July
6, 2015,
Ashali
Varma
It was 1971 and we were
at war with Pakistan. I was a teenager — an army brat. One night my father told
me that we were all going to the Lucknow station to meet a train full of
troops from the front; most of them would be wounded men and we going to give
them food and boost their morale. They were on their way to military hospitals to
be healed.
I recall it was
nighttime and at the station food and water had been organized by the army. The
train rolled slowly to the platform. I was nervous. What could I say to badly
wounded men groaning in pain? Why was my father insisting I should go? I might
not be able to take it and disappoint my father. My mother was also going along
with other officers and their wives, so I felt a little braver.
When the train came to
a stop I was handed some food and water and told to go into a compartment.
Inside there were men of all ages and some boys a year or two older than me but
there was no groaning even though some had shattered limbs and bandaged heads
and faces.
I stammered out how I
valued their sacrifice and they were heroes. They smiled back and said: “Beti
our work is not finished. When can we go back to the front?”
I was stunned. I had
never expected this reply. Not from badly wounded men who had been patched up
in field hospitals and were now going for treatment to command hospitals. Some
would have their limbs amputated, others would need months of operations to
repair the deadly damage done by bombs and bullets and yet they wanted to go
back to complete the job!
The enemy had broken
their bodies but not their spirit.
Next day, my father
asked me to start going to the hospital to write letters for those who could
not write home because of their wounds. In one part of the hospital in intensive
care I saw a young officer whose spine had been shattered and he was clinging
onto life. He died a few days later. My parents and his parents were with him. He
told them he had no regrets. Though he was completely paralyzed, for me he died
standing up in his boots saluting the flag of our country.
In another room there
were rows of beds with jawans who told me what to write to their young wives
and parents. There letters home were upbeat and again the theme was; “We are
being taken care off very well. But don’t expect us back soon as we have to go
back and defeat the enemy.”
As days passed some of
them got impatient and started asking me to talk to the doctors to give
them clearance to go back to the front. Their zeal and patriotism was stunning.
I felt ashamed to be so whole and well and useless. When I asked the doctors about
their queries, they told me that none of the men I was writing for would ever
fight again they would have to be pensioned off. “But they are so young, I
would argue. And you will make them fighting fit soon.”
Not fit enough to be
soldiers I was told.
And here my wounded
heroes were thinking they were going back to the army where they most wanted to
be. What would the future hold for these men with their amazing spirit? Their
life was the armed forces and they were wounded protecting us. What could the
government do to make it alright?
In another room that
was separated from the rest was a badly burnt young officer. His letters to his
fiancé told her to forget about him as he was not the man she had known. He
would be scarred for life. He never complained and was always grateful for my
help in writing for him. His fiancé would write back and say she would marry
him and no one else. That brought a smile to his face and I told him his scars
would heal and he would be fit soon.
I can’t find a word
adequate enough to describe the kind of courage and their love for India,
I saw day after day. All I knew was that I had grown up overnight and I would never
forget the experience. I felt humbled and proud that we had men of such caliber
defending our country.
Can our Prime Minister and
our bureaucrats still debate One Rank One Pension?
(Ashali Varma, is a Freelance
journalist Ashali Varma has authored the biography of her father late Lt. Gen.
PS Bhagat —‘The Victoria Cross: A Love Story’.
Kyon
bhaiyon[truncated by WhatsApp]
(Source- Vasundhra blog)
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