Eyes Welled Up, Heart Pounded Heavy, At Kargil!
"War for a border citizen means suffering loss for what you have not done".
Driving up the winding roads that in a sense represent life's much entangled paths, I never knew what lay ahead.
As mesmerising as the barren and imposing mountains were, they also reminded me that some of them may have seen fierce battles in the past.
The Wakha river joined in an hour or so later only to merge with the Suru river at Kargil. The name - Kargil - instantly brings memories of the bloody war of 1999 that resulted in many precious lives lost, destruction, displaced innocent people, and heartburn for the rest of the country.
The bustling town is bursting at the seams, as can be seen and felt on 'Lal Chowk', its main shopping and trading district - where people on the road, vehicles, push carts and overhead wires and cables fight for supremacy!
Fine riverside walking paths, street lamps which match the aesthetic Parisian style, and a string of restaurants that dot the roads serving up 'Wazawan', 'Thupka' and 'Kashmiri Meat Balls-with-rice' hide the scars of a people that went through hell.
Climbing further up towards the 'Hundurman LOC View Point', the mighty mountains appear nearer than ever. The drop from these single-lane roads that hug the mountains is massive. Farmers walking with their black coloured donkeys on village roads across the Suru river in the distance appear like black ants seen from atop a stool. One mistake and vehicles will have a 'free fall' to the abyss! (The Border Roads Organisation is securing these roads by placing safety railings. Young boys stand on the edges and work as if they have enough flat ground around them).
As the View Point neared, the heart started to pound: “which side is Pakistan, and are the bunkers alive with soldiers watching us move up”?
At more than 14,000 feet high, the Hundurman View Point sign board is in front. But the View Point is still some 50-60 feet higher. Gasping on the way up due to the steep climb, the high altitude and the fear of a Pakistani soldier watching us, finally I've set foot on the secure platform.
The peaks all around look threatening in one way, beautiful in another, against the spotless blue skies, and in yet another way safe as a small group of travellers are told that there are active Indian bunkers everywhere (they appear so minute its impossible to spot with the naked eye, unless the sun shines on a tin sheet roof).
The strategically placed tricolour meant so much at that moment. Waiting for the gentlest of breeze to enable the flag flutter, the camera is ready for the click. A sharp breeze made its way through the mountains, the flag fluttered in all its glory, picture taken, and it was time to salute the flag.
Ali lives in a village on a mountain slope (one of the many in the region) 3km away - a 15-minute ride through zigzag roads along mountain edges. Born in 1975, Ali has seen the worst of "official and unofficial" wars. Shell attacks, indiscriminate firings, full blown wars, and times of absolute quietness and peace. Since the past ten years, his near-voluntary job is to help tourists see the distant peaks up close with the help of powerful 60X binoculars, and give a commentary on Indian and Pakistani bunkers, soldier movement, construction activity and fluttering flags. And of course, war history.
"So you saw war 'live' from these hills?" - one person asked. With a carefree smile he says:
"yeah its 'live' fun for you, its life or death for us".
"Were you not scared"? (I now remembered the scene from the movie 'Baby's Day Out' where one of the kidnappers fell from a two-storey building and lay flat on the hard floor, while the other one asks "are you alright"?). A long answer came which shut the mouth of the inquisitive brat.
While at 14k feet, we are told that the highest peak could be around 16k feet (they say some peaks reach up to 23k feet!!). "How do the soldiers survive there"?
"Well, like everyone of us".
"How do they get there, is it by helicopter"? "No they move on foot, with all their supplies; they are trained for that".
That was the moment that teared me up.
In order to protect our great nation's territory and thereby every single citizen, our solders - just ordinary men like us, but trained to be tough both physically and mentally - go through a lot.
Moving to the front lines, they risk their lives, sacrifice time with their children, spouses and parents (not sure of meeting them again) and survive on 'Maggi'.
Far removed from the now-cliched ‘hustle-and-bustle of our cities and towns’ we love to hate, perhaps they feel lonely and homesick, and yet must keep their eyes open, head up, mind focussed and maintain that fierce sense of possessiveness.
I am not sure if goosebumps and tears can happen at the same time. But it did. At the same time, a sense of enormous respect for the 'fauj' that I have never felt before.
Back in the city, Anees was 7 years old when the crisis broke out and the misery of war was forced upon them. Living in a village near Kargil city, his family and many members of the community were moved some 15km away to a place considered safe - inside a school. A few days later as the school itself came under attack, they were moved further another 15km. The place was attacked yet again. Finally, some 50km away from home, the government found what would be the safest place, away from enemy missile range.
The community decided that one person from every home decided to stay back in the house just to safeguard (many shops in the city were looted during the time); Anees' brother also joined their father. For a little over two months, there was no contact between the families and those who stayed back at home. (The community also decided that one able member of the family will walk with the soldiers helping them with their equipment and return).
Children of Anees' age enjoyed the night sky come alive with missiles being fired in both directions. The golden war rule: “not even a matchstick must be lit’.
The one name they remember - 'Bofors'!
From Bread to Butter and Blankets, essentials were in more than sufficient supply. One of Anees' uncles introduced him to a person saying: "this person is a government of India officer; they are helping us with food so we don't go hungry, and materials to keep us warm and well kept - say hello to him"! Even today, through the wounds and scars that a nasty war left behind, the community vividly remembers the way the government took care of them with empathy. Their loyalty and love towards India remains unflinching.
"The scars of war experienced by a 7-year old, is permanent; it doesn't go away.
War for a border citizen means suffering loss for what you have not done".
That line struck like a sharp arrow through the bones.
I instantly remembered the war mongering on our 'supposedly national television', the fireworks that are generated, and the credit taken by political parties - sitting in far away lands from the comfort of air-conditioned rooms, and sipping coffee/tea/water in between. And the mindless "discussions" we have in our tea shops, restaurants and living rooms at home. And then I remembered one of our champion reporters whose career was defined by the war and brought war into our homes and our national consciousness - Barkha Dutt. How must it have been reporting from near guns, tanks and bunkers, under threat, away from home, but in good company of generous soldiers!
Anees goes on to recollect the horrors he had seen. A girl who was killed on the spot when she had gone out, very near to the bunker she was in, to collect cow dung to be used to lit fire. A shell fell not very close to her, but such as it is designed, got hit by some of the sharp objects. A teacher lost a part of his nose, a boy lost most of his chin and another girl lost her entire nose bridge, leaving just her nostrils.
His relief - none of his household were killed, and the family reunited safely. Their home was intact. When 'Pulwama' happened, the city once again plunged into fear. Even as the conflict was far away, the sound of war planes hovering around was enough to create concern. "Thankfully, it passed. You do not know what it is to live in border regions" - he concludes. A full 23.5 years later, memory of war is still fresh. As he choked on an odd occasion, my heart sank! Did I open up those wounds? This morning he gave me a bear-hug to thank me for “remembering and thinking of our struggles”. Anees runs a hotel, but says, hardly anyone checks on us.
"I do this not for a living; I want my countrymen to know how well we fought and recaptured our land", Ali tells the little group as we prepare to leave.
Have you tried our special Kargil tea - 'Kahwa Chai' of Kargil? He insisted we have it.
The big takeaway: I saw the life of a 'fauj' up on the mountain tops today, boy is it difficult! I felt huge respect and admiration. I felt the need to think about them more often, pray for their safety and for their family's peace. They are 'on the line' - another cliched line used in corporate board rooms.
At Arunachal Pradesh's Mechuka, the Army-run Gurudwara is located beside the gushing waters of the river fed by melting glaciers.
A batch of soldiers had just finished their 'Langar' meal and were about to leave. Two tall and hefty soldiers and I got talking - one from Sonmarg and the other from Kargil. When I shook their hands and patted them on their shoulders saying: "thank you for keeping our nation safe", they smiled, told me how much they appreciated the gesture. When they knew I was due to go to Kargil in the next few days, they both went ga-ga about the friendliness of Kashmiri people and said: "don't you worry about a thing; the place is peaceful, and no one will dare touch us". They wear their nationalistic fervour on their sleeves, yet like little children are thankful for the "thoughtful gesture" (in their words).
Meanwhile, as I leave the Apricot and Poplar tree-lined farms that are helped by tiny streams directed in their way, the massive mountains of different colours still captivate and does not bore, as someone suggested it will.
*I am not part of the 'right wing'!
**Dare not anyone tell any citizen of India to go to Pakistan!!
*** Some of the fiercest battles during the Kargil war took place at Drass