VIGNETTES
`My name's not there'
DILIP D'SOUZA
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A Hall of Fame commemorates those who died defending the country.
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THE walk is long, brisk and steep. The two sturdy Army officers I am with make no compromises for traffic or turns or slopes — up or down. They simply go at it, walking their fastest, never slowing. I'm not sure I can keep pace, but I try hard, falling behind by a few metres only at the last, really steep slope. But I am inordinately pleased that my effort has earned their respect.
The final, really steep slope takes us to the "Hall of Fame" here. We stop to catch our breath. Our chests heave with the exertion of the last few minutes; from his little booth, an armed guard looks out at us impassively.
Sprawled on the hillside above him are the gardens, steps, memorials of this little complex and, at the very top, the Hall of Fame itself. A squat building with four wings, it is a memorial to those from this region who died in fighting with Pakistan. A serene place: the hills range all around us, flowers sway in the gentle breeze, I hear birds tweeting. And beyond the guard, I can see a large sculpture of Sikh soldiers planting and raising a flag, clearly modelled on the famous US Marine photograph from Iwo Jima. "My Flag, My Country", it's called. This spot, but also this town, is chock-a-block with plaques and memorials.
Thus the triangular memorial to three soldiers — Subedar Surjit Singh, Captain Gurprit Singh and Lance Havildar Badridan Bharat — inscribed in Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu, Sanskrit and Marathi. Plus this quote, attributed to "Napolion": "The noblest death is that of a soldier dying on the field of valour." (Read it and wonder, was that mis-spelled "Napolion" inadvertently appropriate, or deliberate?)
Nearby a tower remembers Lt. A.S. Dixit, Nk. Baban Chawa, L/Nk. Dattatraya Matkar, SPR Sarjerao Salunke, SPR Shivaji Rao Shinde and SPR Vishwanath Wanargi. All were killed in December 1971 "while breaching a mine-filled lane". Another tower is captioned "Padinale Po Munnale" (Tamil for "Go forward, 14th") and remembers Hav. S. Shabiyullah and L/Nk. K. Balaiah. The latter name is followed, inexplicably, by the word "posthumous". He died in a "militant encounter"; Shabiyullah died while "laying a mine field during Op Vijay".
Plenty of inscriptions
Mine field, mine-filled lane ... A road sign I passed only minutes from here advises: "Aage mine sadak hai. Dekh ke chalen." ("The road ahead is mined. Watch where you go."). Sometimes, in these parts, mines kill you because you stumble on them. Sometimes they kill you while you are laying them. Watch where you go, either way. Though clearly, such caution did not help Dixit and Shabiyullah and several other men.
These memorials are not even at the Hall of Fame, just on the way up the hill. But the HoF has its share too, with plenty of inscriptions. Carved in stone at the entrance is this: "This temple of prowess (commemorates) the supreme sacrifice of those who laid down their lives in the defence of the motherland since 1947 in this sector." Wandering about, you find "They Liveth Evermore". And "Slain thou shall obtain Heaven, Victorious thou will enjoy the earth" from the Bhagavad Gita. And "How can man die better, than facing fearful odds for the ashes of his father and temples of his Gods" from Horatius. And "Thrice blessed is that warrior/Who is called to such a war by destiny/A war to be hailed as an open door to heaven" from the Bhagavad Gita again. And this: "I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer, or neglect it. For I shall not pass this way again."
Words, words, words, Eliza Doolittle might have said. I am grateful for them, because they tell us of the bravery and commitment of a whole parade of soldiers we didn't know about or don't remember anyway, none of whom shall pass this way again. Yet I am also saddened and almost angered by them. I'm so sick of words, as Eliza might have said. For this reason: what I wouldn't give to have those warriors here, instead of words to remember them by.
Further up the hill, I learn why the HoF building has four wings: "Hall of Fame is the memorial to honour the brave soldiers ... and Civilians of (these) districts who together liberated and defended the sector against Pakistan's aggression in 1947-48, 1965, 1971 and since thereafter."
One wing for each of 1947-48, 1965, 1971 and "since thereafter". Makes sense, that "since thereafter". Because if it was dedicated to a specific post-1971 war, say Kargil in 1999, there would have to be a fifth wing built for the next war, then a sixth and a seventh, and we wouldn't have a nice symmetric building any more, and anyway who knows where all this wing-building might end?
Who knows where the fighting might end? I strolled through the Hall of Fame with a few jawans from the regiment I'm visiting. In many ways, I admire these men and the job they are doing; I understand the tension that they live with. At a post down in the valley two days earlier, sharing chai and biscuits with me, some of them spoke freely about that tension. Come from small towns in Karnataka and Haryana and elsewhere in this country they believe they are defending, they simply cannot identify with the locals. Alienated themselves, they cannot begin to see where the alienation comes from that they find in these hills. And they are willing to talk to me because surely I — the outsider like them — will understand their thoughts.
Life behind the letters
It's a few such men who accompany me to the HoF. As we stroll and read, I get the feeling that I see the same disaffection, or at least a measure of detachment, in their eyes. I hear it in what they say. Yes, they feel for the men who once breathed through these names. Sometimes, they can even tell me what happened to them — the stories get told and retold, after all. After a point, and despite memorials and words of glory, they become simply names. To one side of the squat building, rising from the manicured grass, are several large black granite panels. From the left, they list the names of the soldiers killed in fighting in this sector, every year since 1948.
Standing in front of these engraved panels, I try to imagine life behind these letters, imagine how these Indians died whom I never knew. The soldier beside me looks on curiously as I write their names down, then looks up and reads them off the granite with me, lips moving silently.
To the right of 2003, there's nothing. Nothing, meaning no names. What is there is an expanse of blank black granite panels. Blank, and ready to be engraved. Blank black space for more chiselling, waiting for soldiers to die. Knowing they will die.
The soldier beside me points. "My name's not there," he says.
Dilip D'Souza was a Scholar of Peace Fellow with WISCOMP (Women in Security, Conflict Management and Peace) in 2004-05.
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