On December 28, 1983, I was a freshly minted Second Lieutenant serving as a Gun Position Officer (GPO) for 753 Medium Battery. My job was straightforward: ensure our four massive 130mm Russian Medium Guns fired devastatingly heavy shells precisely where they were supposed to go.

Our playground was the Tughlakabad Field Firing Ranges—a strategic patch of wilderness nestled south-west of Qutub Minar and comfortably wedged between Faridabad and Gurgaon. (Back then, Gurgaon was mostly dirt and shrubs, a far cry from the glass-and-steel corporate jungle it is today). The ranges were permanently shut down in 1988, mostly because launching heavy artillery shells directly beneath the flight paths of incoming commercial aircraft at Indira Gandhi International Airport was deemed a bit too exciting for modern aviation.

We spent the day executing tactical maneuvers around Gurgaon, deployed our guns by dusk, and spent the evening shaking the Earth with live-fire drills until 8:00 PM. I was just about to congratulate myself on surviving my first real field exercise when the radio crackled.

It was our Battery Commander, Major Ashok Sikka. He dropped a logistical bomb:

“Reji, tomorrow morning at exactly 10:00 AM, a herd of roughly 100 media personnel—press photographers, print reporters, and a full camera crew from Doordarshan—are invading your gun position to watch a live demonstration. Ensure they are treated to the absolute finest hospitality of 753 Battery. Out!”

Enter the Moustache Commandos

I immediately summoned Subedar Chinnappa, the administrative wizard of our gun area. I broke the news and asked him how on earth we were going to feed a hundred ravenous, demanding journalists in the middle of a freezing Delhi winter jungle.

Without blinking a single, heavily disciplined eyelid, Chinnappa barked: “Sir, simple. We will serve them hot Idli, crispy Vada, piping hot Sambar, and fresh coconut Chutney.”

I stared at him. It was nearly 9:00 PM in the dead of winter. For the uninitiated, getting idli batter to ferment requires a cozy, tropical temperature of about 25°C (77°F) for at least eight hours. In the freezing December cold of rural Delhi, trying to ferment rice and lentil batter overnight is the thermodynamic equivalent of trying to light a campfire underwater.

But Chinnappa was already moving. He summoned my elite Commando Team. These weren’t special forces; they were our Limber Gunners—the guys technically responsible for maintaining heavy artillery ammunition but who possessed a secondary, terrifying skillset: they were elite-tier culinary MacGyvers.

The team comprised Naik Achuthan (a man who could out-cook a Michelin-star chef using a rusty helmet and a blowtorch), along with Naiks Sengole, Prasannan, Mathukutty, Gopalakrishna Pillai, and our designated driver, Naik Venson.

Every single one of them sported a massive, aggressive, heavily waxed handlebar moustache. Major Sikka had a strict rule about facial hair; these moustaches were so imposing they could send a shiver down the spine of even the most hardened forest brigand.

They held a rapid, low-whisper war council, piled into our massive Russian-made Kraz Gun Tower truck, and roared off to the regiment’s base camp to grind the lentils. They returned to the freezing jungle at 2:00 AM with buckets of cold, un-fermented batter.

Seeing my visible anxiety, the Subedar Chinnapaa patted me on the shoulder. “Go to sleep, Saab. You focus on the 130mm guns tomorrow. Leave the Idli-Vada logistics to us.”

The 10:00 AM Shockwave

At the stroke of ten, a convoy of civilian vehicles arrived, disgorging a hundred shivering, cynical journalists and a Doordarshan TV crew. Subedar Chinnappa met them at the perimeter with a devastatingly polite smile, his handlebar moustache glistening in the morning frost.

Before I could even open my mouth to begin my grand tactical briefing, a senior print reporter stopped in his tracks, stared at my men, and remarked, “My god, Lieutenant. I have never seen a more sharply turned-out unit. And those moustaches are spectacular.”

The entire press pack nodded in collective awe. Chinnappa caught my eye from across the command post and gave me a subtle nod. Round One went to the Gunners.

Then came the main event. We demonstrated the raw power of the Russian Medium Guns. The earth shuddered, smoke filled the air, cameras clicked furiously, and the Doordarshan crew recorded the beautifully choreographed chaos. The journalists loved it.

By 11:00 AM, the firing ceased, and Chinnappa casually announced, “Gentlemen, please join us for a light refreshment.”

What happened next can only be described as a culinary miracle. In the middle of a desolate, freezing field firing range, our soldiers started serving plates of impossibly soft, steaming, perfectly fluffy idlis and flawlessly crisp, golden vadas.

The journalists went absolutely wild. These were cynical Delhi pressmen who lived on a diet of samosas and tea, and they were suddenly experiencing a high-grade South Indian breakfast buffet in the middle of a military combat zone.

“How is this possible?!” one editor gasped, stuffing a vada into his mouth. “I live in a posh Delhi colony and my cook can’t get idlis this soft in December!”

Before leaving, the executive producer from Doordarshan shook my hand warmly. “Lieutenant, you must watch the 9:00 PM National News tonight. You’re hitting the headlines.” The print journalists assured me we’d be on the front pages. I smiled politely, assumed they were just riding a high from the sambar, and saw them off.

The Secret of the Russian Gun Tower

The moment the dust settled, I lined up the Commando Team. “Alright, men. Out with it. How did you get cold batter to perfectly ferment in sub-zero temperatures in less than six hours?”

Naik Venson stepped forward, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

He explained that when they drove the massive Russian Kraz Gun Tower truck back from grinding the batter, he realised something. Being built for brutal Soviet winters, the Kraz truck features an incredibly overpowered, borderline-nuclear cabin heating system. By the time they reached the range at 2:00 AM, the driver’s cabin was a balmy, tropical 25°C.

Venson simply tucked the massive buckets of batter securely into the driver’s seats, turned the Kraz into static idling mode, and let the engine purr until dawn. The truck spent the night acting as a multi-ton, armored, diesel-powered fermentation chamber.

What an idea, Sir-ji.

The Aftermath

That evening, I finally collapsed into a chair in the Officers’ Mess, poured a well-earned drink, and turned on the TV – the only channel available back then: Doordarshan.

Sure enough, the 9:00 PM National News headlines flashed across the screen: “75 Medium Regiment conducted a spectacular field firing exercise today…” followed by sweeping video footage of our guns lighting up the sky.

The next morning, every major daily newspaper published out of Delhi carried our medium guns right on the front page. The clippings were officially cemented into the Regimental History Book for posterity.

The media thought they were impressed by the military might of the Indian Army’s artillery. But in my heart, I knew the truth. Western empires might have fought wars over the spice trade, but on December 29, 1983, a tactical plate of Idli-Vada and a Russian truck heater conquered the Indian national media.

Front page report that appeared on the Indian Express