deshendra, incidentally, is not a film buff. He was just too thick with the other boys, and their enchantment with Dev rubbed off on him. He joined the academy a course later, along with his brother Bhupinder. Deshendra’s memories of the film are only from oft-repeated lines like “Bada afsar kaun hai [who is the senior officer here]”, without which any get-together of the group over the past five decades was incomplete.

Vasudeva, who so opportunely supplied the SSB forms to his friends, had to confront a displeased father, a successful doctor in Mumbai. The senior Vasudeva had plans of sending his son abroad for an engineering degree. “But I guess the thrill of seeing an inspiring film in the company of like-minded friends had its impact,” recalls the former artillery officer.

His father tried to enrol him at Elphinstone College, Mumbai, but “all my friends were heading towards the NDA, so he finally acquiesced”.

Academy life, and later their military careers, took on much the same hue as they had imagined.

For the bunch who worshipped Major Verma (Dev Anand’s character in Hum Dono), his dialogues became the rallying point. “Abhi ek tang to hai [I still have one leg left],” says Brigadier Sadanand Joshi, a retired EME (Electrical and Mechanical Engineering) officer, in a perfect mimicry of Dev Anand. “That almost became our motto. Those were heady years. We’d quote liberally from his films, we aped his collars and gait. More importantly, we tried to learn from the gentlemanly manner in which the man always conducted himself, both off and on screen.”

Joshi, now leading a retired life in Thane, may have seen the film only twice. But he remembers almost every scene as if he has just returned from a screening.“Because of our school and family backgrounds, and later at the academy, we became well acquainted with Field Marshall Philip Chetwode’s credo: The safety, honour and welfare of your country come first, always and every time. The honour, welfare and comfort of the men you command come next. Your own ease, comfort and safety come last, always and every time. Major Verma exemplified it on screen,” says Joshi, recalling a scene where the wounded hero refuses to be taken to safety and, instead, holds fort, giving his men time to execute the battle strategy.

What was it about the film and the actor that was so special? “It was the sheer elan and style of Dev Anand that left us reeling,” says Joshi.

Adds Karandikar: “Hum Dono wasn’t even a war film, it was a romance with a double-role twist, set on the backdrop of the Burma war, with which we didn’t even identify much. But the details with which Dev had etched the role and character of the officers were impressive. That had us floored.”

Bhat recalls a scene in which Major Verma falls to the ground. “A bubble escapes from his nose and bursts. Now, that is what I call realistic!” he says. “We were teenagers, and hence were also impressed by the oodles of romance in the film. Our age, the film, that time… it was a magical combination.”

Karandikar dismisses most other Hindi war movies as nothing but gore and noise, interspersed with jingoistic cries of Hindustan and jhanda (flag). Vasudeva, who was posted just south of Longewala in Rajasthan, where one of the first major engagements of the 1971 war took place, has a kinder view. “Border [a film about the 1971 war] was not too bad. Some of the post Kargil films were fine, too. But none of them were extraordinary. Hum Dono combined war action with human behaviour. It was an altogether different experience.”

In the sweat and grime of their service years, the young officers seldom got time to get together. But there was a bit of the Dev Anand in each of them, though they did not realise it then. Now, as they look back, each can recall at least one episode, the kind which filmmakers like Dev Anand would have turned into a dashing, romantic story on celluloid.

Joshi recalls the time he was posted in Sikkim. He had a particularly unsavoury character for a senior, who did mean, underhanded things to fellow officers. Once, another senior asked Joshi to teach the fellow a lesson by behaving in the same manner. “I remember telling the senior that I look at myself every day in the mirror when I shave. How can I face myself if I do something like this,” says Joshi. “Whenever there was a crisis in life, there was a leaf out of Dev Anand’s book to refer to.” Joshi was on the eastern theatre of the 1971 war, and remembers how all the land captured with such risk was returned over a negotiating table in Simla.

“One understood,” he says. “A soldier never seeks the war himself, the politician creates it. You do your duty, no matter what the politicians ultimately do. We saw it in life, we saw the theme recurring in Dev’s films.” He starts humming, “Barbadiyon ka shokh manana fazool tha… [It is useless to lament].”

Joshi takes home another lesson from Dev Anand’s life. “His attitude towards women was so gentlemanly, so officer-like. There was never any vulgarity associated with him, on or off screen. In Jewel Thief, he behaves with dignity even when Tanuja does a provocative number. There was a lot to learn from him.”

He remembers the last Dev film he saw, Lootmaar, in which Dev was an Air Force officer. “After that, it became painful just to read the reviews.”

But even in making films till the end, Dev taught them a lesson.

Says Karandikar: “Carry on doing what you love to do, and with all the energy you have.”

Major General (retd) C.P. Tewari was a young officer in the Army Service Corps when he was posted in Ladakh and put in charge of leading a convoy of around 130 personnel across the treacherous Changla Pass. It was a winter afternoon when the blizzard started. Extreme cold and low oxygen have a strange effect on men. It makes them lethargic. The troops had to be taken to a lower altitude, but they became delirious, refusing to come out of their vehicles. Tewari recalls literally kicking some men out of their life-threatening somnolence. A junior, boggled at the sheer scale of the exercise, suggested to Tewari that he at least retreat to a safer spot and leave the others to their resources. “I refused,” he says, remember saying
that as long as I was alive, I wouldn’t give up the effort of bringing every man to safety. At that time, it seemed the most ordinary thing to say and do. Now I realise that it was heroic in a way, I was risking my life. But that is what military is all about.”

Again, the Chetwode credo.Karandikar’s career unfolded with adventures that, if you were to read them in a book, you would dismiss as too far-fetched and unrealistic. He started out as a transport pilot, but during the 1971 war, got to fly the Dakota, a multi-crew craft, single-handedly on clandestine operations. Before the war, there were Pakistani officers leaving their army and joining the Mukti Bahini. He was involved in facilitating operations, which, although necessarily kept under wraps, gave shots of adrenaline to keep the adventure going.

Karandikar and Bhat was later handpicked for VIP service. The TU124 twinjet passenger airliner was being decommissioned and the Boeing inducted. The government needed trained pilots and fast. Karandikar was reluctant to take over an assignment which he thought was a tad too soft. But it turned out to be challenging as well, having to ensure 100 per cent comfort and punctuality. “The door-opening time of the craft has to be synchronised with a slew of ceremonies like the guard of honour. It called for high levels of precision,” he says. Karandikar has memories of the risks Rajiv Gandhi, himself a pilot, made them take to ensure they reached on time. He also recalls an entire week in the service of Pope John Paul II. “He’d keep blessing and kissing you. It was an opportunity many a devout Catholic would have vied for.” Karandikar met many celebrities, but never Dev Anand.

Then there were those who fell by the wayside. Prem Bhatia was a classmate all remember. He died of a heart attack while serving in Kashmir. “He was our Dev Anand. He aped all of the actor’s mannerisms,” says Karandikar.

Manjit Singh was martyred in the 1971 war.

“He was very close to me,” says Vasudeva. “His NDA number was 4854, mine was 4855. He caught a shell.” The loss still hurts, but there is consolation that these men died doing what they loved best.

Vinay Heble was unfortunate. He trained as a fighter pilot. But the young Flight Lieutenant was on a civil Indian Airlines plane between Pune and Mumbai that crashed into a hillside. Heble, however, is as alive in the collective memories of his friends as the day he entered the academy. The friends kept in touch, meeting whenever they could. “When together, we’d seldom talk about careers. It was always about school and academy,” says Deshendra, recalling evenings peppered with the oft-repeated dialogues from Hum Dono.

“Gatherings were frequent among those posted in Delhi. We’d meet once a month, with our wives, and often, with our former teachers,” says Tewari, who has retired to Nainital and keeps busy penning short stories inspired by his military life.

Now that they have settled down in different places, the meetings have become infrequent. But a lively chatter is maintained online, and there is always the promise of an NDA reunion.

This summer will be a special reunion for the 28th batch, it being the golden jubilee of their course. One more excuse to recite old lines that have been with them throughout their careers.

What better tribute could Dev Anand ask for…!!!

.....By Vikram Karve