My very first ambition in life was to join the army, an ardent wish that stayed with me till late into my teens. I was therefore thrilled when, after the 1971 war, my family decided to visit Dera Baba Nanak, a border town in Punjab. We were living in Delhi then. An ‘uncle’, a close army friend of the family was to be awarded the Maha Veer Chakra for his stellar role in the war there and we were driving there to congratulate him.
It was just a few weeks after the war and photography was not allowed, but I will never forget the scenes of war and the stories that thrilled my young heart. Travelling in open army jeeps on typical dusty village mud roads, we saw burnt out tanks and bunkers as ‘uncle’ and his soldiers narrated the stories behind each of them. Every few hundred meters, a soldier or two would suddenly materialize from behind harmless-looking sand mounds and camouflaged tents and throw a smart salute at our jeep while they guided our drivers to ‘safe’ routes. And then there would be villagers with their children enthusiastically waving Indian flags shouting ‘Jai Hind Jai Hind’ as we passed and my chest swelled with pride and patriotism.
The town is situated along the banks of the Ravi river and we could see Pakistan and its solders standing on the other bank looking at us through their binoculars just as we were at them. The binocs made it seem as if they were standing just an arm’s length away. I don’t know what I was expecting but to my surprise, they looked just like us except for their uniforms.
My uncle told us that during peace time, they would celebrate each other’s festivals with food being floated across the river on huge leaves. There were field phones (the ones that needed to be cranked) and officers would talk to each other often, greeting each other on special days, and otherwise exchanging notes on animal movements, poachers, drills and weather changes. Many of them knew each other by name. My uncle and his soldiers waved out to the Pakistani soldiers and they waved back casually as though nothing had happened in the last few weeks.
My uncle explained how he would go up and down the road, shouting ‘Aage badho, aage badho!” the whole day and night, talking to his soldiers, motivating them, putting himself on the line for them as much as they did for him. He didn’t tell us this himself, but another soldier whispered to us out of his earshot that on the last day of the war, he had vomited blood because of all the shouting.
They explained to us how the Pakistanis had built deep drive-in bunkers with 3-foot walls that none of the Indian shells could penetrate. They would hide in jeeps inside the bunkers and would suddenly drive up and open machine gun fire and disappear back into the bunkers. This was blocking our advance and there was nothing that our soldiers could do. Finally, we had to smoke them out with some of our soldiers taking the risk and crawling under cover of darkness and throwing smoke bombs into the bunkers. They also explained that as the war progressed and we started winning, the Pakistani officers were the first to take to their heels and desert their soldiers. After that it was just a matter of time.
There was an observation tower on either side and we could see soldiers standing up there, looking all around with their binoculars. We were all challenged to climb up the tower on our side. They had only open railing stairs and I could see a couple of soldiers scampering up in front of me right up to the guard house without a pause. I tried my best but after a few floors, I chickened out. I remember being really scared going up, but coming down was totally terrifying.
Before the war, there was a young boy of about 18, probably a fresh enlist who used to man the Pakistani observation tower. He was always extremely alert and sharp and promptly advised both sides of even slight movements or danger. His inputs made him popular with the troops and my uncle grew fond of him, often calling him ‘beta’ whenever he could speak to him. But once war broke out, his talent and alertness became a grave danger to the Indians. He had the eyes of an eagle and nothing would escape his attention. It was becoming more and more difficult for the Indians and my uncle directed some fire in his direction to scare him away. But nothing worked and the boy continued to be a thorn in our side for many days.
Finally, with no other option, my uncle had to call in his snipers and as he watched on his binoculars, his ‘beta’, the little 18-year old kid was shot dead in front of his eyes. There was a tiny little break in my uncle’s voice as he ended his narration. War is cruel.
We had lunch in their mess. I watched with awe as my uncle introduced some of his aides and officers. All of them were tall and wiry with typical moustaches and a clipped way of talking. But there was a huge, loud and friendly sardarji who to me looked about 8 foot tall and 4 foot wide, like some giant in uniform. He had a grand voice and dominated the room. I took a chance and feeling overawed and shy, I hesitatingly mustered the courage to stammer “Uncle, I want to see a real tank”. What happened next will ring in my ears for the rest of my life. Up came his huge right arm and he thumped his chest a couple of times, the sound breaking like thunder in my ears. “Here, can’t you see me?!” I stood stunned while everybody around me roared with laughter. He underlined my ambition to join the army that day in red.
We did see a couple of tanks that day, and heck, we rode in one too. But to me, that sardarji was and will always remain my tank.
A few years later, back in Bombay with my grandparents, I repeated to my father on one of his rare visits, my wish to join the army. Nobody takes young kids’ dreams seriously. He shrugged and breezily said that he would get me the same uncle’s postal address and after that it was up to me. He did and I wrote an impassioned letter to the uncle who by then had gone up several notches in the army.
My uncle replied on the army’s letter head and his words were full of patriotism and he encouraged me to keep ‘the glorious traditions of the Indian army’ in my mind as I progressed with the application process. The letter had very few specifics though. He had probably been ‘spoken to’ by my father.
There was nothing much that I gained from the letter except for a broken heart. The one precious piece of information it gave me was that I was already overage.
Thus did that particular ambition die, one of the many that would fall by the wayside.