What colleges have you attended?

Indian Naval Academy, Ezhimala. The sun rising with your drill instructor’s bellow, the ocean whispering sweet nothing of 200 pushups. But beneath the strict routines and barked orders, lies a tale more epic than any pirate yarn – the story of a cadet in the Indian Naval Academy.

We marched in, wide-eyed freshies, facing a castle-like administration block that promised power… but only in your dreams. The first day was a mirage of smiles and smooth onboarding. Then, the reality bit. Hair shorn, standing in muster for half the day, suddenly standing felt like a luxury. You’d pray for permission to stay upright.

Food was another battlefield. Mess etiquette stricter than high society galas, seniors ever-ready to pounce on a misplaced fork or a forbidden rice-chapati combo. Punishment? Drinking water – gallons of it for the smallest misstep. And even if you were a culinary saint, some senior with a mischievous glint would ask about the number of fans in the mess. “Really?” you’d think, staring at the ceiling fan like it held the secrets of the universe. “Water, please!”

Mornings held a cruel beauty. Sea breeze, dawn’s soft light… none of that mattered. The only goal was reaching the PT shed (think a battlefield disguised as a gymnasium) for morning tea and biscuits. A minute late? The PT instructors, trained by Lucifer himself, could carve monkeys out of you with the subtlest tortures, knowing exactly what would hurt the most without breaking a bone.

Parade was a furnace. Heat so fierce, the soles of our drill boots melted, leaving a rubbery stench in the air. Standing and marching were easy compared to the random floor drills – half the time spent rolling on tiles, sweating rivers.

Food, glorious food! Except, you had three minutes to eat (a record-breaking feat) and find a safe table – one guarded by a friendly (or at least tired) senior. Hunger was the least of our worries. We could survive starvation, but not the relentless mental and physical punishments.

The path to the mess was a jungle of terror. Seniors lurking in every corner, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting souls like me. Walking? Forbidden. Running was the only option, and reaching the mess without punishment felt like winning the lottery (no specific reason needed, once I got pulled up for being “too expressive” with my eyes!).

Classes were a blur. Super-powered cadets sat front row, absorbing knowledge. Us mortals? We perfected the art of sleeping upright, even with eyes open. Woe betide the unfortunate soul caught napping. The instructor wouldn’t punish you directly, oh no. He’d unleash a nuclear chain reaction of discipline, starting with the seniormost term, each batch taking turns to torture the one below. A simple 10 pushups could morph into a night-long ordeal. But hey, it was routine, and we craved the next challenge.

We had a beach, a jungle, even ran cross-country through them. But memories are hazy, lost in the heatstroke-inducing haze of running, the sole aim being to reach the finish line and avoid further… running. Once, I missed saluting an admiral (or his horse, I swear I didn’t see him!). Heavens rained fire. I found myself running with a 220-liter barrel on my head. Sweet dreams were a rare delicacy, savored for three glorious hours (if lucky).

Ezhimala was hell, pure and unadulterated. But the laughter amidst the drills, the bonds forged in sweat and shared nightmares, the quiet pride of wearing the navy whites… these things, they turned that hell into something unforgettable. A place where you learn the meaning of resilience, respect, and a good sea shanty that can turn any situation into an epic singalong.

The day dawned crisp, tinged with the bittersweet air of endings and beginnings. We marched, swords held high, our boots beating a rhythm older than time itself. As the final lines of Auld Lang Syne faded, our swords dipped in unison, the cadet within each of us taking one last, symbolic step back. In that single movement, we were no longer recruits, no longer boys playing soldiers. We were officers, forged in the furnace of Ezhimala, ready to step onto the world stage, swords now instruments of command, not punishment.

It was not the end, as we soon learned. The challenges we faced in Ezhimala were mere preludes to the symphony of responsibility that awaited us. But amidst the storms we would weather, the oceans we would sail, the battles we would fight, we carried the unyielding spirit of those who learned to laugh in the face of hell. For Ezhimala was not just a training ground; it was a crucible, shaping us into the steel that would forever bind us, comrades forged in the fires of shared hardship and laughter. It was a hell we loved, a hell that made us whole, a hell that would forever echo in the clink of our glasses, the rhythm of our boots, and the silent glint of pride in our eyes, a reminder that even in the darkest depths, we learned to dance. Because Ezhimala, you see, was not the end. It was the beginning of everything.

So, yes, Ezhimala may have been hell. But it was the best hell we ever experienced. A memory so bittersweet, so hilarious, so deeply etched in our souls that we wouldn’d trade it for the world. Just ask any cadet, buy them a drink (non-alcoholic, of course!), and listen to their tales. You’ll find yourself laughing so hard your sides will ache, but beneath the laughter, you’ll hear a quiet respect, a deep pride, and maybe, just maybe, a longing for another taste of that crazy, wonderful, hellish paradise called the Indian Naval Academy.

If you are from any Academy in the world, you are my brother, and I would love to hear your experiences.