It
was the summer of 1994 and my Unit, 17 Kumaon was stationed in Suratgarh,
Rajasthan. Just as summer was peaking, the local transformer went out one fine
night, with a bang. Fourteen days of hell followed before they managed to
restore the transformer. I remember that in those fourteen days, we would often
go to the Officers Mess of 10 Sikh Light Infantry. They had a generator and
were fantastic hosts. Other youngsters of my Unit were obsessed with football.
They would watch the game with the concentration of a sniper stalking his prey.
I, on the other hand, had no interest in football. I still don’t. For me, a
sport was all about riding horses and showjumping. When I was commissioned into
the infantry, I understood that from now onwards, I was the horse.
Well,
I digress.
On
one such sojourn to the 10 Sikh Li mess, I ventured a little further and heard
the children of an officer speaking in fluent Punjabi. In the army, no one
thinks twice about these things and they don’t matter. But outside, it can
create a controversy. Well, the officer was a Malayalee. And his children were
speaking Punjabi inside the unit Gurudwara. They had come for the langar, as
all kids do. Spiritual enlightenment was still decades away, if at all.
We
had adventures in the blazing deserts of Rajasthan. Mahajan Field Firing Range,
a few hours from Bikaner, was our happy hunting grounds. Field exercises were
no fun but when the sun went down, the desert would come alive. Snakes and
scorpions found their way into our boots. Yes, we had adventures. Staring at
Fort Abbas in Pakistan was how evenings were spent. There were no TV sets
there.
Shortly,
the Unit moved to Gurdaspur. Punjab, glorious Punjab, with its green fields and
hospitality, was a stark contrast to the large nothingness of Mahajan. Soon, we
settled down.
New
to the station, 17 Kumaon was itching to celebrate but the one major Kumaoni
festival, Dussehra, was still months away. My Paltan is a pure Kumaoni
battalion with 100% Hindu troops from the Kumaon region. Officers, as is true
for the entire army, are from all over India. Had it been Dussehra, 17 Kumaon
would have been decked up like a bride. There would have been “kaal ratri” on
the eve of the big day, a “Mandir Parade” on the following morning, followed by
the ritual sacrifice, and then the “shastra pooja”. The famous Kumaoni “choliya
dance” would have followed. Finally, before we all went home, we would have the
feast…the massive “bara khana” with the mustard-spiked Kumaoni “raita” as the
centerpiece. One spoon of that raita would have your scalp tingling like you
had a thousand ants crawling on your skull.
But
as I said, Dussehra was still months away.
So,
Colonel Lincoln Lewis Andrews, YSM (Yudh Sewa Medal), Commanding Officer of 17
Kumaon decreed that we would celebrate Janmashtami with equal fervor. We would
show the Brigade HQs what 17 Kumaon was…our spirit, our traditions and our
hospitality.
Officers
were invited from the Brigade. The Brigade Commander was tied up elsewhere and
sent his regrets, but never mind…everyone present would know that the “bhullas”
were second to none. “Bhulla” means younger brother in Kumaoni and that is how
troops are addressed in my Unit.
The
Unit Mandir was spruced up and on the big day, we assembled at 2330 hrs (11:30
pm) at the Mandir. Col Andrews led the Mandir parade, and with the “arti thali”
being passed around, the Mandir was soon reverberating with bhajans. Col
Andrews was a boxer, and he sang like one. I was sitting right behind him and
had to bear the brunt of his musical talent. But he was the CO and I was then a
young Lieutenant. I kept my peace. Another reason I kept my peace was that
Capt. RK Anuj, Adjutant of 17 Kumaon, was sitting next to me. He was also my
senior subaltern. I had very valid reasons not to air my precious opinion.
17
Kumaon was caught up in the fervor of Janmashtami, and was led from the front
by its CO. Whenever the bhajan reached a crescendo, Col Andrews would repeat
the lines “Brij mein aayo mere Nand Lala” along with everyone. Suddenly, at
2359 hrs, one minute to midnight, everyone stopped singing.
The
Unit Panditji gave a sharp command, “Mandir Parade saavdhan baith”. 17 Kumaon
turned into a thousand statues.
Turning
to the CO, he saluted and said, “Ram Ram Sahab. Sri Krishna ke janam ki anumati
chahta hoon, Shrimaan”. Pandit Ji was asking permission from the CO to allow
the birth of Lord Krishna. No one batted an eyelid. This was the Indian Army,
after all. Traditions were everything. Izzat. Wafadari. Dastoor.
“Ram
Ram, Pandit Ji. Anumati hai”, said the good Colonel, beaming.
A
silent signal was given. Far away, half a kilo of plastic explosive went off.
The cradle of Lord Krishna was slowly lowered from the ceiling. The hall
exploded with bhajans.
It
was at 0003 hrs, three minutes past midnight that the Mandir phone rang loudly.
The CO was asked to come on the phone. Well, the Brigade Commander basically
said that he was back. He had heard so much about the Kumaoni Janmashtami.
Would it be possible for him to attend the celebrations?
Col
Andrews was a war hero, with a Yudh Sewa Medal in Operation Pawan, Sri Lanka.
The LTTE had feared him. But the Brigade Commander’s visit was a bit too much.
But what could he do? Lord Krishna had “already been born”.
“You
are welcome, Sir”, said Col LL Andrews, his throat obviously dry. There was
nothing else to say.
A
few minutes later, the Unit Panditji again said, “Mandir parade saavdhan
baith”. Marching up to the Brigade Commander, he saluted and smartly said
again, “Ram, Ram Sahab. Sri Krishna ke janam ki anumati chahta hoon, Shrimaan”.
This
time it was the Brigade Commander who gave permission for the birth of Lord
Krishna. The same distant explosion. The same cradle lowered gently.
There
was much bonhomie and the “suji ka halwa” prasad was consumed in vast
quantities. 17 Kumaon sang bhajans to its heart’s content. Subedar Gopal Singh
Soin, the soul of our Mandir functions, raised his right fist and shouted
“Kalika Mata ki Jai”. A thousand throats roared the Kumaoni battle cry.
Col.
Andrews folded his hands, closed his eyes and whispered “Jai Ram Sarv
Shaktiman”. The Mandir Parade was over.
As
we stepped outside the Mandir and wore our shoes, I could see Col Andrews
chatting with the Brigade Commander. He was beaming with pride.
It
was on that day that I learned a valuable lesson. If you are an officer in the
Indian Army, the religion you were born into is secondary. The religion of the
troops you command is your religion. You live and pray with your men. And when
the time comes, you die with them.
When
a Hindu officer of the Grenadiers Regiment refuses a cold glass of lemonade on
a hot day, because he is fasting for Ramzan, you know you are in the Indian
Army. And when all the other officers from different regiments keep down their
lemonade glasses in a show of solidarity, it sets you thinking. Who are these
men? What are they made of?
I
recently tweeted pictures of an Iftar function organized by the army in
Kashmir. Trolls reacted the way they mostly do. The Indian Army was accused of
minority appeasement, pandering to Muslims, feeding traitors and becoming
“sickular”. I was almost made to feel as if the Indian Army was standing for
local elections and Muslim votes were critical for electoral victory. I mostly
don’t react to trolls when they fire at me. But this was different. If you
don’t speak about the Indian Army with the utmost respect, expect a response
from me. No attack will go unanswered.
Much
as many people may hate it, the truth is that the Indian Army is both secular
and liberal. Yes, the same army that has killed thousands of terrorists,
defeated and dismembered Pakistan, stared down China and continues to sacrifice
lives every day in the line of duty. Fret as you may, this is carved in stone
and defended by 1.2 million men and women with automatic weapons. It is not
going to change.
Now,
about the Iftar in Kashmir. Every Kashmiri Muslim is not a terrorist or a stone
pelter. I go to Kashmir frequently. I do claim to have a little sense of what
is going on there. There are many who oppose us. There are many who stand with
us. And those who stand with us put their lives in peril to do so. They must be
defended, whatever the cost. More importantly, they must be respected.
I
am all for throwing stone pelters in jail. I am against ceasefire. I would love
to see the Hurriyat leadership in prison till the day the sun rises from the
North. I celebrate the killing of every terrorist. I am the strongest possible
votary for vertical escalation on the Line of Control.
But
the fact remains that Kashmir is a war on terror, not a war on the people. Our
morality often exacts a price. So be it. We don’t worship Lord Rama because he
was a powerful king. He is God because he is “Maryada Purushottam”. He is the
most ideal of men. On the first page of the 2018 Indian Army coffee table book,
there is full-page painting of Lord Rama. His morality is our compass. This is
“dharma”. This is duty.
The
Indian Army is not just a powerful army. It is also a moral army.
Politicians
and the media have mangled secularism and liberalism beyond belief. Many
Indians believe these ideologies to be architects of India’s impending doom.
Nothing is further from the truth. Secularism is simply the separation of
religion and the state. Liberalism is simply the ability to accept opinions and
behavior different from ours. That’s all. In my book, there is no other
definition. Our books, should we choose to look carefully, are exactly the
same.
The
Indian Army is all about what we value most in our life – honour, brotherhood,
integrity, loyalty, faith, courage and morality. It is the defender of all that
is right. The truth cannot always be defended with a pen, a banner and a
candlelight march. Sometimes, it needs a soldier with a gun.
Ask
anyone and they will tell you that our national flag has three colours. But it
actually has a fourth colour, invisible to the eye…look from the deepest
recesses of our collective morality and there it is olive green
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