It doesn't matter that Capt. Ram Pratap is fictional. Nearly a
million of our standing defence forces will bash on regardless, with a smile on
their faces and a hope that the nation recognises their efforts beyond
platitudes. At the start of 2016, Lt General Bhopinder Singh (former Lt
Governor of Andaman & Nicobar Islands & Puducherry), ruminates on the life and times
of the men in green.
Tepid tea in a
white mug brings temporary relief to Captain Ram Pratap's scraggy, frozen face
as he squats on a bunker top on a 17,000 ft. picket overlooking the LoC. There's
a shortage of nearly 12,000 army officers, and not surprisingly – given his
battalion's deployment on the active border – his and many of his platoon boys'
leaves were cancelled.
Hopefully the old warhorse of a
helicopter, Cheetah, will continue belying his service age of over 40 years and
drop some 'fresh greens' to usher in much-needed cheer to these hardy men from
the Thar desert, sick of canned food. Why complain about the flying bird, he
thinks. Even the weaponry and equipment can do with upgrading – there's only so
much spit-polish and old-fashioned scrubbing one can do to retain the glint on
the bayonet. He wonders if the civilian babus around
Rajpath really understand the conditions in which the fauj operates, yet get to decide
everything for them.
With snow covering the passes,
they had hoped cross border infiltrations would cease, but no such luck. Down
in the valley, Colonel MN Rai had been shot dead leading an attack on
terrorists. Thank god for such heroes, he thought. Word had spread in the paltan,
and they all felt honoured to be part of an outfit where officers still led from
the front.
Later, Colonel Mahadik, the
spirited Maratha, had put himself in the line of fire. Despite all
organisational cribs, it was stories like these that kept the olive-green chins
up. All the thundering braggadocio by pot-bellied politicians about bringing
enemies to their knees hadn't helped on these pickets; infiltrations by
terrorists and 'friendly cover-fire' by enemies still continued. Then suddenly,
the mind raced to the super-awesome, real-time action in Myanmar, where they
were sent to settle some scores by his Para Commando buddy, Captain Shyam, the
'devil's-very-own', and his band of toughies who had inadvertently helped
further inflate the chests of thekurta-pajama folks in Lutyens' Delhi.
Shouldn't be complaining about
these civvies, he thought. Maybe things aren't as bad as they seem. Previous
battalions who thought they were getting out from this hellhole to salubrious
'peace stations' like Chennai and Rishikesh didn't enjoy 'peace' much. One was
drawn into rescue operations in the Chennai floods, and the other was up and
running doing flag marches in out-of-control, riot-stricken Saharanpur and
Muzzafarnagar.
Maybe this minus-15 degree
temperature with canned food was a better option. Best to stay back and do what
one had joined the army to do, not be running errands for sarkari chappies, who are supposed to
handle situations but never do and invariably throw in their towels to call in
the forces to do their bidding!
Whatever happened to the
much-promised appointment of Chief of Defence Staff even after so many years?
Surely his position in the warrant of precedence must have made few dhotiwalas nervous ? Interestingly, even they
had questioned the organisational perception with, 'Respect for army is
diminishing as the army hasn't fought a war'. That wasn't fair. What did they
think this active LoC was? What was Manipur then, where we had lost 20 men?
What was Kargil all about? Captain Pratap remembered that his village of grand
old soldiers had voted en masse to bring in what they thought was a more
nationalistic, pro-military party. He looked forlornly at the men earnestly
cocking their weapons for the evening drill. Such innocence. We were taught
about honouring a given word. But did the nation really care about these
spirited faujis?
He remembered his dad, a
second-generation soldier and battle-decorated Infantarian, who had oscillated
from sadness to confused in Jantar Mantar for another failed promise: OROP.
Captain Pratap had initially told him to go easy, but thinking that he too
would be a veteran in a few years, and with TV screens blaring the need for
veterans to 'adjust' made his blood boil too. We never 'adjust', 'compromise'
or 'bargain', whatever be the conditions or the dangers to lives.
His father had dug in his heels
even more after an imperious statement that most veterans had agreed to the
government's watered-down version of OROP, and that only a minority was holding
out. This was a commitment to people who had given their lives and limbs. Ram's
dad had moist eyes whenever he narrated the story of the 86-year-old whose
shirt, emblazoned with war medals, was torn apart when he was protesting
peacefully. No one had apologised. There was no mention in rallies or on
Twitter. Maybe that was because OROP was less important an issue, than say, the
national day of Mozambique. His old man was further saddened when told about
the 'double-whammy' – seems defence forces had been 'done-in' yet again, this
time in the seventh pay commission.
Suddenly, Ram heard the call
for the 'evening stand-to' and dropped his now-cold mug, standing ramrod
straight in solemn deference. He made a sharp turn, walking on the swampy,
white blanket of snow to the platoon bunkers where the weekly snail-mail was to
come, and irrepressible Rajasthani men had unusually-broad smiles on their
fiercely-mustachioed faces. It was that time of week when one wants desperately
to hear from home, via the 'duty runner' who arrives at the lonely picket.
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