Price paid in fight against terrorism by Army / FC since 2001 till to
date, Shaheed - 3109 and Wounded - 9681. The Nation can never forget
these Heroes... Salute.
We,ll always keep you remember and will always miss you. Nation is proud on you.
~A Letter From Siachin~
Dear All
“We, the willing, are doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have
done so much, with so little, for so long, we are now qualified to do
anything, with nothing.”
This
quotation was written diagonally on the first page of his diary as he
showed me his poems. My host is a young man, whose spirits are still
volatile despite the sub-zero temperature of this place. It is our first
meeting. He does not know that the quotation is by Mother Teresa, he
does not know Mother Teresa at all. He thinks it was said for him,
dismissing any reason for researching its origins. The young man got
engaged recently, the reason for an occasional blush whenever the
subject of his future comes up. I only reached here the night before,
but we are close friends now. There is something in the wind, with
flakes, that urge people to speak in never-ending monologues. Discuss
emotions, exchange secrets, talk about themselves – things they do not
talk about ‘normally,’ not the least when they are engrossed in the
workings of the ‘civilised world.’ I asked him about the quotation on
the wall and he said let’s call it a day.
My room, call it my
studio apartment, is a typical bunker, built on self-help basis, thanks
to our meagre resources. Carved out from a hillock, it is a classical
one-window room of fourteen-by-ten feet. The ten-foot high ceiling had
70 girders. Trivial information, you say? I count them every night
before I can sleep. No, I have not grown insomniac, but I dare not
venture out to count stars in this part of the world.
On one
side, the empty cartons have been arranged, covered by gunny bags, only
to be topped by the prayer mat. I have a lot of time to pray and
reflect, probably since I am the closest I could get to Him. The other
wall supports the bed (an arrangement of empty cartons) upon which lies
air mattress, along with our sleeping bags. Tastefully, the
big-flower-print bed sheet does not permit the attention to drift to the
poor structure of the bed. The dark toilet is an extension of the same
room. An old cough syrup bottle has been modified with kerosene oil to
serve the purpose of the lamp which practically lights up nothing. The
empty ghee cans are our makeshift geysers. Basic instinct is the best
aide when it comes to anatomy in the dark bathroom. The room décor is an
artistic arrangement of the empty containers of food, fuel and fire.
Food cartons serve as tables, fuel cans as stools and empty (fired)
cartridges as bedside teapoy items. The most decorated table has boxes
of chicken cubes, noodles, egg biscuits, brick-game and yes, our window
to the world, the radio. Other inhabitants include a Fujika (a
kerosene-lit heater), petromax, the books that you have sent and the
military phone – this masterpiece of technology which connects me to
you, remains silent. The weather, the snow, the wind, the electric power
everything conspires against our probable communication. Reminds me how
Shah Latif narrates the plight of Sassi after she had been robbed of
Pannu:
“The camel (which carries Punno) is my enemy, the wind
(which is erasing the foot prints of caravan) is my enemy, the sand is
my enemy and so are the brothers of Punnu,
And most of all the sun is my enemy, for having risen so late and not waking me up”
Our high point of the day arrives when we sit down for dinner. Fresh
vegetables are a luxury. We have to live on roasted onions and tomato
puree, which is canned. The weather denies us the luxury of fresh
vegetables, and much more. After getting over with dinner, we gather
around the radio and switch it on. This really is the world on our
finger tips. There is no FM here, only the BBC and loads of
incomprehensible regional channels. The alternative to BBC is Radio
Pakistan, which runs the night-time transmission. About the night-time
transmission, it is the radio’s revenge from the television for morning
shows.
Another day has gone. The vigilant sentries change over
their duties. Far from home, away from gatherings, phone calls, SMS-es,
these men, I think, are doing something which can never be monetised.
Purposelessly, looking against the ravishing snowstorms, their biggest
foe is the weather. You can never predict its move. It sulks within and
you only realise how loosely you hang between a life and death when it
hits you. A minor headache turns into cerebral edema and a man full of
stories, intentions, commitments and emotions becomes, what they call, a
‘causality.’
The radio is tuned up and we start receiving our
dose of military bashing. A whole lot of qualified individuals start
describing us as a merry-making mob, with no clue about how one can
party at 20,000 ft above the mean sea level. My mind races. Huge chunks
of budget for tomato puree and canned vegetables. Power hungry for
morally supporting everyone that we have, people who love us and people
who are the reason we live to guard this piece of land. Luxurious lives
in a make-shift room with empty cartons. I think the quotation on the
wall is not so over-rated.
Hope to hear from you soon…
Yours faithfully,
H
