Remembering

Remembering

Yesterday was Vijay Diwas. 

I wonder how many even knew what that was. For those who didn’t, it was a day of remembering; remembering events that took place a lifetime ago. More importantly it was a day to remember the people who made things happen during those fateful 14 days. 

We try to cling to memories, but the realities of life become all pervasive and memories of those eventful days begin to blur. I was a schoolboy then, and my only recollection of the ’71 War were the blackouts and the bold headlines in newspapers. It was the twilight of my father’s army career, and my elder brother was still at the academy, so the war was far away for me. It was only much later I understood that my father’s younger brother, at that time was leading a brigade into what became Bangla Desh, while a cousin was with his infantry battalion elsewhere. 

There were thousands of other families affected in one way or another, but I was simply too young to appreciate the intensity with which the war had pierced so many households.

During the intervening years, I went through my own career and began to see things a little more clearly.

With electronic and social media becoming penetrative, and with the impossible pace of life in all spheres, it is easy and convenient to place a ‘Like’ on a catchily captioned photo of a wreath laying ceremony at India Gate, and then move on. 

You have, after all, done your bit to ‘remember’ Vijay Diwas and the blurred picture of the surrender ceremony.

But let me describe to you in another way, how you can perhaps do justice to those hazy memories.

Spare a thought for those hundreds of soldiers, sailors and airmen who went out to do their duty unsure of what lay ahead and perhaps more than a little nervous with anticipation. Were they scared? Very likely. Did they think they would never see their families again? Surely many of them did.

Most returned, thanking their gods, to reunite with their families. But there were many who returned without a limb, or with horrible injuries, scarred for life, unable to carry on with their lives in the way they had just a week or ten days earlier. There were even many who never returned.

Spare a thought for their grieving families – lives cast adrift in the ruralscape of India, young widows forced to marry against their wishes, younger male members of the same family. Elderly parents barely able to care for themselves and now forced to look after a daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Uncertain, insecure wives with scared children.

Try to picture the hellish situation in which young Arun Khetarpal must have found himself, in a solitary, crippled tank with bombs exploding around him and no one to turn to for help. And now imagine how he must have gritted his teeth forcing himself and his crew to stand fast and fight on in a burning tank to certain deaths. 

Remember the stubborn determination of Kuldip Singh Chandpuri, as he struggled to hold his ground at Longewalla, desperately fighting with his meagre resources against a vastly superior enemy. Think of his cool professionalism and stoic leadership as he carefully used every piece of knowledge of fieldcraft to his advantage while praying for air cover knowing that he couldn’t hold out for ever.

Think of the single minded determination of Nirmaljit Singh Sekhon, the dogged leadership of Hoshiar Singh and Albert Ekka and dozens of others who were ordinary soldiers – drivers, gunners, riflemen, signalmen, doctors, engineers, aircraft technicians, mechanics and others who simply did what was expected of them, praying for an end to the madness and their own safe deliverance.

Try to picture the sheer terror in the darkened engine room of the dying Khukri and the desperate struggle for the last breath of air as trapped men saw the water rise around them. Try to hear their hoarse screams as they struggled to breathe, till one by one they fell silent and the only sound was the sea rushing into their lungs.
Now try to imagine the steel in the eyes of their captain, as he struggled to get his men off the sinking ship, till he knew it was impossible with dozens of men trapped in the bowels of the ship. Picture him sitting there in the Captain’s chair in his peaked cap with a lighted cigarette literally looking death in the face as the ship sank under him. Imagine the courage it took to sit there while the sea swallowed him.

In those four minutes, Mulla taught generations of Indian soldiers not only how to live but also how to die. He showed by example that it was completely possible to live up to the Chetwodian motto of placing one’s life last.

Imagine the sudden silence of the dark night four minutes later with yourself bobbing in the vastness of the Arabian Sea, with perhaps a few faint cries for help from the darkness.

My dear friend, if you can stretch your imagination to picture all of this, however briefly, you would have done a great service to all those soldiers, sailors and airmen who went out to do their duty, and, their families who stayed back and prayed.

For that, is what Vijay Diwas is all about.
Remember them.