<p>Standing on the deck of the 6,500 ton destroyer INS Ranjit, I was mentally ticking off the boxes for things I was supposed to do before the ship sailed out that evening. <br /><br /></p>.<p>“Tickety boo, all done!” I shabaashed myself. Squinting into the dazzling sunlight bouncing off the waters of Bombay’s Ballard Pier Extension, where Ranjit was moored to a wharf, I watched Bhim and Balwan, navy’s macho tug boats, sail in smartly. They stopped at a respectable distance from the two missile-boats squadron moored ahead of us, and hooted. The Duty Officer told me that both the squadrons (later to be called the Killer Squadrons) were being shifted further up the long wharf for the commissioning ceremony that evening.<br /><br />The Killers bore peaceful names like Nashak, Vinash, etc. These deadly vessels had recently arrived from the Soviet Union. The ceremony planned for that evening would be a low key affair; just the naval brass, the Russians and the boat crews. It was the summer of 1971 and the Navy was getting ready to knock off the Pakistani maritime assets.<br /><br />Suddenly I heard the click of heels behind me. Raman Kutty, Petty Officer in-charge of the ship’s galley and the creator of world’s first antidote for seasickness called Rasam-a-la-Kutty, offered a crisp salute and unshipped a bad news, “Sir, they forgot to supply the greens. No rasam.”<br /><br /> I banged my foot hard on the deck; I was prone to sea sickness even in harbour. “Wait here Kutty,” I said and strutted across the gangway to INS Kaveri sandwiched between the wharf and my ship. My Counterpart in Kaveri was generous and handed me a huge bouquet of the greens for Kutty’s rasam. Holding it aloft, I stepped on the gangway. I was half down the plank when Ranjit shook 10 on the Richter scale and landed with a thud on my ship’s deck without letting go of the bouquet. Everybody was running around to grab anything that would give stability.<br /><br />Ranjit had gone bananas. At a time when our senior officers were ashore for briefings etc, a rare accident occurred in the ship’s engine room. Like how vehicles are revved up before a long journey, a ship also carries out trials, one of which is turning the propellers.<br /><br /> For this, the Manoeuvring Valve is allowed to release some steam to turn the screws, but in Ranjit’s case the valve malfunctioned and things went horribly wrong: the steam escaped unchecked and generated immense engine force capable of peaking 40,000 horse power. The ship took off, dragging poor INS Godavari, tied to us on the outer side, with her. In no time the two destroyers were over the spot where only a quarter of an hour ago the Killer Squadrons were moored.<br /><br />Fortuitously, it was tea time, the crews were below decks, and the wharf had been empty. Even today, the thought of flying steel wire ropes slashing people, the crew tossed about god knows where, and thousands of tons of metal smashing into the missile boats gives me heebie-jeebies. But that morning, Lord Varuna, the sea god, was smiling at us. He had blessed the men, if not the machines.<br /><br />However, Gomati broke away and left Ranjit going for the opposite wharf, which is parallel to the Ballard Pier’s main road. We, on the upper deck, mumbled our prayers. Suddenly a hatch nearby opened and out popped the bald head of the Fo’xle Officer; in-charge of the anchors, chains and cables.<br /><br /> He grabbed a huge hammer and had a go at the cable lock to release the anchor, but once again Ranjit shook hard and both he and the hammer hit the deck. The ship now headed straight for INS Dharini, moored on the opposite wharf. Poor Dharini was awaiting entry into the scrap yard. Her Duty Officer started jumping and howling, “Abandon ship, abandon ship, now!”<br /><br />Ranjit crashed into her at a right angle. The big bang was heard miles around and the hole it had created was big enough for an elephant to walk into Dharini; she now resembled a squashed beer can. But, wonder of wonders, no casualties happened, not even a scratch on anyone… Ranjit’s bow had sliced into an empty kit-store where she stopped. Realising our rock and roll was over, we stood up and dusted our uniforms.<br /><br /> In the meanwhile, both Bhim and Balwan were back… this time to pull and drag Ranjit to the docks for a major nose job. The wharves had never witnessed so much crowd that had gathered that noon. Trees outside the wall had more men on them than leaves.<br /> This happened over 40 years ago, and to this day, my favourite nightmare is Ranjit’s notorious harbour dash.<br /></p>
<p>Standing on the deck of the 6,500 ton destroyer INS Ranjit, I was mentally ticking off the boxes for things I was supposed to do before the ship sailed out that evening. <br /><br /></p>.<p>“Tickety boo, all done!” I shabaashed myself. Squinting into the dazzling sunlight bouncing off the waters of Bombay’s Ballard Pier Extension, where Ranjit was moored to a wharf, I watched Bhim and Balwan, navy’s macho tug boats, sail in smartly. They stopped at a respectable distance from the two missile-boats squadron moored ahead of us, and hooted. The Duty Officer told me that both the squadrons (later to be called the Killer Squadrons) were being shifted further up the long wharf for the commissioning ceremony that evening.<br /><br />The Killers bore peaceful names like Nashak, Vinash, etc. These deadly vessels had recently arrived from the Soviet Union. The ceremony planned for that evening would be a low key affair; just the naval brass, the Russians and the boat crews. It was the summer of 1971 and the Navy was getting ready to knock off the Pakistani maritime assets.<br /><br />Suddenly I heard the click of heels behind me. Raman Kutty, Petty Officer in-charge of the ship’s galley and the creator of world’s first antidote for seasickness called Rasam-a-la-Kutty, offered a crisp salute and unshipped a bad news, “Sir, they forgot to supply the greens. No rasam.”<br /><br /> I banged my foot hard on the deck; I was prone to sea sickness even in harbour. “Wait here Kutty,” I said and strutted across the gangway to INS Kaveri sandwiched between the wharf and my ship. My Counterpart in Kaveri was generous and handed me a huge bouquet of the greens for Kutty’s rasam. Holding it aloft, I stepped on the gangway. I was half down the plank when Ranjit shook 10 on the Richter scale and landed with a thud on my ship’s deck without letting go of the bouquet. Everybody was running around to grab anything that would give stability.<br /><br />Ranjit had gone bananas. At a time when our senior officers were ashore for briefings etc, a rare accident occurred in the ship’s engine room. Like how vehicles are revved up before a long journey, a ship also carries out trials, one of which is turning the propellers.<br /><br /> For this, the Manoeuvring Valve is allowed to release some steam to turn the screws, but in Ranjit’s case the valve malfunctioned and things went horribly wrong: the steam escaped unchecked and generated immense engine force capable of peaking 40,000 horse power. The ship took off, dragging poor INS Godavari, tied to us on the outer side, with her. In no time the two destroyers were over the spot where only a quarter of an hour ago the Killer Squadrons were moored.<br /><br />Fortuitously, it was tea time, the crews were below decks, and the wharf had been empty. Even today, the thought of flying steel wire ropes slashing people, the crew tossed about god knows where, and thousands of tons of metal smashing into the missile boats gives me heebie-jeebies. But that morning, Lord Varuna, the sea god, was smiling at us. He had blessed the men, if not the machines.<br /><br />However, Gomati broke away and left Ranjit going for the opposite wharf, which is parallel to the Ballard Pier’s main road. We, on the upper deck, mumbled our prayers. Suddenly a hatch nearby opened and out popped the bald head of the Fo’xle Officer; in-charge of the anchors, chains and cables.<br /><br /> He grabbed a huge hammer and had a go at the cable lock to release the anchor, but once again Ranjit shook hard and both he and the hammer hit the deck. The ship now headed straight for INS Dharini, moored on the opposite wharf. Poor Dharini was awaiting entry into the scrap yard. Her Duty Officer started jumping and howling, “Abandon ship, abandon ship, now!”<br /><br />Ranjit crashed into her at a right angle. The big bang was heard miles around and the hole it had created was big enough for an elephant to walk into Dharini; she now resembled a squashed beer can. But, wonder of wonders, no casualties happened, not even a scratch on anyone… Ranjit’s bow had sliced into an empty kit-store where she stopped. Realising our rock and roll was over, we stood up and dusted our uniforms.<br /><br /> In the meanwhile, both Bhim and Balwan were back… this time to pull and drag Ranjit to the docks for a major nose job. The wharves had never witnessed so much crowd that had gathered that noon. Trees outside the wall had more men on them than leaves.<br /> This happened over 40 years ago, and to this day, my favourite nightmare is Ranjit’s notorious harbour dash.<br /></p>
