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How the soldiers rang in Y2K

We never did bring in the new millennium, so to speak -- we were snoring away during the transition of 1999 to 2000. Reason: We were completely burned out after having spent the day huffing and puffing up steep rocky inclines to reach Post X on the Line of Control at Uri sector of Jammu & Kashmir. You see, every once in a while, we get these brilliant ideas to do something "different," the latest manifestation being: let's check out how our soldiers bring in Y2K while the world is out partying...

We very nearly didn't make it -- thanks to Indian Airlines, which, apart from having the distinction of being the most hijacked airlines in the world, is also the most unreliable. After two days of loitering around in the transit lounge of Delhi airport, and just when the thought that we may have to celebrate the 31st eve in those rexene surroundings was beginning to sink in, the fog lifted. In the meantime, we had availed of the free telephone service and made frequent and perfectly reasonable demands from the colonel of the army's media cell: "But why can't you provide a chopper?!" "But why can't you order the station manager to arrange for another aircraft?!" Between the colonel and the airport's security staff and the duty manager, realisation must have dawned that it would be wiser to get us out pronto...

The flight was a harbinger of things to come: We picked a quarrel with a NY-based MEA type who kept telling the extremely cute IAF flight lieutenant, whom we were trying to shimmy up to, that the defence services and the bureaucracy were engaged in fighting the same war. We said, NOT; they work at loggerheads. The pilot wisely kept out of it. However, later events would prove us right... Incidentally, how many of you remember Flt Lt K Nachiketa who was taken prisoner by Pakistan after he bailed out of his MiG-27...? Well, we learn that Nachiketa hasn't resumed duty yet because of the serious injuries to his back -- caused under Pakistani mehmaan-nawaazi. No one's calling it torture.

Anyway, the plane landed in bitterly cold Srinagar and we were taken over by a Lt R K Mishra and his merry men. Little did we realise then that we were no better than a captive: If one wants to visit the LC (ahem, that's what we veterans call the LoC), one has to go through the army and obey all its rules since it's responsible for one's safety. If one wishes to go independently, one is not permitted anywhere near the LC, so simple. Catch-22. As luck would have it, we were assigned to "Baavees Maratha" -- regional chauvinism got the better of us and we delighted in getting to know the men of the 22 Maratha Light Infantry stationed at Uri: the Jadhavs and Jagtaps and Patils and "Bhosle is a very good name to draw soldiers from"...

We must clarify: There are other regiments, too, stationed in this sector, but we can't name them for security reasons. Just as we can't name exactly which posts on the LC we visited and under which sectors they fall, or the names and ranks of the officers manning them. It all has to do with the flag meetings (the enemy mustn't know how prominent the officer may be), and not revealing to the enemy the strength, positioning or the movement of troops along the LC. But we begged to let us mention our Marathas -- for a reason. See, though the officers of a regiment are not drawn from its namesakes region, the jawans mostly are. And this will make reader Sajid proud: nearly half of 22 Maratha is Muslim...

Strange but true: All soldiers along the LC in J&K go veg on Tuesdays and Thursdays in honour of a Sufi saint called Pir Baba. Every post along the LC has a tiny dargah adjacent to a tiny mandir and a gurdwara where all the men pray. All men, regardless of their religion, follow Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh rites during the respective festivals. Hindu company commanders keep rozas. Muslim CCs lead aartis and perform pujas. They are such a stoopid lot -- for none has a clue what the ruckus about the Saraswati Vandana and the Vande Mataram is all about...

We stayed the night at the Army Transit Camp, where we nearly froze to death before devising the life-saving ritual for the rest of our stay: We donned all our clothes every day. 31st morning dawned with excitement in the air: Georgekaka was arriving by chopper, on his way to spending the night at Siachen. We were depressed at being upstaged. Two medics hitched a ride with our convoy: 23-year-old Capt Manoj Gopinath of Pallakad, and 26-year-old Capt Manjunath of Shimoga. Manoj joined the army because "there is no nobility left in the profession outside." Manjunath wasn't yet married because "getting my Maruti was more important than looking at girls." Then there was Lt Gulia, 23, of the Air Defence Artillery, brother currently posted at Kargil. We said, Looks like only the 20-somethings are here for New Year's. He retorted, And why not, the seniors have earned their day of rest... We couldn't understand WHAT these boys were doing here. They couldn't understand what WE were doing there. Everything was as surreal as the motto of 19 Div Baramulla that whizzed past our window: "Hold Fast, Thrust Deep."

The ride to the LC post was along an abortion-road; that is, pregnant or not, you will abort. We left the other vehicles behind since only a Jonga (a super-hyped 4-wheeler) could traverse the "road," especially the stretches visible to Paki snipers which had to be crossed fast and veeringly. And then there was the climb to the post... Well, we got so used to holding a certain Major's hand that we automatically reached for it even on the flat top, drawing not a few titters from the others. He said, Before I leave this place, I'll bring my wife here -- to get my revenge on her. We said, Yeah, Ok, have your fun, but just pull us up now before we die...

The place was right out of Apocalypse Now: Barbed wires fencing off mined areas, sand-bagged bunkers, wires meshes, trenches haphazardly weaving all through, view-points fixing enemy positions on peaks, each and every tree burnt and splintered by firing, every beam and column of the look-out post shrapneled... Then there was the living area: a "guest house", a kitchen, a mandir-masjid complex, and guess what, the CO's room had a PC. Lunch was served in the shrapneled gazebo. Note, no matter where we went, the food was terrific. The army, they say, marches on its stomach. And no wonder our army marches so well. Forget the yummily dripping-in-oil chicken, how the hell did they get so many layers in the lachchedar paratha??

Lunch over, we asked the CO where we'd be shacking. "Er... umm... No, not here, not tonight, Ms Bhosle." "Unh? But that was the deal!" "I'm sorry, but that's my prerogative, and there's something in the air today..."

That "something in the air" gave us gooseflesh: What did he mean? What did he feel? Why were we blind to it? "Call it instinct, logic, experience, or a combination of all. Today's the last Friday of Ramzan; he [the Paki] will be in a religious frenzy. He will definitely do something." And just then, there was a call from the forward sentry asking for orders to shoot; he had noticed a "movement" in his area. The CO said, Keep close watch but don't shoot as yet. "It's in his interest to keep the fight alive. It's in ours to keep it cool. Many a times, he fires at just such a time when he's expecting UN observers or the such. We must outwit him. And we do."

So there went our chance of spending the night at the LC... And to top that, the guy had the gall to ask us for a lift to the village half-way down abortion-road. We agreed, for we'd taken a shine to him. We stopped to drop him off. The villagers, mostly Gujjars, offered us tea. We saw the CO handing over stuffed sacks to the headman. We later got to know that that morning, one of the villagers had his foot blown off by a mine, and the sacks contained rations for his family. The locals of this area -- unlike those of Srinagar or Baramulla -- depend upon the army for their safety and livelihood. Their loyalty is to the post; it's all they know. The CO knew everything about the people in his area, their names, their aspirations. When we asked, he said, "Their walnut crops have failed due to the weather. And the snow is two weeks late. They are dipping into their reserves to survive. We are their only hope." And I wondered, does any other army in the world do this kind of thing...?

We took him to be a soft touch. So we asked, Have you ever shot a man in cold blood? "Yes, once." What did you feel? "Feel? Nothing. Nothing at all. It was either him or me." What about giving the third degree? "You can break a person through interrogation only once. If you let him go, he comes back much deadlier because he's seen it all; he has no fear of you. It's best you don't let him go." The profile of the Indian soldier was becoming clearer... And it was one we liked. So far. We regretted that we had to leave him. We didn't know what we'd hear the next day. The next day... the start of the bloody new millennium...

By the time we descended from the mountains and reached Brigade HQ, it was 8 pm. A fancy card awaited, inviting us to dinner at the officers mess. We tried in vain to wash the day's dust off and just about made ourself presentable for the big night. We were greeted by a host of officers in mufti. Small talk commenced. We couldn't place a finger on it, but there was something in the air... Call it instinct, logic, experience, or a combination of all, but we knew gloom when we were amidst it. They seemed uncomfortable; we became conscious of our being a journalist. Finally, it was said: The government had released Harkat-ul-Ansar ideologue Masood Azhar, Al-Umar Mujahideen-founder Mushtaq Ahmad Zargar and one other terrorist. "How many soldiers and civilians have died against each of these militants? How many more will die? How many will each motivate to kill?"

And that's why we hung our civilian head in shame and sought Somnus. And that's why George never made it to Siachen. And that's how the soldiers brought in the new millennium while the "nationalists" of the BJP-led government were out counting the liberal votes and winning new friends and influencing people... Army lives come so cheap...

Varsha Bhosle