VERTIGO...The Fear of Heights
Poornachandra
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“Vertigo is the conflict between the fear of falling and the desire to fall.”
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“Vertigo is the conflict between the fear of falling and the desire to fall.”
- Salman Rushdie
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This is not about James Stewart and Kim Novak in Alfred Hitchcock’s thriller movie. It is about my own personal fear. A fear of heights I had to face while I tried to find my wings and fly into manhood.
It was 1989. I was seventeen. The identity crisis of adolescence and exuberance of youth hastened the urge to take to wings and leave the nest. Embarking on the journey to manhood, I made my way to the National Defence Academy, hailed as the “Maker of Men”. I was going to find my destiny in uniform. My dream of becoming a flyer was nipped in the bud when my weak eye sight prevented my entry into the Air Force or even the Navy. So I was to stay on the ground and stamp my feet. In any case, I couldn’t even fly a kite; so better I left the planes to others. Olive greens and brass on the shoulders were to come later, if I first succeeded in surviving the rigours of the Academy.
Sleep-walking through the first six months of training at NDA Wing, I stumbled into the Academy’s main campus and the famed Hunter squadron in my second term in a dazed state. “If it can’t be done, it will be done,” proclaimed the Headhunters’ slogan. It was a rude awakening followed by shock treatment, as far as life in the squadron was concerned. As one who was hunted most of the time, I wondered how I could turn a Hunter! Cross-country running was the religion, and a non-believer like me deserved to be burnt at the stake. The gap between the “studs” and “shaggos” was wide, and the ordeal was by fire for the latter.
It was 1989. I was seventeen. The identity crisis of adolescence and exuberance of youth hastened the urge to take to wings and leave the nest. Embarking on the journey to manhood, I made my way to the National Defence Academy, hailed as the “Maker of Men”. I was going to find my destiny in uniform. My dream of becoming a flyer was nipped in the bud when my weak eye sight prevented my entry into the Air Force or even the Navy. So I was to stay on the ground and stamp my feet. In any case, I couldn’t even fly a kite; so better I left the planes to others. Olive greens and brass on the shoulders were to come later, if I first succeeded in surviving the rigours of the Academy.
Sleep-walking through the first six months of training at NDA Wing, I stumbled into the Academy’s main campus and the famed Hunter squadron in my second term in a dazed state. “If it can’t be done, it will be done,” proclaimed the Headhunters’ slogan. It was a rude awakening followed by shock treatment, as far as life in the squadron was concerned. As one who was hunted most of the time, I wondered how I could turn a Hunter! Cross-country running was the religion, and a non-believer like me deserved to be burnt at the stake. The gap between the “studs” and “shaggos” was wide, and the ordeal was by fire for the latter.
One of the rites of passage for the Hunters was the “Para Jump”. Everyone had to jump from the ten meter diving platform into the swimming pool, of course without a parachute. It didn’t matter that there were some like me who couldn’t swim. Even if you were a “dead-sinker”, you had to jump; they’d fish your body out later – alive, in all likelihood. The entire pack of Hunters trooped to the swimming pool under the watchful eyes of the senior appointment holders, lest someone slink away. Some hopefuls were found pleading with the officers with excuses as to why they should be exempt from the jump, with little success. The instructors marshalled all of us and we lined up according to the hierarchy. The seniors led the procession up the stairs to the platform and we followed respectfully. It would’ve been difficult to take the census of butterflies fluttering in the stomachs of those lined up to jump.
The word was given and then they began to fall into the pool, resembling lemmings albeit reluctantly. Some were brave, some hesitant and some outright refusing. You had to go anyway, assisted by an encouraging pat or a forceful push from the instructor posted on the edge. They fell in all possible and some impossible positions, shouting bravely and screaming wildly. I was what is commonly referred to as “shit-scared”. Like-minded ones scurried to the toilets to ease themselves, hoping to buy some more time before the inglorious fall. The line of bare-bodied boys-waiting-to-be-men moved slowly but steadily, and I climbed up the steps and onto the platform. As I did the countdown of those ahead of me, I wished I could turn back and rundown the stairs, or atleast go further behind in the line. But there weren’t many behind me. “There is only one way down,” thundered the Squadron Commander. And then, it was my turn. I looked down at the small patch of water and was convinced that I’d fall splat on the ground instead of making a splash in the water. I don’t know if I jumped or was unceremoniously shoved, but gravity did the needful. As I fell to what I thought was my death, I swore to myself that I’d never again even think of planes or parachutes or anything connected to flight. I yelled through the long fall which should’ve been less than a second according to the Physics book. I hit the water and went under, hopelessly drowning. Out of sheer anger at the swimming pool, I would have drunk up the entire water, but those concerned fished me out to avoid any bother. They dragged me out of the pool and threw me aside to deal with the others coming down. I lived! But no more heights! It was ok to watch Hitchcock’s Vertigo on the screen but not to experience its dread in reality.
The word was given and then they began to fall into the pool, resembling lemmings albeit reluctantly. Some were brave, some hesitant and some outright refusing. You had to go anyway, assisted by an encouraging pat or a forceful push from the instructor posted on the edge. They fell in all possible and some impossible positions, shouting bravely and screaming wildly. I was what is commonly referred to as “shit-scared”. Like-minded ones scurried to the toilets to ease themselves, hoping to buy some more time before the inglorious fall. The line of bare-bodied boys-waiting-to-be-men moved slowly but steadily, and I climbed up the steps and onto the platform. As I did the countdown of those ahead of me, I wished I could turn back and rundown the stairs, or atleast go further behind in the line. But there weren’t many behind me. “There is only one way down,” thundered the Squadron Commander. And then, it was my turn. I looked down at the small patch of water and was convinced that I’d fall splat on the ground instead of making a splash in the water. I don’t know if I jumped or was unceremoniously shoved, but gravity did the needful. As I fell to what I thought was my death, I swore to myself that I’d never again even think of planes or parachutes or anything connected to flight. I yelled through the long fall which should’ve been less than a second according to the Physics book. I hit the water and went under, hopelessly drowning. Out of sheer anger at the swimming pool, I would have drunk up the entire water, but those concerned fished me out to avoid any bother. They dragged me out of the pool and threw me aside to deal with the others coming down. I lived! But no more heights! It was ok to watch Hitchcock’s Vertigo on the screen but not to experience its dread in reality.
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© May 2010
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