The US designates April as the Month of the Military Child. In India, these children are called ‘military brats’, or more specifically ‘Army brats’. Merriam Webster dictionary defines “brat” as an “ill-mannered annoying child”, and also “the child of a career military person”. Put together, we are “the ill-mannered, annoying children of career military persons”. But why are we brats? Is it because we are partly nomads? Are we considered ill-mannered because we are not integrated into a specific place, type of society or sometimes even our extended or joint families?
What exactly makes up the life of an army brat? How do we describe or define a little-known world? Our lives can perhaps be best compared to the crisp sarees that I have seen my mother and several other army wives wear to work and social gatherings. The sarees reflect the melting pot of regions and cultures that even the smallest army station can be.
Let us begin with the threads. What would they be made of? Silk, cotton, bamboo, cotton silk, polyester or lotus fibre? The threads are made up of the centuries-long history and traditions of the various regiments. Tying these threads together is like being in a time machine full of sights, sounds, scents and tastes, where one can hear strains of Scottish bagpipes in Gwalior and a retreat played on bugles every day. Or see the intricate elements and culturally mixed dress uniforms. Or the taste of shahi toast – our very own bread and butter pudding. A slice of regular stale bread, deep fried to a crisp, then drowned in thickened milk flavoured with cardamom and rose water.
The weaving starts with the warp, which are sets of longitudinal threads that are fixed in place. The regiments that our fathers are commissioned into, the subsequent marriage of our parents and the induction of our mothers into the regimental and army way of life, are the warp. The places and people that intersect our lives, during the subsequent decades filled with postings and appointments, are like the weft, the horizontal threads that are passed back and forth to make the saree. Just as the warp and weft are inextricably linked, so are the regiment, people and places. For every army brat, the fabric of their lives has a unique texture. My fabrics would be made up primarily by nature and books.
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The many associations
For me, every place is associated with plants and flowers. The sight and smell of Eucalyptus takes me back to a small army cantonment ahead of Jammu called Akhnoor. It was full of Eucalyptus trees. We would be living in a small two-room set, where my mother would cook rice and dal on a kerosene stove and you could hear jackals yipping away in the yard at night. Sometimes my sister and I would wander down to the Officers’ Mess, which was about 300 metres away. There, the mess cooks would sit us down on a charpoy and give us pieces of chicken.
Nasturtiums are associated with a small house in Meerut. We were in a very old British-era barracks. It sounds romantic, but the reality is otherwise. There was a huge tree growing in the bathroom and it was so cold that, during the winter, my little sister went down with pneumonia. However, the garden had Nasturtium and Cockscomb flowers glowing orange and purple in the sunset and peacocks visited us every day. In Meerut, the next colony we lived in had trees and plants that provided optimal snacking options for the kids playing outside every evening. There were dozens of mango trees to get tangy raw mangoes from, lantana hedges would provide small, ripe blue-black berries and in May, the ground would be carpeted with floating seeds blown by the wind, from the nearby Chilbil trees. These seeds are colloquially called monkey biscuits. We had to peel the thin, brown, leafy covering to get at a small and crispy brown seed. We could easily spend an hour occupied by these seeds.
In many gardens, even in the plains, trimmed Cypress plants are used as decorative hedges. The sight of the seed pods and the spicy scent are a reminder of the small army station called Chakrata, nestled on a hill opposite Mussoorie. Since I was little, the Deodars, Poplars and Rhododendron trees seemed tall enough to reach the sky. Every cantonment, especially in the North, will have yellow Laburnum trees showering golden flowers every April and May.
The border of the saree has the important role of burnishing the body of the fabric, enhancing the weave. Books formed the border of my personal world, which have always held my hours and days together. Every station we lived in had a library within walking or cycling distance. It could be a library made up of six small cabinets containing donated, repurposed books or huge four-story buildings with thousands of books. When we were younger, we went on adventures with the Famous Five, solved mysteries with the Hardy Boys, wished we could attend the midnight feasts of the girls in boarding school and identified with Anne and her struggles in Green Gables. When we were older, we ranged far and wide from our rooms, in hot and dusty cantonment towns, with the help of our borrowed library books. I went to Texas with Larry McRurty, Poland with Leon Uris, Japan with James Clavell, and Africa with Wilbur Smith.
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The many transitions
The richest part of the saree, the gold and silver Zari work seen either in the border or the buttis, are things you learn from the people around you. Loyalty from the soldiers who are the heart and soul of the army, and respect for traditions that are unfamiliar to you. When we were part of the battalion, we would attend prayers in the religious space on Sundays, even if the traditions were not ours. The regimental song, motto or war cry that comes from the culture of the soldiers is held in the subconscious mind of the army brat many years afterwards. In fact, the regimental song was even played at my wedding.
It is said that change is the only constant and all lives in the army – of men, women and children, are the very personifications of this saying. We, the brats, witness how you can deal with these transitions. We see countless people transition with optimism from one place to another, with pleasant memories from relationships with others, with grace from a powerful position to another, with purpose from every bit of work to another. We learn that even when friends move away, they aren’t lost forever and you will meet again. Above all, we are the closest witnesses to those humans who with courageous spirit, sacrifice in an instant the body in this life to move on to the next, and to their families who face with brave resilience the brutal transition from the presence of a loved one, to a sudden separation and violent loss.
And thus, after spending 35 years as an army brat, a length of time that not many do, I too retire, with these lessons ingrained in me. So, are we still brats?
Isha Naravane is a movement artist, choreographer, and full-time dance teacher. Views are personal.
(Edited by Prashant)