Maktub

IT IS WRITTEN (ARABIC)

(1340 HRS)

 

How can man die better, than facing fearful odds,

The ashes of his father, the temples of his God.

——Indian Army Memorial, Razangla Pass

On the way back, Harry’s thoughts turned to Ash and he called for the radio operator to get Bobby on the set. He leaned onhis rifle and admired the view, waiting for the operator to patchup. It was nearly mid afternoon and the bright sun was rapidly absorbing the sogginess of the valley, leaving everything fresh and clean. The houses looked washed, their tin roofs shimmering; the mountains wore a greener look. The stream, rid of the night’s mud,was so clear that sunlight reflected off the silver barbs darting upto the surface. The lower slopes were carpeted with a profusion of wild flowers of different varieties in a burst of vivid colours. Harry plucked a daisy and shoved it into the lapel of his battle dress.

‘This flower, back in Delhi,’ he told the operator behind him, ‘costs five rupees.’

‘Really, sahib?’ said the man showing polite interest and plucking one.

Harry noticed the rest of the men following the officer and collecting flowers, shoving them in their rifle barrels and battle dress. He realised that there was something soft and gentle about flowers that had touched the men, especially after the rough, violent twenty-four hours that they had gone through. He curbed the urge to check them from doing such an un-soldierly thing; plucking flowers and using their barrels as a vase. If they had a contact now, he thought, they would be firing flowers at the mujahidin. What a bunch of sissies they would look, to any militant watching them through binoculars. The men were in high spirits and Harry didn’t want to spoil the mood. Anything over five kills was a good bag. The operator said something and then passed the hand set to Harry.

‘Two-Zero, over,’ Bobby’s voice came across loud and clear from Kupwara.

‘Pass, over,’ said Harry. ‘Bad news, boss,’ there was a brief pause, in which Bobby’s breathing was audible, ‘Ash is dead.’

Harry slumped down, and within seconds the bad news had spread down the column to the last man. No words needed to be spoken; the officer’s body language was good enough for the men to fathom that something terrible had happened. The inane banter died as each man withdrew into himself, thinking of the dead man. Ash had been a good officer, a fine man, and popular with the others. The loss would affect them. Harry thought of Ash’s parents and his young sister. Ash had often talked about his concern to settle her. He had always wanted her to pursue her studies and go abroad.

Well, thought Harry, his parents wanted to see their son in uniform and they had at least had the satisfaction of seeing him, although briefly. I must write a letter to them and pay them a visit in Nagpur if possible. It suddenly struck him that Ash may have had a girl somewhere who might need to be informed. Probably not, he reasoned immediately. Ash never mentioned anything about a girl. Where was the bloody time? A military school somewhere in the back of beyond, to the National Defence Academy for three years, to the Military Academy for a year and finally commissioned into the infantry and straight to an operational area. Where was the bloody time and opportunity to woo women? It suddenly struck him that Ash probably died a virgin. The militants were better off in this regard, he realised—at least they had a woman whenever they wanted.

Harry wanted to delay hitting the post; it would rake up memories. He looked across at the paddy fields, as a gentle breeze swept the valley, sending a ripple across the paddy crop, as if a giant unseen hand was passing over it. Harry imagined it to be Ash’s soul, passing over the valley for the last time, on its way to his gods in heaven. He heard the sad song the women were singing, while they planted the rice sapling. Such a beautiful valley, he thought,and so much unhappiness.

‘What are they singing about?’ he asked the Kashmiri guide with him. ‘If they are singing about me and making fun of me, I will fire a burst over their heads!’ Harry was aware how these songs were created, in the spur of the moment, and he had been a subject before, for one of these planting and singing sessions.

‘It’s a sad song, jenab,’ said the guide. ‘It has nothing to do with you, but definitely with the army. They’re singing of some old incident, maybe it happened here or in some other part of the valley.’

‘Well translate it for me,’ said Harry. ‘I like the tune. It has the right note of melancholy.’

‘jenab, the song is called the Grave under the Chinar Tree and this is how it roughly runs:

She stood by the stream, a veil over her face,

Wearing a white phiran1, an exquisite work of lace.

Safina Lone was from the village Meen,

She waited for her lover,

an area commander of the Hijbul-Mujahidin.

He would come on Fridays, knowing she had that evening free,

She would patiently wait for him, under the Chinar tree.

‘If there be danger,’ he had warned, ‘well, wear something red,

I’ll turn back at once, knowing there lurks a great threat’.

Thus these clandestine meetings, went on for a whole year,

When unknown to the two, the fauj2 heard about the bizarre affair.

Sure enough on Friday, the village was cordoned off at three,

While the major and his buddy, climbed the Chinar tree.

Soon the army went back, leaving the villagers free,

Exactly at six, she was at her rendezvous, under the Chinar tree.

He stepped out of the jungle, looking at her white figure.

A quiet, nagging doubt, made him play with his rifle trigger.

He looked at the beautiful girl and his heart swelled with pride,

If I hadn’t been a militant, he thought,

I could have made her my bride.

Javed, admiring her long tresses, and dreaming of her sensuous lips,

Walked on towards her, reaching halfway across the bridge.

The major steadying his rifle, suddenly knocked his cap,

Safina looking up shouted, ‘Forgive me Javed,

for I have led you into a trap.’

The buddy fired fast, dropping Javed to the ground,

1A traditional gown worn by both men and women in Kashmir.

2Here, Indian army.

If the major hadn’t stopped him,

he would have emptied his last round.

Safina ran forward, throwing herself on her dead lover,

Begging him to open his eyes, alas! Javed was gone forever.

The major stood at a distance, watching the pitiable sight.

A weeping woman, her dead lover,

and he wondered if what he had done was right.

The major walked up, to console the shattered girl.

‘He had lived by the gun after all,’ said he ‘and had to die by one.’

Safina suddenly got up, her white phiran, blood red,

Picking up her dead lover’s rifle, she shot the major dead.

Sepoy Surjeet Singh saw his sahib fall,

In a frenzy he fired, and Safina had joined Major Paul.

A pained expression creased his face, as he looked at the gory sight,

Fearing that his legs wouldn’t hold him,

he held on to the railings tight.

He wept for his dead officer, a sahib with qualities great.

‘ You killed the snake, sahib, you shouldn’t have spared its mate.’

The blood dripping from the bodies, turned the brook red,

Spreading the tragic tale to the villages far ahead.

Those who came and saw, realised the futility of war,

You will still hear it talked about, in Kashmiri lore.

The major was taken away and buried with full military rites,

Mourned by a young woman who’d spend many a lonely night.

The other two have all the time, for they are finally free.

They lie buried together, under the Chinar tree.

And if you ask us, we’ll tell you of moonlit nights;

You’ll find them crossing the bridge hazoor,

heading towards the Putshai heights.’