| Courage
under fire |
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What
kind of life army wives lead when their men at the war zone?
For the common man, it is only a vague idea despite the new
media blitz on border-happenings. Presently, when India and
Pakistan are enjoying a much friendlier relation than when
Kargil happened, those nightmare days are still fresh in the
minds of many army-wives like Jayalakshmi Sengupta. Watching
the recently released "LOC-Kargil" brings back those
memories. A first-hand account.
We were more or less insulated from the actual
horrors of war before Kargil. I remember the first time it
occurred to me that my husband could also be a cold-blooded
killer when I overhead a conversation with some of his friends.
In 1971, then a young officer, in sheer desperation had to
bring "severed ears" of his assailants to prove
a point to his commanding officer (who thought he had exaggerated
the operation). Since he could not possibly carry as many
dead bodies from the remote outpost, the ears were a sufficient
proof of his valour. It was blood chilling. "Do you kill
so many men every time you go out?" I had asked, several
years after our marriage.
He would only kill only if he were left with
no other choices he had said. Even die-hard Commandos have
one deep desire in them once they get into a battlefield -
to achieve victory without firing a single bullet. Killing
cannot come naturally to a balanced human being. Either he
has to be perverted or sufficiently forced by the circumstances
to do so. He had been trained to survive under difficult circumstances
and to inflict casualties, he had said, evading further dialogue.
Anyway such discussions were far and few between and always
changed with us around, to animated conversations of food
(Gustabas and Yakhnis and Rogan Josh) and the good times of
soldiering. So much so that I somehow felt they were always
having a grand party up there, at our expense.
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Even as army officer's wives we were more
or less insulated from the actual horrors of war before Kargil.
Today, when war is a popular primetime entertainment, with
the media closely capturing death and devastation minute by
minute, the insecurity that I lived through has been replaced
with painful analysis and fearful anticipation.
Even though we had learnt to accept the intermittent
coffins in our stride, we had little idea of the lingering
"smell of blood" of a gory war, back in those days.
(The fact that the smell of blood actually refuses to get
washed out for days on end was yet another revelation post
Kargil). In the absence of any clear idea of what was happening
or could happen we would pick up the telltale clues, of a
looming adversity, like an expert detective, all of which
made a huge impact in our lives at that point of time.
The arrival of trucks was the first sign
of an impending protracted operation. I remember watching
these eager men, adjusting their weapons and moving with steady
purposeful strides after the 'mandir parade', mounting trucks
with their rucksacks and sleeping bags, waving goodbye to
their women and children. They would try not look back as
the convoys moved further and further away. The dotted unhappy
huddle of women and children would then turn around desolately
and go back to cooking and cleaning and mending, straddled
with the responsibilities of looking after the home and hearth,
with little assistance or help, in those remote outposts.
The jawans' wives were weary of the arrival
of the senior lady thereafter. Every time the roads were swept
for her arrival, muted panic swept over the garrison. As the
senior most member of the unit, the commanding officer's wife
had the duty of being the harbinger of all good and bad news.
"Whose turn could it be?" With every "Thank
God" that one uttered, one resolved to be stronger for
another day and that is how our lives went on. A twinkle in
the eye got lost amidst tears, and smiles turned into stoic
silence overnight.
Some of the most invaluable lessons of courage
were learnt from them, who never wore
jungle boots or Olive greens. No decorations ever honoured
them for their resilience, but nevertheless those unseen and
unheard silhouettes greased the machinery that kept the entire
nation singing the happy song of freedom.
Those were the days of snail mail. Letters
brought every fortnight or so carried never so much a mention
of even an aching bone. A rare short and crisp call over the
official line to anyone of the ladies would assure all was
well. Without the men around we rarely ventured out, had little
entertainment and almost no outings.
(Though I remember times when in desperation
I would tie up my little one just four months then, onto the
front seat and drive to the nearest cantonment movie hall
(Chinar in Udhampur) to catch a movie (Babies Day Out) for
my three year-old's sake. Coming back late, in the freezing
winter night, parking the car and taking the sleeping kids
one by one to the bedroom on the first floor, was an ordeal
for a young mother. The crying jackals in the yonder would
send a shiver in the spine. The houses scattered, 100 of meters
away from each other would be enveloped in darkness and a
kind of foreboding. Evenings were the worst part of the day
I remember, as I would often choke with tears wondering how
long it would take for the kids to grow up.
We had our own battles to fight and several
invaluable lessons to learn. It was my sisters in pain and
joy who groomed me and protected me. They stood by me at my
hour of need, when I delivered my kid all alone, and rushed
with my ailing child to hospital when we feared an appendicitis.
With knotted stomachs and writhing hearts we bade a final
farewell to acquaintances, course-mates, teammates and buddies
yet thanked God in the same breath. It was another's pain
in comparison that helped us to live our own life with fortitude.
Post- Kargil, the Indian army shed its veil
of officious secrecy, admittedly for the best. With the media
bringing battle zones into the drawing room, there is no doubt
a greater appreciation of the efforts of these brave men today.
However, for the men in camouflage, who managed to compartmentalise
the trials and tribulations of the killing fields and domestic
life, and spoke little about it (as an effective defensive
mechanism), the overexposure will have its own pitfalls. And
as for us in the followers' camp, updated reports and pictures
of the brutalities of war, flashing several times a day before
our eyes will ensure we remain in a state of shock and trauma
and accept our stressful existence.
It will never be an innocent waiting anymore.
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