ARTICLE-SURVIVING LOC

I remember the first time it occurred to me that my husband could also be a cold-blooded killer was when I overhead a conversation with some of his friends.In 1971, then a young officer, in sheer desperation had got a sack of "severed ears" to prove a point to his commanding officer (who thought he had exaggerated the operation) It was blood chilling. “Do you kill so many men every time you go out?” I had asked, several years after our marriage. He had been trained to survive under difficult circumstances and to inflict casualties, he had said, evading further dialogue. Anyway such discussions were far and few between and always changed with us around, to animated conversations of food (Gustabas and yakhnis and rogan josh) and the good times of soldering. So much so that I somehow felt they were always having a grand party up there, at our expense.

Even as army officer’s wives we were more or less insulated from the actual horrors of war before Kargil. Today when war is a popular primetime entertainment, with the media closely panning and capturing death and devastation minute by minute, the insecurity that I lived amidst has been replaced with painful analysis and fearful anticipation.

Even though we had learnt to accept the intermittent coffins in our stride we had little idea of the lingering "smell of blood" of a gory war, back in those days. ( The fact that the smell of blood actualy refuses to get washed out for days on end was yet another revelation post Kargil).In the absence of any clear idea of what was happening or could happen we would pick up the telltale clues, of a looming adversity, like an expert detective, all of which made a huge impact in our lives at that point of time. The arrival of trucks was the first sign of an impending protracted operation. There would be a bustle in the air and soon enough men adjusting their weapons and moving with steady purposeful strides after mandir parade would leave with the departing convoys."Where to and for how long ", were all classified matters and not to be addressed. A buzzing Cantt would be turnned into a ghost town overnight, with just a handful of men floating around. Everyday trucks loaded with rucksacks and sleeping bags, would move further and further, leaving behind , dotted unhappy huddles of women and children, who would then retreat desolately, to cooking and cleaning and mending, with little assistance or help, through inclement weather, in remote outposts. The jawans wives were weary of the arrival of the senior lady thereafter. Every time the roads were swept for her arrival, muted panic swept over the garrison." Whose turn could it be?" With every "Thank god, that one uttered, one resolved to be stronger for another day and that is how our lives went on. A twinkle in the eye got lost amidst tears and smiles turned into stoic silence overnight. Some of the most invaluable lessons of courage were learnt from them, who never wore jungle boots or OG's. No decorations ever honoured them for their resilience, but nevertheless those unseen and unheard silhouettes greased the machinery that kept the entire nation singing the happy song of freedom.
Those were the days of snail mail with letters fetching up every fortnight or so with never so much a mention of even an aching bone.A rare short and crisp call over the official line to anyone of the ladies would assure all was well. Without the men around we rarely ventured out, had little entertainment and almost no outings.

(Though I remember times when in desperation I would tie up my little one just 4 months then, onto the front seat and drive to the nearest cantonment movie hall (Chinar in Udhampur) to catch a movie (“Babies day out) for my three years olds sake. Coming back late, in the freezing winter night, parking the car and taking the sleeping kids one by one to the bedroom on the first floor, was an ordeal for a young mother. The crying jackals in the yonder would send a shiver in the spine…the houses scattered, 100 of meters away from each other would be enveloped in darkness and a kind of foreboding. Evenings were the worst part of the day I remember, as I would often choke with tears wondering how long it would take for the kids to grow up.)

The senior officers wives would do everything to cheer up the motley lot. Get togethers in the mess every Sunday, ladies clubs and welfare meets would keep us busy. We were also encouraged to bake cakes and cookies and make laddoos and other goodies to be sent up to our men folk.Those moments of camaraderie, those unforgettable memories of potlucks and sharing, are by far the best moments of my life. It was my sisters in pain and joy who groomed me and protected me. They stood by me at my hour ofneed, when I delivered my kid all alone, and rushed with my ailing child to hospital when we feared an appendicitis. We had our own battles to fight and several invaluable lessons to learn. With knotted stomachs and writhing hearts we bade a final farewell to acquaintances, course-mates, teammates and buddies yet thanked God in the same breath. It was another's pain in comparison that helped us to live our own life with fortitude.

Post Kargil, the Indian army shed its veil of officious secrecy, admittedly for the best.With the media bringing battle zones into the drawing room, there is no doubt a greater appreciation of the efforts of these brave men today. For the men in camouflage, who managed to compartmentalize the trials and tribulations of the killing fields and domestic life, and speaks little about it (as an effective defensive mechanism), the overexposure will have its own pitfalls. As for us in the followers, camp, updated reports and pictures of the brutalities of war, flashing several times a day before our eyes will ensure we remain traumatised and accept our hellish existence. It will never be an innocent waiting anymore.