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Over a surreal horizon

Last week, we left you at the turn of the millennium, with a mild dig at the "able" government. Which provoked some very indignant saffron mail. Hence, before we continue with our army story, we must clarify: Though we part company soon after, we fully agree with D'Souza's "talking tough has little to do with being tough. With all the bluster about standing up to terrorism that we have heard from Home Minister Advani -- whose previous experience of standing up, of course, was on a Toyota truck he called a chariot -- his own government was forced to give in to this gang of thugs." We add: Halvaais make jalebis, not rogan josh. India needs prime ministers who, should they wear bangles, also possess balls of steel -- like Indira Gandhi, Margaret Thatcher or Golda Meir. Ram Mandir doesn't bother us; the UCC can await a debate; Article 370 is a complex Constitutional issue; but there is NO excuse -- not even 150 "innocent" lives -- for bowing to terrorists. Are security personnel's lives not innocent...?

The white paper on terrorism, drum-rolled in November 1998, has manifested itself only on rolls in South Block's toilets. We don't give a damn what the US calls Pakistan. We simply want a government which sweats its own sweat in fighting its own battles -- like every ordinary citizen in this country does. We want leaders who have the will to nullify enemies of the State. We want a party which puts the nation before its own political interests. Is that too much to expect? We are nauseated by the BJP's pathological need to be accepted. The nice-nice don't make for strength, and strength is the only language the West understands. The events of December are the wages India is still paying for deifying the Mahatma's idiot theory of Ahimsa: WHY were the terrorists alive??? We do not understand.

The BJP says that the people who are vilifying them now are the ones who'd have nailed them had the hostages died. Meaning, those who wouldn't have vilified them are no force to reckon... The BJP claims that it has suffered only a "temporary setback." Meaning, people like us, the garbage constituents, have no choice but to support it... Well, they can't be more wrong. We never pushed a line because it was a party's, and we won't begin now. Therefore, we busy ourself with the only institution that has nil to do with that blasted goodie-two-shoes ahimsa and is also (consequently?) the only one that works: The Indian Defence Force.

Such were the thoughts ruffling our mental balance when we took the long ride to Post Y at the LC across the Pir Panjal Range on January 1. It was not a good start, and it would only get worse: The post had some young officers we immediately labeled pinko. For without any instigation from us, we found ourself locked in a heated argument where we were advocating brute force against their pushing Kashmiri independence: "The natives greet us with Ram-Ram, the Sikh Regiment with Sat Sri Akal, but it doesn't mean that they accept us. They are just adjusting to different power centres. Is this what makes a nation?" Oh help, we had landed in Chindu-heaven!

It was after hours of antagonism, and not a few McCarthy-threats from us, that we realised that all of us were speaking at cross purposes. The officers were only talking WHAM (Winning Hearts And Minds), Economics, and mulling over a lasting solution. They weren't about to stick daisies in their gun barrels, thank god. And all of us had the same villain in the cross-hair: the policies of past and present governments, with special reference to babudom: "If conditions remain the same in Bihar, I won't be surprised if the people ask for independence. The reasons for secession are religious and cultural suppression and economic failure of the Centre. Look at the Northeast: there's an uprising in Nagaland, so you apply some balm over it. Then it erupts in Mizoram, so you put malam over it. Then it bursts in Manipur, and you bandage it. The Northeast has a special and definite set of problems which must be addressed! We must make them feel ours is one country -- their country." In the end, we were pleased by the confirmation of our suspicion that soldiers can and do think...

Of course, all this dawned on us only after we had the best samosas we've ever eaten (from where do they get the cooks??) and after reading the particularly nationalistic and himsawadi thoughts penned by the post's leading liberal. We had overreacted, thanks to our fury at our abhorable governments which have successively made India into a soft State -- a veritable laughing stock of the terrorism market.

All the same, we didn't exactly endear ourself to this company. Because we also got into we-represent-all-journalists-and-civilians mode and picked another scrap. Funny thing, this loyalty bug -- it awakes unexpectedly. Works like this: we can say whatever we want about our kind, but don't you try the same! So we found ourself defending those whom we regularly assault, and attacking those whom we religiously exonerate. As we said, Kashmir has an infectious surreal quality about it... Then followed the row over, quote, "don't place soldiers on a pedestal." They said they weren't superhumans and could make mistakes. We said, when they make mistakes, different rules should apply...

Then followed the altercation over the militants' release. They said if our relatives were hostages, we'd pressurise the government for the militants' release. We said we'd surely pray for it but would never work towards any such pressure. So they called us a hypocrite. And we called them ignoble cynics who saw guile even in Ajay Ahuja's widow's plea to the hostages' relatives. All in all, Mars had possessed us and we fought from the time we climbed up to the post till the instructions came to fire but "don't open with all weapons"...

And everything changed. The philosopher gave way to the doer as the killing machinery shifted gears. The commanding officer, who suddenly started looking like a cross between John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, took us around the camp and showed us the placements. He helped us accurately locate Paki posts through his binocs and described their peculiarities with suitable scorn. His entire demeanour had changed! He said, "We're standing here since too long and he'll notice it. All his posts are on a higher plain than ours. That's a gift of having ceded gained territories." Since we could make out the Haji Pir Pass at a distance, we reckoned: 1965. We unholstered our idiot-proof camera (sorry, they haven't yet invented a moron-proof view-finder) and imagined capturing on film shells bursting in the Chambal-like gullies snaking around the post...

In our dreams. For no amount of feminine wiles or threats moved the CO. We were ordered into the "command post," the nerve centre of operations, which is a heavily fortified bunker from where orders are relayed along to the different forward positions, and the firing monitored by the company adjutant. The underground room was about 8 feet square and approached through a dead-black descending passage. 5 plastic chairs, a lit kerosene stove for heat, tea flasks, a phone and radio-set right out of The Guns of Navarrone, maps and co-ordinates lining each ice-cold wall, and a metal sliding shutter in the wall at the front. We pulled a chair to the vantage place facing the closed shutter. "You see those dents behind you? He shoots straight at the opening." We moved. "Have you got your monkey-cap? We could be here till morning." It was 4.27 pm.

"Where's Mishra? Someone go and wake him up." Our guardian angel, the 22 Maratha lieutenant, had abandoned us when the arguments had picked up pace. "Get the Captain here. Sab ke sab so rahe hain." This was the medic who had just returned from a 90-day posting at Siachen and hadn't seen his family for a year. The lines crackled, "We have to punish [Paki] Post K for last night. You look after Post L. And wait for the executive order." Another call, "No, sir. She's staying here tonight. She's here with us now. Yes, I'll try." The CO grinned a grin that made my heart lurch, "Oh, I forgot to wish you: Happy New Millennium to you."

And the firing began.

At 4.48, the mortars started exploding. "Bara round nikaal diye? Itne mein? HMG [heavy machine gun] do-sau metre shift karo. Pyaare, AGL [auto grenade launcher] tayyaar hain?" After a while, we learned to distinguish his explosions from ours; his are louder since they are directed at us. One, we thought, landed on top of our head. Nope, it was further down the mountain, they said. And all the while, a Paki was crackling in the background: "Hello, hello, HELLO! Come in, Mahboob. Hello, HELLO, HELLO!" "The poor chap's probably alone and desperate at his post. We must have blown their lines. He normally speak Pushtu; wonder who this is." Our guardian angel stifled a yawn while scanning the magazine he'd brought. "When did this heroine get married?" he asked. The Captain replied, "Arre, tum bhi kya padhte ho? Abhi shaadi nahi hui." We were speechless.

I ventured, "What was that about punishing some post?" The CO said, "Oh that. Last night, we celebrated the New Year with some pyrotechnics. He began firing at 12 am. So we retaliated at 12.30, when it's midnight for him, with para-illuminating devices. Our jawans said, 'Sab paara chadhha diya, sahab.' Then we fired only tracer bullets, which is an illuminating bullet normally shot after every 4 or 5 standard bullets to show us the route of fire. Great pyrotechnics." Then what was today about...? "It's called prophylactic firing. To prevent him from making any move. He attacked some posts in Uri last night. Today he'll disturb this one." Information came from Indian posts far away -- where most of the Paki shells had landed. Which brought great hilarity to the denizens of the bunker: "Yeh achchhi tarqeeb hai. We'll shoot from an angle, and let Bihar [regiment] bear the brunt." Even we couldn't suppress a smile. It's strange how human beings learn to find mirth in adversity...

It was around 6.30 pm when the CO decided that sufficient time had elapsed -- "Ab woh roza chhod raha hoga" -- and it was safe to venture out. The reflected glare of the last rays lent a spectral beauty to the snow-capped peaks on the horizon. If not for the threat of Paki salvos, we'd have been content to just sit and stare at the land he held. We gathered in the "mess" for another spate of debate before dinner. But we had no appetite for both: we didn't know it then, but we were coming down with a fever that's still resisting antibiotics. By 10 pm, we had curled around the kerosene-fed bukhaari in our shack and were out like a light within seconds. This was probably the first time in 20 years that we were fast asleep at that dynamic hour; certainly, it was the first time that we did not take a wash or read before falling asleep. As we keep saying, everything about Kashmir is surreal...

Varsha Bhosle