by Maj Gen Mrinal Suman
As recounted to Maj Gen Mrinal Suman on the eve of Independence Day 2012
As recounted to Maj Gen Mrinal Suman on the eve of Independence Day 2012
This is a true story.
This is my story. This is the story of Indo-Pak War of December 1971.
This is the story of
the trauma that families undergo when soldiers go to war. This is a story of
complex inter-play of human emotions and sensitivities that defy description.
This is the story of
a medium sized town in North India where a career in the armed forces is the
first choice of the progeny of most families. Preparation for NDA commences
soon after secondary level examination. As a result, every family has more than
one member in the services.
My husband, a young
Captain, was at the battle front. I was 22 years old and expecting my first
child. I had come to stay with my parents. Ours was a joint family. There were
three more women – my grandmother, my mother and my aunt.
In addition to my
husband, brothers of my father, my mother and my aunt were also taking active
part in the war. Understandably, there was palpable anxiety in the atmosphere
concerning their wellbeing.
Although my
grandmother put up a brave front to provide comfort to others, she spent most
of her time praying to all sundry Gods, hoping someone would care to listen to
her prayers. In addition to her own son and my husband, she was concerned about
the other two members as well.
My mother and aunt
went about their routine household chores without any display of the emotional
turmoil that they were experiencing. Both were worried about the safety of
their brothers. In addition, my mother was deeply concerned about her
son-in-law’s wellbeing. I was perhaps too young to grasp the full gravity of the
situation.
At times the
frightening thought of my husband becoming a war-casualty did cross my mind –
‘will he never see our child’. However, recalling the spirit and confidence
with which the troops had departed for the war front, I brushed such thoughts
aside. Soldiers’ wives must be equally brave.
During those
war-days, a telegram always meant bad news. Arrival of the postman
was dreaded by all families whose members were fighting the war. Ringing of the
door-bell or even a casual knock on the door made their hearts skip a beat.
Nights were full of anxiety as the postman invariably arrived at that time.
Every dawn made them heave a sigh of relief. The same was true of
our family as well.
It was 8th of
December and the war was at its bitterest worst. The night brought the
much-dreaded postman to our door with a telegram. All four women huddled with
trepidation in a corner of the verandah to await breaking of the most chilling
news. It was certain that one of the four men had been killed in action. The
suspense about his identity was nerve-wracking.
In times of such
extreme distress, we humans are forced to make our priorities clear to God
while seeking his protection. Can there be anything more trying and agonising
than having to make such a choice? Why should we be asked as to who should live
and who is dispensable? We, the women of our unfortunate family
were also subjected to the same ordeal.
As is human at such
times, all of said our silent prayers – “Please God; I hope it is not him”.
For all of us, him meant a different person – not that we were
not concerned about other members. It is just that all of us have our own set
of quotient of emotional attachments.
The eerie silence was
finally broken after what appeared to be an eternity – my aunt’s younger
brother had made the supreme sacrifice. While she broke down, the others
involuntarily heaved a sigh of relief and said a quiet thank-you to their Gods.
Once relieved of our
personal anxiety and agony, we controlled our own emotions of reprieve and
started calming the grief-stricken lady. Loss of the young brother had
shattered her inconsolably. In hindsight, our sudden makeover from petrified
weaklings to compassionate consolers appears somewhat odd – maybe it was
spontaneous human response on release from intense emotional
trauma.
The news of the
ceasefire on 16 December ended our two-week long nightmare. We had been through
‘hell’ was our consensual refrain. Perhaps, our suffering was as severe as the
privations faced by our soldiers in war. Whereas soldiers are eulogized for
their acts of bravery, their women remain unsung and unrecognised.
To date, I wonder
about the preference my grandmother conveyed to her God on that fateful night –
her son or grand-daughter’s husband. It would have been far harder for my
mother to choose between her brother and son-in-law. Comparatively, I had an
easier choice to make. It is another matter that to date I suffer pangs of
guilt for having abandoned my uncles in favour of my husband. Was I being
selfish? I have not found any answer as yet.
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