Toofan se ladne mein mazaa aur hee kuchh hai
(fighting a storm has a thrill of its own)
This is about something that dates back not hundreds or thousands of years ... but only one year. The August of last year, proud of and pleased at its own existence but somewhat piqued at the same time for it was at the peak of this month some seventy-one years ago that the independence of a great nation... as also the birth of a new nation had been declared. The same new nation which was to become a thorn in the side of this great nation... the same new nation whose coming into existence compels the likes of us to stay put on these high, icy mountains, away from home, family and all civilization.
Ah well, the story is of the August of the year gone by. River Kishanganga was fully swollen... the same river Kishanganga that flows meandering below this snowy mountain of ours and is called river Neelam by those across the border. The snow from these same mountains, after melting, was charging up the veins of the river. Making an angle of about sixty to sixty-five degrees on the southern, that is on our side of the river bank, this mountain rises up to approximately thirteen thousand feet and, housing enemy-bunkers on the lower three-fourth and our own soldiers' bunkers on the upper one-fourth of its slope, has been - with its hands on ears - quietly thrashing its own head... who is to say since when... why, of course since that August seventy to seventy-one years ago ! In fact its ears, rotted completely from hearing the daily steeped-in-insults war-of-words, are virtually on the verge of dropping off into the depths of the Kishanganga. it's been a dozen years since ceasefire was declared in this section of the border, so instead of bullets, insults are exchanged full-on between the residents of bunkers situated a stone-throw away from each other. Janmaashtamee that year was perhaps in August. When, on this pious occasion of the birth celebrations of our deity, the representatives of bunkers across the border had teased the representatives of bunkers on our side saying, "Sir, you take rest tonight, celebrate your festival, we shall stand duty... " the barrage of the choicest of expletives from bunkers at our end had kept tickling the Kishanganga flowing below us for long.
As the thin and wiry major, the boss of the bunkers on our side celebrated Janmaashtamee - the birthday of Muralidharee Krishna on the thirteenth of August that year, he had himself arrived on the twenty eighth rung of his age. The major, as per rule, shouldn't even have been there on those bunker on that height. One of the bullets received during an encounter in the jungles in Assam during his previous field posting was still hurting... craving frequently for shots of pain-killer injections. Overlooking orders by the Doctors, the thin and wiry Major had come here as he was... what is it that they say... yes, head over heels in love with his battalion. He had received a surprise from his commanding officer late in the evening of that thirteenth of August in the form of a five pounder Black Forest cake ordered from the famous 'Mughal Darbaaar' bakery in Srinagar... with special instructions to "remain extra alert today, as it is the fourteenth of August tomorrow."
Putting each other to test in a war-of-words as always the night, of course, went by somehow... but the next morning arrived bringing with it a very interesting spectacle. As the brilliant rays of Sun-god - having wrapped themselves around the Kishanganga - moved up to embrace the highest peak of the mountain, the thin and wiry major saab, getting up to prepare for sleep after staying awake through the night, witnessed those in the bunkers on the other side - resplendent in their uniforms - busy in preparations for their independence day celebrations. Postponing his sleep for a while the major paused and watched as the green flag with the white strip and its undulating moon and star went up the tall pole and began its flirtations with the wind. The major took a deep yawn and was about to turn his back when his sharp eyes sent a message to his brain that something was amiss... turning again he stared at the white moon and star on the green flag... the crescent moon with the star in its curve was definitely facing downwards. The flag was flying up-side-down.
"Oye Kameeno - you rascals - at least today you should be flying your flag the right way... or should we come over and fly ours." Laughing loudly, the major shouted out to those in the bunkers across the line. The other side of the border was as if rocked with an earthquake of sorts. The choicest of insults which the boss of those in the bunkers across the border - one havaldaar saab - (The officers in the army on the opposite side do not, as a custom, live at the border) used to throw at us were now directed at his subordinates. After the flag was taken down, straightened and flown again, the havaldaar sahib from the other side, approaching the major on this side, thanked him in an extremely sweet voice along with the appeal...janaab - sir - please do not report it anywhere...
A silence of sorts prevailed in the bunkers on the other side for a long while after this. The newly invented barbs, phrases and slurs thrown from this end with an intention to provoke and incite went unanswered for months on end. The Kishanganga carried on with its tickling as per practice... the river Neelam however, stayed a little dispirited those days.
A famous couplet comes to mind...
"Saahil ke sukoon se kise inkaar hai, lekin
toofan se ladne mein mazaa aur hee kuchh hai"
(no one's saying no to the solace in the shore, but
fighting a storm holds a thrill of its own)
-x-
(fighting a storm has a thrill of its own)
This is about something that dates back not hundreds or thousands of years ... but only one year. The August of last year, proud of and pleased at its own existence but somewhat piqued at the same time for it was at the peak of this month some seventy-one years ago that the independence of a great nation... as also the birth of a new nation had been declared. The same new nation which was to become a thorn in the side of this great nation... the same new nation whose coming into existence compels the likes of us to stay put on these high, icy mountains, away from home, family and all civilization.
Ah well, the story is of the August of the year gone by. River Kishanganga was fully swollen... the same river Kishanganga that flows meandering below this snowy mountain of ours and is called river Neelam by those across the border. The snow from these same mountains, after melting, was charging up the veins of the river. Making an angle of about sixty to sixty-five degrees on the southern, that is on our side of the river bank, this mountain rises up to approximately thirteen thousand feet and, housing enemy-bunkers on the lower three-fourth and our own soldiers' bunkers on the upper one-fourth of its slope, has been - with its hands on ears - quietly thrashing its own head... who is to say since when... why, of course since that August seventy to seventy-one years ago ! In fact its ears, rotted completely from hearing the daily steeped-in-insults war-of-words, are virtually on the verge of dropping off into the depths of the Kishanganga. it's been a dozen years since ceasefire was declared in this section of the border, so instead of bullets, insults are exchanged full-on between the residents of bunkers situated a stone-throw away from each other. Janmaashtamee that year was perhaps in August. When, on this pious occasion of the birth celebrations of our deity, the representatives of bunkers across the border had teased the representatives of bunkers on our side saying, "Sir, you take rest tonight, celebrate your festival, we shall stand duty... " the barrage of the choicest of expletives from bunkers at our end had kept tickling the Kishanganga flowing below us for long.
As the thin and wiry major, the boss of the bunkers on our side celebrated Janmaashtamee - the birthday of Muralidharee Krishna on the thirteenth of August that year, he had himself arrived on the twenty eighth rung of his age. The major, as per rule, shouldn't even have been there on those bunker on that height. One of the bullets received during an encounter in the jungles in Assam during his previous field posting was still hurting... craving frequently for shots of pain-killer injections. Overlooking orders by the Doctors, the thin and wiry Major had come here as he was... what is it that they say... yes, head over heels in love with his battalion. He had received a surprise from his commanding officer late in the evening of that thirteenth of August in the form of a five pounder Black Forest cake ordered from the famous 'Mughal Darbaaar' bakery in Srinagar... with special instructions to "remain extra alert today, as it is the fourteenth of August tomorrow."
Putting each other to test in a war-of-words as always the night, of course, went by somehow... but the next morning arrived bringing with it a very interesting spectacle. As the brilliant rays of Sun-god - having wrapped themselves around the Kishanganga - moved up to embrace the highest peak of the mountain, the thin and wiry major saab, getting up to prepare for sleep after staying awake through the night, witnessed those in the bunkers on the other side - resplendent in their uniforms - busy in preparations for their independence day celebrations. Postponing his sleep for a while the major paused and watched as the green flag with the white strip and its undulating moon and star went up the tall pole and began its flirtations with the wind. The major took a deep yawn and was about to turn his back when his sharp eyes sent a message to his brain that something was amiss... turning again he stared at the white moon and star on the green flag... the crescent moon with the star in its curve was definitely facing downwards. The flag was flying up-side-down.
"Oye Kameeno - you rascals - at least today you should be flying your flag the right way... or should we come over and fly ours." Laughing loudly, the major shouted out to those in the bunkers across the line. The other side of the border was as if rocked with an earthquake of sorts. The choicest of insults which the boss of those in the bunkers across the border - one havaldaar saab - (The officers in the army on the opposite side do not, as a custom, live at the border) used to throw at us were now directed at his subordinates. After the flag was taken down, straightened and flown again, the havaldaar sahib from the other side, approaching the major on this side, thanked him in an extremely sweet voice along with the appeal...janaab - sir - please do not report it anywhere...
A silence of sorts prevailed in the bunkers on the other side for a long while after this. The newly invented barbs, phrases and slurs thrown from this end with an intention to provoke and incite went unanswered for months on end. The Kishanganga carried on with its tickling as per practice... the river Neelam however, stayed a little dispirited those days.
A famous couplet comes to mind...
"Saahil ke sukoon se kise inkaar hai, lekin
toofan se ladne mein mazaa aur hee kuchh hai"
(no one's saying no to the solace in the shore, but
fighting a storm holds a thrill of its own)
-x-
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