Journal Entry- 29th November 2012.
Set 14,140 ft. above sea
level, the winter frost loomed over the feeble sun on the horizon of Nathula
pass. It was a funny kind of winter, one that held a promise to warm my heart
despite the bitter cold.
They say exploring a part of
your own country teaches you a little more about yourself. If the drive to my
destination was anything to go by, I learnt that I lacked the immunity to
battle deathly temperatures. It was 3 degrees Celsius and I felt the five
layers of my thermal clothes and soft woolens vanishing into thin air, one by
one. No, the imported brandy didn’t help either. The scorching heat I detested
back home in Mumbai, I sorely missed in Sikkim.
As we
scaled the heights, a few streams of water traversed through like blood from
veins cut open. A few others were turning into ice crystals. The red, yellow
and blue Buddhist prayer flags hung suspended in the air, trying to keep up a
fight against the robust wind. They had to, for they were there to protect their
holy land.
I realized that sometimes,
you might think the world is more or less how you perceive it to be. But when
the skies open up before you in shades of emerald and blue that can only be
shown never described, the world under it transforms. You may even wonder if
you’re eavesdropping on what is meant for the Gods. The sharp smell of pinewood
sings through the air, the bald mountains garb their heads in wigs made of snow
and squawky seagulls soar the highest heights. For a while these heights may
remind you of the plunging depths and dark corners of your life but slowly,
they also teach you to let go.
Our vehicle continued to
ascend the Himalayas, stirring up gusts of dust. The hours evaporated into
moments and after a few nasty head bumps, the car screeched to a halt. The
grime cleared away and revealed a flight of staircases up hill that led to a
band of barbed wire. Rugged army men with rifles stood guarding the Line Of Control.
Men with assault weapons never looked so graceful.
Beyond the barbed wire was
the land of Tibet occupied by the Chinese army. It made me wonder how different
could people on that side possibly be. After all, we lived under same sky. You
see, Indian and Chinese army officers at the border were friends; they shared
the same brand of scotch and hard Chinese cigarettes. Yet, as the Indo-Sino war
of 1962 suggests, they will pull the trigger on each other without any remorse.
The dichotomy of the same
land took my breath away, literally. Panting profusely, I stopped at a red-bricked
wall a few meters away from the Indo-China border. The red-bricked wall framed a
black marbled mantle, which had a few names and these words engraved in gold;
“When you go home, tell them of us,
And say,
For your tomorrow, we gave our today.”
I stood still as a host of
clouds crept over me, reminding me of the enormity of every soldier’s
sacrifice. In that fleeting moment, my sense of self was reduced to nothing. At
the same time, I expanded with pride. It was a feeling I felt not because I was
Indian but because I was human.
Lieutenant Prakash stood there
with the wind growling against him, guarding the memorial. I clicked his
picture trying to evoke some reaction. He didn’t budge.
I wondered; Did he miss the
aromas from his mother's kitchen? Did he long for the touch of his lover? Did
he miss his baby's tiny fingers? I couldn’t have guessed in those seconds of
shared silence.
His lips were dry and flaky.
I spontaneously wanted to gift him my lip balm but realized it would be inappropriate.
Wearing a crisp uniform, the number of layers seemed much less than what I had expected.
I looked into his eyes, as
if to ask, “Aren’t you cold?”
His big brown eyes silently
answered my question; “I wear a layer of devotion for my country, for my
people. I need no more.”
I cupped the bowl of
steaming and seemingly bland Thukpa between my cold hands, sitting in the Army
canteen half a kilometer away from the memorial. I peeked at our Indian flag as
it slow danced in the wind. I looked a little ahead and found the Chinese flag fluttering
as well. I thought of the futility of boundaries, for the same sun that lights
up their land, lights up ours too. The firewood had been lit in the camp but I
felt a different fire had begun to simmer within me. Sluggishly, the dark
clouds began to descend on all sides. It was time to go.
Throughout my train ride
back home, I thought of him. I hoped the next time I went up there, Lieutenant
Prakash would be a face with moist supple lips and not just another name
engraved in the memorial mantle.
The blur of scanty green fields
turned into the neon lit streets of Mumbai. I had returned but with an invincible
sheild of warmth.
It was 9 degrees celcius one
winter's night in Mumbai. My mother asked me "Aren't you cold?" She
brought in a thick blanket.
His memory flashed infront
of my eyes; torn lips, bright eyes and the fire in them.
I smiled and told her I
didn't need it. Not any more.
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