Diary Of A Soldier-18 an English translation of Gautam Rajrishi's 'Fauji kI Diary' ('फ़ौजी की डायरी- १८)

Bhay ko dekhna ho nat-mastak...
(to see fear with its head bowed...)

Just a few days back I received from a reader - entangled in a very disorderly page of the diary - an extremely orderly call. I talked to him at length but his list of queries related to the pages of the diary was so long that eventually I had to tell him that answering all his questions was like scaling the vertical climb of this high, snow-clad mountain. His laughter, coming in fragments from the other end of the mobile,brought  some solace too that these disordered pages of the diary were, more or less,  getting their meaning across properly. There was one question in particular - asked generally also by friends and family - which kept lingering for long in my mind. A question that has brought back with it a flood of so many indescribable memories.

As they make their way towards a certain death, how do soldiers feel ?

To tell you the truth dear diary I do not have words apt enough to enable me to weave even one  proper sentence in reply !  I am reminded of that battle of nineteen years ago. A mission... ere embarking on which the commanding officer of the battalion had made each member of our chosen team write a brief letter addressed to our families in case we didn't return safe and sound ... ! It's another matter that the letters were never despatched... the entire team had been called back from midway as cease fire had been declared. There were countless such letters however, that did reach so many homes in the country... to grieving, wailing families. Many of these letters reached home along with the bodies of the martyred soldier. In fact there is an old tradition of making soldiers write a letter to their families before leaving on a dangerous mission during war.

...so how does it feel moving towards a certain death?

Come dear diary, let me - in answer to this question - read to you the last letter of a brave soldier. Had that war of nineteen years ago not happened on those icy heights of Kargil, Nimbu saab would have turned twenty-five that July Of nineteen years back. Nimbu Saab... Captain Neikehakuo Kenguruse of the Rajputana Rifles... honoured posthumously with Mahavir Chakra... who, bare foot and holding a rocket launcher, climbed a height of sixteen thousand feet to free a cliff captured by the enemy, was well aware of his destined death. The letter written by Nimbu Saab before leaving on that last mission has the capacity to melt the driest of sensibilities...

Dear Mummy-Papa                                                                                                              20 June 1999

I had never thought I would ever have the need to write this letter. But it appears necessary today to share my last message with you.
The Pakistanis had captured some of our region by infiltrating and we have therefore had to move to the Drass and Batalik sector of Kashmir. I know that I have God on my side and that he will protect me... but if God wills a supreme sacrifice by me then I may not have another opportunity to address you.
I am feeling very sad. Just the thought that I may never see you again is so hurtful. My dear mummy and papa, I love you a lot. I have always tried my best to provide good care for you and have always wished you happiness. But perhaps I have failed in my purpose in this short span of my life.
I know I have embarrassed you many times and caused you trouble. Please forgive me my mistakes. You two have given me so much love and have taught me so much that I have remained a good leader to the last moments of my life. I am so grateful. Thank you very much.
My dear papa, thinking about my young siblings I want to cry. Please guide them well to become good human beings. Tell them that I loved them a lot. Tell Grandpa and Grandma also that I loved them a lot. Give my regards to all my friends and family and ask them to forgive me if I have ever hurt them. 
Even if I ask you not to cry when I am no more, I know you will because you love me so much. But please be happy thinking I will live on in your memories. Write to all my friends whose addresses are there in my diary.
Papa-mummy, I want to share something very personal with you. I have a girlfriend... and you also know her. The two of you may not like her. But I love her very much and she loves me a lot too. When I'd come last on vacation in May, I had asked for her hand and she was willing to get married to me. In case I do not return, please look after her also. She's a true friend of mine. We used to share all our problems with each other. I know she loves me truly. Do something for her if I fail to make it back. This is my humble request to you both.
May God always bless you. I wish you both good health and peace.
Your loving son
Neibu"

...so how does it feel moving towards a certain death ? No, I do not have an answer. A fear... a subdued, head-bowed fear...of parting...of not being able to see one's loved ones again... and also, amid all this a hidden 'guilt' that one has not been able to do enough for life... for one's people. It feels...as if everything is getting left behind ! An excerpt from a poem by Neel Kamal comes to mind...

"Bhay ko dekhna ho
natmastak, kar baddh
to dekho us aamee kee aankhon mein
jise maloom hai
zindagi kee ultee gintee"

"To see fear
with its head bowed, hands folded
look into the eyes of a man
who is aware of the count-down of his life"       

                                                                               -x-

'Diary Of A Soldier' -17, an English tranaslation of Gautam Rajrishi's 'Fauji Ki Diary (फ़ौजी की डायरी-१७)

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-