After the Prime Minister’s speech, a young actress comes on TV and says the same things, but in filmi style. The women gawk at the actress. How young she looks, they say, and how beautiful. Is her sari silk or chiffon, they ask each other. How does she manage to keep her skin so soft? Which soap does she use? She is so fair. She doesn’t need Fair and Lovely cream.
The men are full of anger. Those bastards have caused enough problems for us, they say. Enough is enough. This time we should destroy Pakistan completely.
Mr Wagle is the resident expert on the war. A lecturer at the University, he is the most educated person in our chawl. Pakistan has missiles and atom bombs, he tells us. That is why we are in this bunker – so that we are protected from radiation. But there is no real protection against the atom bomb. When the bomb falls, he says, the water will become air. The air will become fire. The sun will disappear. A huge mushroom cloud will rise in the sky. And we will all die, he concludes solemnly.
But death is difficult to visualize when you are a twelve-year-old like me and Putul or ten like Salim and Dhyanesh and this is your first war. We are full of enthusiasm and curiosity. We camp before the television set, mesmerized by the images of battle.
We don’t know and don’t care about radiation. We are interested in more important things. Such as:
How much noise does an atom bomb make?
Can we see jets flying over our houses?
Will it be like Diwali?
Wouldn’t it be nice if a missile landed next to our chawl?
It is the third night of the war. Our life in the bunker is falling into a predictable pattern. The women have begun to bring their vegetables and knitting to the hall. They sit in a group, chop tomatoes and potatoes, make sweaters, separate chaff from lentils, extract healthy leaves from spinach and coriander bunches, and exchange the latest gossip. Do you know Mrs Goswami has bought a new twenty-five-inch TV? Heaven knows where her husband gets all his money from! Looks like Mr Bapat and his wife had a big fight the other night. Practically the entire neighbourhood could hear it! Have you seen the latest Starburst? It says Armaan Ali might be gay!
The men listen intently to the news and discuss the latest rumours. Is it true that a state of emergency is about to be declared? They say Pathankot has been completely destroyed by bombing. Many civilians have died. Mehta has reliable information, straight from the Ministry, that petrol is to be rationed. Onions and tomatoes have virtually disappeared from the market. Better start hoarding milk.
We youngsters have our own gang. We run around the large hall shouting and screaming and trip over each other, much to the consternation of the women. We play I Spy till we tire of it. Then Putul invents a new game. It’s called, appropriately enough, War and Peace. The game is quite simple. We divide ourselves into two teams, one led by an Indian General and the other by a Pakistani General. The two teams have to tag each other. Whoever is caught first becomes a prisoner of war and can only be released in exchange for another prisoner from the opposite team. Tagging the General counts for two prisoners. The team with the largest number of captured prisoners wins the game. There is only one problem: no one wants to be the Pakistani General. Eventually they get hold of Salim. ‘You are Muslim,’ they tell him, ‘so you become Pakistani.’ Salim doesn’t agree at first, but is bought off with the promise of two packs of bubblegum. I join Salim’s team and we thrash the Indians.
After all our games are played, we gather in a corner, resting from our physical exertion, and discuss the war.
‘I love this war,’ I say. ‘It’s so exciting. And my employer Neelima Kumari has given me the week off, because of the curfew.’
‘Yes,’ says Putul. ‘My school has also been closed for a week.’
‘I wish we had a war every month,’ says Dhyanesh.
‘Stop this nonsense, I say!’ a man thunders behind our backs.
We turn around in alarm to see an old Sikh on crutches standing behind us. He is thin and tall, with a small, whiskery moustache on a weather-beaten face. He wears an olive-green turban to match his army uniform with lots of pockets and a big belt. He looks at us sternly and raises a finger accusingly. ‘How dare you trivialize a war? War is a very serious business. It takes lives.’
Only then do we notice that he has a leg missing.
We learn that he is Lance Naik (retd) Balwant Singh. That he recently moved into our chawl, that he lives alone, and that he lost his leg in combat.
Having disciplined us, Balwant Singh hobbles forward on his crutches and sits down in the chair directly in front of the TV set.
The television is broadcasting live pictures of the war. The screen is cloaked in a hazy green light. We are shown a rocket launcher with a rocket loaded in it. A soldier presses a button and the rocket shoots off in a blaze of fire. After half a minute, we see a flash of greenish-yellow light far away in the distance and the sound of an explosion. ‘We have hit the target perfectly,’ declares an army officer standing next to the rocket launcher. He grins. His teeth seem unnaturally green. Within ten seconds another rocket is launched. The reporter turns around and says right into the camera, ‘This was our live and exclusive coverage of the war in the Rajasthan sector. I am Sunil Vyas of Star News, embedded with 5th Division, returning you back to the studio.’ We are not told what the target was, whether it was hit, how many people died in the attack, and how many survived. A famous singer comes on and begins singing old patriotic songs with gusto.
Lance Naik (retd) Balwant Singh gets up from his chair. ‘This is not a real war,’ he says in disgust. ‘It is a joke. They are showing you a soap opera.’
Mr Wagle is not amused. ‘Well, what is a real war, then?’ he asks.
Balwant looks at Wagle with a soldier’s contempt for a civilian. ‘A real war is very different from this children’s film. A real war has blood and guts. A real war has dead bodies and hands chopped off by enemy bayonets and legs blown off by shrapnel.’
‘Which war did you fight in?’ asks Mr Wagle.
‘I fought in the last real war, the one in 1971,’ Balwant Singh says proudly.
‘Then why don’t you tell us what a real war feels like?’ says Mrs Damle.
‘Yes, tell us, Uncle,’ we clamour.
Balwant Singh sits down. ‘You really want to know what a real war feels like? OK, then I will tell you my story. Of those fourteen glorious days when we won our most famous victory over Pakistan.’
We cluster around the old soldier like wide-eyed children before their grandfather.
Balwant Singh begins speaking. His eyes acquire that dreamy, far-off look people get when speaking of things long past. ‘I will now take you back to 1971. To the most fateful period in the history of the Indian nation.’
A hush falls over the audience in the bunker. Mr Wagle turns down the volume on the TV set. No one protests. The second-hand live report on TV is no match for the first-hand account of a real soldier.
‘The last real war began on the third of December, 1971. I remember the date well because on the very day that war was declared, I received a letter from Pathankot, from my beloved wife, informing me that she had given birth to a baby boy, our first child. My wife wrote in her letter, “You are not with me, but I know you are fighting for your motherland, and this fills my heart with pride and joy. I will pray for your safety and, together with your son, I will wait for your victorious return.”
‘I cried when I read that letter, but these were tears of happiness. I was not crying because I was far away from my family at such a time. I was happy that I was going into battle with the blessings of my wife and fortified by the arrival of my newborn son.’
‘What did she name your son?’ asks Mrs Damle.
‘Well, we had decided long before the birth that if it was a girl we would call her Durga, and if it was a boy we would name him Sher Singh. So Sher Singh it was.’
‘How did the war begin?’ asks Mr Shirke.
‘On the night of December the third ther
e was a new moon. Under cover of darkness, the cowardly enemy launched pre-emptive air strikes on a number of our airfields along the western sector – Srinagar, Avantipur, Pathankot, Uttarlai, Jodhpur, Ambala, Agra – all were strafed. The air strikes were followed by a massive attack on the strategic Chhamb sector in the north.’
‘And where were you posted when war broke out?’ asks Mr Wagle.
‘Right there in Chhamb, with 13th Infantry Division. I belong to the Sikh Regiment and my battalion – 35 Sikh – was deployed at Chhamb in the middle of a brigade group. Now you must understand why Pakistan attacked us in Chhamb. Chhamb is not just a village on the west bank of the river Munawar Tawi. It is also the lifeline to the districts of Akhnoor and Jaurian. You capture Chhamb and you pose a threat to the entire state.
‘So that night Pakistan launched a three-pronged attack against us. They came in with a heavy artillery barrage. Guns and mortar. The firing was so intense that in just a few hours nearly all our bunkers were badly damaged and three of our border patrols had been taken out.
‘I was in command of a forward post with three men when the attack started. My post was attacked by the enemy in vastly superior strength. You must remember that we had only three battalions across the Munawar Tawi, which faced a division of Pakistani infantry, the 23rd Infantry Division, with a brigade of armour, about one hundred and fifty tanks, and about nine to ten regiments of artillery. Pakistan had more artillery in Chhamb than in the whole of the Eastern Front.
‘The three men under me at that time were Sukhvinder Singh from Patiala, Rajeshwar from Hoshiarpur and Karnail Singh from Ludhiana. Karnail was the best of the lot, a tall, muscular man with a booming voice and an infectious smile. He had no fear of war. He had no fear of death. But there was one fear that nagged him each and every day.’
‘And what was that?’ asks Mr Kulkarni.
‘The fear of being buried. You see, we had heard that these Pakistanis, if they found the dead bodies of any Indian soldiers, would never return them to us. Instead, they would deliberately bury them according to Muslim tradition, even if the Indian soldiers were Hindu. Karnail was a God-fearing and devout man, and he was terrified that if he died in battle, his body would be buried six feet under the ground instead of being cremated. “Promise me, Sir,” he said to me a week before the war started, “that you will ensure that I am cremated properly if I die. Otherwise my soul will never find peace and will be forced to roam the depths of the netherworld for another thirty-six thousand years.” I tried to reassure him, telling him he was not going to die, but he was adamant. So, simply to stop his nagging, I told him, “OK, Karnail, if you die, I promise I will have you cremated with full Hindu rites.”
‘So, on the night of December the third, we were in a forward bunker – Karnail, Sukhvinder, Rajeshwar and me – when the firing started . . .’
He is interrupted by Putul. ‘Uncle, did your bunker have a TV, like ours?’
The soldier laughs. ‘No, my son. Our bunker was not as luxurious. It didn’t have a carpet or a TV. It was small and cramped. Only four people could crawl into it. It was infested with mosquitoes and sometimes even snakes would come to visit us.’
Balwant’s tone becomes more serious. ‘Now I don’t know whether any of you is familiar with the topography of Chhamb. It is a flat area, but is known for its grey stones and the sarkanda – elephant grass – so tall and thick it can camouflage a tank. Through this thick grass, the enemy came at us under cover of darkness. Before we knew it, mortars were exploding to our left and right. It was pitch dark and I could not see a thing. A grenade was launched at our bunker, but we were able to scramble out before it exploded. As we ventured out of the bunker, a spray of automatic fire from a light machine gun greeted our every step. Quietly, we began advancing on foot, walking in a straight line, trying to determine the source of the firing. We made good headway and had almost reached the Pakistani bunker from where the firing was being directed, when a mortar bomb exploded just behind me. Before I knew it, Sukhvinder and Rajeshwar were dead and Karnail was bleeding from a shrapnel wound to his stomach. I was the only one to escape with superficial injuries. I quickly informed my company commander of the casualties. I also told him that there was an LMG position which was belching deadly fire from the enemy bunker and that if it was not stopped it would cause heavy damage to the company. My CO told me that he could not spare another sub-unit, and asked me to somehow neutralize the LMG position.
‘ “I am going towards the enemy bunker,” I told Karnail. “You provide covering fire for me.”
‘But Karnail blocked my way. “This is a suicide mission, Sir,” he told me.
‘ “I know, Karnail,” I replied, “But someone has got to do it.”
‘ “Then let me do it, Sir,” Karnail said. “I volunteer to neutralize the enemy machine gun.” Then he told me, “Saab, you have a wife. You have just been blessed with a son. I have no one in my family. No one behind me. No one in front. I might already be dying from this wound. Let me go and do something in the service of my motherland. But don’t forget your promise, Sir.” And before I could even utter a word, he snatched the rifle from my hand and rushed forward. “Bharat Mata ki Jai – Long Live Mother India,” he shouted and charged the enemy bunker, bayoneting three enemy soldiers to death and silencing the LMG. But as he stood with the gun in his hands, he received another fatal burst of rifle fire in his chest, and before my eyes he toppled to the ground, with the gun still in his hand.’
The hall goes very quiet as we try to visualize the violent scene of battle. The sound of gunfire and mortar seems to echo around the room. Balwant continues.
‘I stood rooted to the same spot for close to two hours. I was under instruction to return to the company, but the promise that I had made to Karnail kept ringing in my ears. His body was now lying in enemy territory and I had no idea how many Pakistani soldiers were still around. I was the only one left in my section.
‘By three am the firing stopped completely and there was a deathly silence. A sudden gust of wind rustled the trees nearby. I inched towards the Pakistani bunker, no more than two hundred feet away. Suddenly, in front of me, I heard the sound of muffled footsteps. I strained to hear over the pounding of my heart as I raised my rifle. I cocked it, ready to fire, but hoping that I wouldn’t have to use it. Firing in the darkness produces a bright muzzle flash that would betray my position to the enemy. I tried to suppress even the sound of my own breathing. Something thin and slippery crawled over my back. It felt like a snake. I had a desperate urge to shake it off, but fear of alerting the enemy made me close my eyes and hope that it would not bite me. After what seemed like an eternity, it slithered down my leg and I heaved a sigh of relief. My back was drenched in sweat and my arms were aching. My rifle felt as if it was made of lead. The footsteps started again, coming closer and closer. I peered into the darkness, trying to decipher the outline of the enemy, but could see nothing. I knew that death was lurking close by. I would either kill or be killed. A twig crunched and I could even detect faint breathing. It was an agonizing wait. I debated whether I should fire or wait for the enemy to make the first move. Suddenly, I saw the flare of a match and the back of a head floated into view, like a disembodied ghost, not more than ten feet away. I immediately leapt out of the grass and rushed forward with open bayonet. It was a Pakistani soldier, about to urinate. I had almost knocked him down when he turned around, dropped his rifle and pleaded with me with clasped hands, “Please don’t kill me. I beg you.”
‘“How many of you are still in the area?” I asked him.
‘“I don’t know. I got detached from my unit. I was just trying to go back. Please, I beg you, don’t kill me,” he cried.
‘“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” I demanded. “After all, you are the enemy.”
‘“But I am also a human being, like you,” he said. The colour of my blood is the same as yours. I have a wife who is waiting for me in Mirpur. And a baby girl who was born only ten d
ays ago. I don’t want to die without even seeing her face.”
‘I softened on hearing this. “I also have a wife, and a baby son whose face I have not seen as yet,” I told the enemy soldier. Then I asked him, “What would you have done in my position?” He went quiet for a while, then he replied haltingly, “I would have killed you.”
‘“See,” I told him, “we are soldiers. We have to be true to our profession. But I promise you this. I will have your body properly buried,” and then, without blinking an eyelid, I pushed my bayonet through his heart.’
‘Ugh . . . chi chi . . .’ Mrs Damle closes her eyes in disgust.
Mr Shirke is also unnerved. ‘You really don’t have to be so graphic,’ he tells Balwant as he tries in vain to cover Putul’s ears with his palms. ‘All this killing and blood, I worry my son may start having nightmares.’
Balwant snorts. ‘Ha! War is not for the squeamish. In fact, it is good for these youngsters to understand what it is all about. They should know that war is a very serious business. It takes lives.’
‘What happened afterwards?’ asks Mr Wagle.
‘Nothing much. I went to the enemy bunker, where the bodies of the three Pakistani soldiers were lying alongside Karnail. I picked him up and trudged back to my company base with his body over my shoulders. The next morning we cremated him.’ Balwant’s eyes are wet with tears. ‘I told the CO about Karnail’s supreme act of bravery, and on his recommendation Karnail Singh was awarded a posthumous MVC.’
‘What’s an MVC?’ asks Dhyanesh.
‘Maha Vir Chakra. It is one of the highest military honours in our country,’ replies Balwant.
‘And which is the highest?’
‘The PVC or the Param Vir Chakra. It is almost always given posthumously.’
‘Which award did you get?’ Dhyanesh asks again. There is a pained expression on Balwant’s face. ‘I didn’t get any for this operation. But this is not the end of my story. I still have to tell you about the famous battle of Mandiala Bridge.’