Izzat (Fiction)

Mera Naam Mohammed Jameel Rather hai, Saab. I still remember, the first time I heard a young voice crying out that name.

I am on some mundane duty at a recruitment rally in Bod Bunguz, an obscure place in the Kashmir vale. I look up to see a spindly youth all of sixteen. A few straggly hairs on his chin, no hair on his chest. “Kids in the Fauj! Bah ”. Certainly in no shape to join the old, honourable, regiment of the Jammu and Kashmir Rifles, I forget about him and concentrate on my most immediate concern; that afternoon balloon of cognac. But come the next day and I see him standing with the successful lot. The staff is impressed. Bahut josh hai ladke mein. After twenty-three years of soldiering, I do not know the meaning of that word, ‘Josh’.

The next year I see him in the battalion; he’s filled out a little. My sceptical self can’t help but notice that intense fire in his eyes. The word is he has a parental claim to the battalion; his father copped a hero’s death in `48. Must walk over to the Adjt and look up the incident.

Jameel becomes quite well known in the paltan. He always tries harder than everyone else. Wins the cross country championship, becomes a boxer; flyweight of course. Pushes himself that little bit more, that extra effort…the paltan buzz is that he’s got to live up to the family name, the IZZAT “Harrumph……that’ll be the day”.

We are still in the vale of Sri Narak. The Bde Cdr is away on some sand model exercise, and I’m in charge. At least everyone thinks so. All it means is that my rheumy afternoons and evenings will be disturbed. One evening I am suddenly shaken out of my brandy-soaked self. The Cdr is on the line. “There’ve been some reports of enemy movement in your area, so blah, blah, …. launch a patrol immediately”. Aha, so Mister Sticky Rules wants to play soldiers. I send for the Adjt who is another eager beaver. He quickly details a young officer. I tell him to sort it out as I switch from a large to a larger. A couple of hours later I am as usual numbed by the alcohol and back to my cynical self.

I am shaken awake. I’d slept off... make that passed out, on the rocking chair. My sahayak is going all yakety-yak. “Saahib, phone bahut der se baj raha hai. Ab to runner bhi aa gaya.” I holler “Gimme a drink” and reach for the phone. I mumble, “Ops room lagao”. The Duty Officer is babbling about the patrol’s sitrep. There was no enemy movement... just a band of bakarwaals. But the patrol stumbled upon a snow leopard’s litter. The furious mother attacked the young Lieutenant. It would have been fatal but for Sepoy Mohammed Jameel Rather. He dashed to the rescue...He was unarmed. Fought the big cat with his bare arms. Saved his sahib bahadur. Bleeding like a stuck pig, he blurted that it was all about family IZZAT. Unfortunately he ....

They give his mother a sewing machine. Ha! old crone couldn’t even see it. But it’s SOP. The same SOP they followed when they gave me missus a mimeographed letter of regrets; when the Army Commander’s convoy ran over my teenaged daughter. She blew her brains out on the brown rug, the one we bought from SOS village in Leh, it had those funny little yaks embroidered in a pattern. I soaked mine (brains, I mean),

It’s been some time about all that now. Jameel is bloody history, Bacchus continues as my saviour and I am at the Regimental Centre as one of the old farts in charge of the Registry. Life becomes a comfortable routine of stupor, haze, slumber and more. Unfortunately, my sahayak changes; he is from Jameel’s village and is eager to serve and please. Y‘know.... live up to the village’s traditions, the land of the brave. Some thing clicks and I ask for the dusty old records to be brought. I rummage through the CsOI and I hit upon the Inquiry into Jameel’s father’s death.

I am suddenly cold sober. Naik Murtaaz Ahmed Rather was shot for cowardice. He attempted to flee when Durga Post was attacked by the enemy in a charge in 1948.

My hands shake as I hold the lighter to the file.....must get back to the Mess double-time, huh.

Vas, Lt Gen E A (Retired). Without Baggage (Personal Account of J&K Operations): Book Review

Post-Independence in 1947 the young Indian nation was redeeming its tryst with destiny: perhaps not fully and not in whole measure; after all the entire Radcliff award had to be tackled and the brutal fires of partition doused. Nation building and unification was underway, with the Junagadh and Hyderabad imbroglios having been solved. However, in the strategic state of Jammu and Kashmir the vacillating Maharaja Hari Singh naively dreamed of independence. This was quite contrary to the well meaning advice of Lord Mountbatten of joining either of the two nascent nations. At such a juncture Pakistan sought to force the Maharaja’s hand and forcibly annex the state. The fact that this was a planned step is amply illustrated by the presence of Jinnah’s private secretary in Srinagar. He was subsequently arrested and sent back to Pakistan.

It is with this backdrop that (then) Major EA Vas commences his personal account of operations in 1947-48. He begins by dismissing the legend of Babar “to push on without baggage”. He further essays that the wealth of India had always been legendary, if not fair game for successive invaders. The extravagant legends such as invading India for booty or land are cherished fondly (albeit wrongly) even today. The failure of the Pakistan’s Kargil adventure is a case in point.

The author covers the tactics and strategy of the Indian army in detail to combat the guerrilla warfare being practiced by the Pak army-backed raiders. He illustrates these with personal anecdotes when he covers the battles of Naoshera and the recapture of Jhangar. The detailed maps are of immense use for ease of understanding. The young Major may well have been writing these today: the use of ambush to counter terrorist raids, road opening to protect convoys and pickets and patrols to manage mountain warfare are standard practice. The use of civilian defence to complement the regular army and the selective use of armour is crucial to border management. The present day relevance of the young company commanders views written nearly five decades ago are striking. Particularly fascinating are his views on mountain warfare. The author adapts General Orde Wingate’s stronghold theory to mountain warfare. He proposes offensive domination of large mountainous areas by well-sited strongholds supported by air drops. The defences of this stronghold ought to be supplemented or substituted by air strikes in a co-ordinated fire-plan. Area domination would be afforded by aggressive patrolling. The fact that some of these are followed in today’s LoC management of “no-war, no-peace” make a military student believe in Nostrodamus. There is also a proposal for a combined arms air-infantry team to provide an offensive element for mountain defence, which merits study in the light of the air strikes on Tiger Hill. A proposal for a specialised corps for mountain warfare made in the early –fifties had been adopted by the Indian army after Siachen.

Of particular interest to airmen are the first-hand accounts of IAF operations. Dakotas sustaining the besieged garrison of Poonch, under fire and with battle damage; Tempests strafing enemy concentrations west of Chamb, bunker-busting at Bagla (Pir Badesar); a daring ‘un-official’ casevac from a make shift airstrip near ‘Samnot’ (North-East of Surankot); are but some amongst a sea of examples. This will be a welcome surprise to theorists who feel that joint-man-ship is a new buzz-word to the Indian armed forces.

An authentic account of the much forgotten ‘first round’, the book chronicles operations, prevalent tactics and strategy which were prevalent at that time. It also includes the author’s knowledgeable views on the complex issues of mountain warfare. The author has since published three other works. His style of writing has remained unchanged, forceful, direct and to the point. A disconcerting feature attributable to the publishers perhaps, is the large number of mistakes in typing and spelling. A second edition with these corrections, contemporary font and coloured maps will make this book compelling.

Night Falls

Shadows lengthen as light reels under the onslaught of darkness.

Wings flutter home

to the forest with lofty trees on which dangle their precarious nests.

How will they rest?

“Ah you fool! I hear,

When He hath deigned; nay, ordained,

that they shall sleep; the sleep of the deserving,

It is not that the crimson self of the Sun and Truth is swamped

by this inky gloom,

Mother nature is at work,

day will bloom.

it is but nightfall.”

Then why in this jungle of bricks and mortar,

does falsehood blacken this azure sky?

I toss and turn.

for the sleep of the innocent, the tired, the faithful,

I am hurt

I suffer and writhe in pain.

Yearning for peace.

In vain

I beseech you, let the night fall.

Oh ye that hound me, beware! For where

Rumour reigns, falsehood forges ahead, and decency dies,

You will have to face

someday

the silent sound of my despair.

When truth, man and reason do not a place find,

the light of life palls

and night falls.

Not to the Manner Born

Last Sunday my son Shaurya and I went out for dinner to Blini. It's a small restaurant at Anand Market that serves Russian fare. We'd been there a couple of times before. The place has four tables and a limited menu but is great on service and limitless in charm.

We reached at about 8 PM and found all tables taken. Boris the owner, Captain, cook and Maitre'de wryly shrugged and asked us to wait about twenty minutes. We decided to take a walk. Going downstairs, we crossed this couple. The guy, an Anglo-Saxon was clad in a bedraggled Tee shirt and shabby shorts. Shabby had this creature clinging onto his arm who was maybe far-eastern (Fern). Fern was expressing her undying love vocally and physically….and very publicly. We smiled by way of greeting, which this modern-day Romeo-Juliet were oblivious of.

Fifteen minutes later we were back at the entrance when I saw with some dismay that Shabby and Fern were also standing outside. I walked in and looked at Boris. He smiled this time and said, “Aynother tayn meenutes”. When I told Shaurya this, he laughed and said the food would be worth the wait. Shabby now notices us and questions me.

“Uhh, ummm uh what’d he say”?

I say “Who”.

“Boris, off course”.

I say” Oh another ten minutes”.

“Aaahh”.

Silence thereafter was punctuated by Fern’s giggles and groans. “He’s always rude y’know”, grunts Shabby. I can’t agree so I say “Not really”. Fern finds this hilarious. But soon she’s all over Shabby and they promptly ignore us.

That’s when the door opens and the waitress beckons us. Shaurya walks in. I am about to follow them when Fern lets go with a shrieking yell. “How dare you, we are before you, the table is ours”. I stop. I am mumbling, about Boris, about the wait, about us crossing them on the stairs. Fern is having nothing of this. Shabby now turns Neanderthal, “We are going to take that table”. The vision of a quiet, peaceful dinner has gone puff. The Alpha in me is subdued by the desire to be polite. I call Shaurya. That’s when Boris steps in. He appears to have had enough. “Zey wer heeyer beefore you, the table is theirs, you want to eat, you wait”. Shabby mumbles something under his breath, Fern as lady-like as ever bows theatrically and says the F word. We stumble in now very unsure.

Just then another table is vacated. Boris gestures at Shabby who clambers onto it. Fern is still going yackety-yack.

Dinner continues. I play around with my Lamb Stew with Rice while Shaurya valiantly attempts to finish his fries, chicken steak and coke; all at once. “Wonder why the beer tastes bitter, should we order some dessert”. Shaurya smiles and says something about the manner in which it’s made, the manner in which it’s served.

Manners- to which some are never born.