Title page

BUKHARI..the hearth
The saga of glacier war

 

 

 

Shyamal Bhattacharya

 

 

 

 

 

Translated by
SUBHRASANKAR DAS

Book details

BUKHARI
A novel by Shyamal Bhattacharya
Translated by Subhrasankar Das
Edited by Promila Arora

 

Cover Design : Subhrasankar Das
Picture of boy : Stock photos

( No part of this book should be reproduced or copied in any way without the written permission of the publisher/ writer/ translator )

First Edition: August 2020

 

Publisher: SHADOWKRAFT,

Tripura, India, m-9774554435
shadowkraft.sd@gmail.com
© Subhrasankar Das️

Price : 299 Rupees

FOREWORD

 

I met Mr Shyamal Bhattacharya at the International writers meet organized by the Kafla in Udaipur, Rajasthan. That was in October 2016. Shyamal impressed me as a pleasant and active young man, not wasting even a minute. I observed him scribbling something always, whenever he found any free time. His fluency in many languages amazed me, especially when he showed his acquaintance with my mother tongue, Tamil. Later I learnt that he had been to my native place, Jaffna, Sri Lanka, as well, while he was on active service. He was a member of the IAF he told. What I found inside that sturdy appearance was the loving heart of a child, always mirrored by his full, innocent smile.
The next time was in January 2019. I had the privilege to visit various cities in India, as a part of the esteemed Premchand Fellowship I was offered, by the Sahitya Akademi of India. Shyamal made sure, beforehand if I would be visiting Kolkata, and if not, for any reason, he was making arrangements to come and meet me in Delhi. Kolkata was surely unavoidable, and he made precise plans to fill any free slot in the Akademi schedule, with some good programmes, including a cordial lunch at his house. Practically he spent the whole week, leaving aside all his businesses, with me.
By this time, I was well aware of his stature as an acknowledged writer cum translator. His collection of stories, ‘Paisley,’ already impressed me a lot.
No doubt, Shyamal is lucky enough to have got nourished by the great literary wealth and tradition of Bangla. Also, he was fortunate to have what most other writers cannot even imagine. His experiences in the battlefields and his fluency in several languages are two main advantages that no other person can easily boast about, and above all, he had the eyes and heart of a writer within him.
When I started looking forward to reading his other works in English, I came across his award-winning novel, Bukhari, a story based on his experiences in the Siachen Glaciers, known as the highest battlefield in the world, during the early 1990s.
There are several works of literature in the world languages written by those who had been to the battlefields. Erich Maria Remarque, Ernest Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Wilfred Owen and Mikhail Sholokhov are only a few among the masters in that long list. In the Indian context, there too were several writers who have written in English and also in National languages. Thi.Sa. Raju wrote in Tamil. I came across a few other stories written by some young Tamil writers out of their first-hand experience in the recent Eelam war of Sri Lanka.
The stories dealing with war have a two-fold task. While portraying the ordeals of the war, they cannot easily overlook the feelings of the human beings involved in it. Bukhari succeeds immensely in both. The novel makes a civilian reader understand the military life and thus recognize the hardships the soldiers undergo and salute the services they render.
Though the characters are from various parts of India, they remain universal by nature. Another notable aspect of the stories is the keenest portrayal of the settings. The author does not miss even any minor detail. It will not be untrue to say, at many a time, his descriptions of the locale turn out to be poetic. The reader is getting acquainted with the flora and the fauna of the region. Apart from being descriptive, the novel reflects the authors concern towards the environment.
Bukhari could easily be called Shyamals masterpiece.
The talented translator of the novel, Subhrasankar Das, deserves a big compliment. He makes us wonder if the work is indeed written originally in English. As a non- Bengal reader, I must thank him for making this work accessible to readers all over the world.

Ayathurai Santhan ( Sahithya Rathna )
Premchand Fellow of the Sahitya Akademi of India

Sri Lanka.
17th August, 2020.

Translator's Note

 

‘ Bukhari’ (The Hearth) ‘ is a fiction based on the lives of the Indian soldiers who were performing their duties in the untried icy and treacherous heights of Siachen, where not even a blade of grass grows. The novel subtly reveals the smoldering volcanoes that each soldier carries within himself in the unforgiving icy surroundings. The latent desires, dreams, restlessness and helplessness of the characters find an adroit expression in this novel.
More than 25 blustery, shivering years, the Indian and Pakistani armies have been fighting a "No-Win" battle on the 20,000-foot-high Siachen Glacier, the world's highest war-ground. On average, one Pakistani soldier is killed every fourth day, while one Indian soldier is killed every other day. Over 1,300 Pakistani soldiers have died on Siachen between 1984 and 1999. According to Indian estimates, this operation had cost India over Rs. 50 billion and almost 2,000 personnel casualties till 1997. Almost all of the casualties on both sides have been due to extreme weather conditions. In spite of this, The word `Siachen` ironically means the place of wild roses. Arduous to live in, the Siachen area is beautiful to look at from the cockpit. Some of the world's tallest mountains fill the landscape, their snowy tops giving way to rivulets of white that glitter against the black and purple rock. It is a moonscape of mesmerizing pinnacles and ridges and drops. Ice formations rise a mile high. Clouds seem at arm's reach. During storms, the heavy snowfall seems as thick as long, white drapery. The wind does pinwheels, and the basic of a hard life gets that much harder.

The roots of the conflict over Siachen lie in the non-demarcations on the western side on the map beyond NJ9842. Prior to 1984 neither India nor Pakistan had any permanent presence in the area. Today, Siachen is more important as a test of diplomacy than of high-altitude battle skills. Over the years, Siachen itself has been the subject of seven major rounds of talks under various Governments ruled by various parties, negotiators have agreed that the conflict is futile -- and some have even called it lunatic. But one side or the other has always been too afr. Presently India holds two-thirds of the glacier and controls a few of the top-most heights aid of a double-cross to complete a deal.

But what is the guarantee that in future Pakistani general/president will not re-occupy Siachen with ‘freedom fighters’? And in future Indian government will not ask the armed forces to take back the Soltoro ridge? USA and few western weapon manufacturing countries are only interested in selling more and more Fighter Aircrafts, Canons, other weapons and war machines to both the country. Hence, for their business shake the show must go on. If indeed we wanted to hold on to the heights, then why are we talking with each other for the last two decades to demilitarise the area? What of the four thousand soldiers who have been disabled? The cost is not only what is paid out to them in terms of disability pensions. . What of the suffering of thousands of soldiers who spend several long months at altitudes where basic survival is at stake? And finally, what about the effect on the environment?

‘Bukhari’ comprises of a series of events in a soldier’s life. His pain, passion, boredom and depression, his fantasy, hunger, nightmare, his fear, adventure, love, disgust and thirst-- all are distinctly crafted with the mixture of subjective and objective narration.

‘Bukhari’ seems the diary of the protagonist Alok, and the people he comes across get the focus accordingly. Their stream of consciousness and their encounters with their multilayered selves and surroundings very often control the cycle of the novel & take various dimensions.

The main protagonist of the story is the bukhari itself. It is not the name of a particular thing. It’s an icon, a symbol of warmth, love, shelter, hope & peace. Any source of warmth can be a bukhari to anyone.

Don’t we delve deep into the heart of hearts to hug our own, very own bukhari?

—Subhrasankar Das

Editor's Note

 

Knowing all the aspects of Shyamal Bhattacharya's personality and literary works is like scaling the heights of sky. He has written 9 story collections, 129 stories, 3 selected essay collections , 2 children books, 7 translated titles from different languages, 7edited books 5 novels complete and 6th one is in progress named Maha Satyer Biporite (Other side of great Truth ) on Tibetan exodus and diaspora .He is translator of Prime Minister on Press Information Bureu and DDBangla and active in numerous organizations . His books have been translated in many languages and are being taught in few universities in the world. He has travelled a lot in country and abroad to attend different seminars and literary congregations. It is really arduous to sum up such a multifaceted person and a unique author in a few words.
few days back he invited me to attend the webinar by Kolkata Translators Forum and then on my request sent me a few specimens of his literary works in Pdf in English translation. While going through these literary works I couldn't help appreciating his writing skill to enliven images and situations to make reader visualize those happening before him.
award winning novel Bukhari is a classic in itself. Many years before I read a Russian novel Story about a Real Man by Boris Polevoy .This novel left indelible marks on my mind for the description of struggle of a pilot to rise up again with his number legs to fulfil his passion for flying . But Bukhari opened a new horizon of soldiers' lives who live strenuous and hard life to struggle for their own life to defend the people of our nation living on Siachen Glacier .
While reading the details in the novel I found as described by the author "Bukhari is not the name of a thing. Bukhari is an icon, a symbol of warmth, love and shelter for them ". The soldiers share their feelings, emotions , inner heart by talking and even in silence getting warmth to survive sitting around Bukhari .
The author has proved his writing skill in picturing the ambience of distant unseen land in a letter by Alok to his wife to make the readers acquainted with the unimaginable land where the theme of the novel unfolds itself. He writes,
“Sweet-heart, I never knew that such swathe of land could ever exist on earth where a noiseless void sits perpetually except for nature's occasional twitters. Measureless amount of snow besides hard rocks and snow wrapped sand stretches itself as far as the eyes behold. The solitary trees stand in the cold like equidistant dead pillars .Their plumes are falling off one by one .The dry fallen foliage of memory stays afloat all alone .Not even a single bird lives here .At least I am yet to witness one .Neither could I hear a tweet ".
What a marvellous poetic expression to draw a word picture of Siachen and the nostalgia of forlorn heart of a soldier away from family witnessing all this first time .
This novel doesn't deal with the story of courage and bravery of soldiers in war but deals with their lives and struggle to survive on the war front .The struggle is not only for existence , they have to overcome the inner conflict of nostalgic memories and worries about their families .The author has penetrated the layers of inner hearts of Alok and his companions who accompanied him at different levels like Jayant, Chandrabhan, Hemant ,Bablu Balmiki, Ravishankar, Surindar Ram swaroop,Upender Parsad, Tarsem ,Kalita etc.
The author has perfectly explored the human relationship and the role of friendship where everybody is in the jaws of death. How Alok carries his wife Antara and daughter Toda with him all the time it seems they are carrying the plot of the fiction with them .The wait and craze for letters in the lives of soldiers is mentioned vividly .
A very appropriate gesture has been made about the apathy of politicians to recognize the silent sacrifice of soldiers who die there struggling for survival .Only those are honoured who die in the battlefield. Sometimes they are shown aggravated to ask the politicians to experience such life.
I must say this novel brings out a different world of life of soldiers. The plot is well knitted and intertwined to throw light on international relations and minutest details of soldiers' life living under the shadow of death from the climatic conditions as well as the shelling across the borders .While reading one feels visualising all that. It is beauty of the writing .
I must mention Mr. Subhrasankar Das whose translation of the novel I have gone through. He has done commendable effort to transcribe the original writing to bring out the feelings and expressions of the author .He deserves appreciation and best wishes for that.
Shyamal Bhattacharya is equally well versed in writing other streams of literature besides writing novels .His stories for children carry the same flavour as fiction for grown-ups .

 

Promila Arora

82 , Golden Avenue
Kapurthala (Punjab)

OF WHAT EARTH ART THOU MADE

A roaring Gajraj soared steadily up into the sky. It accelerated effortlessly, spreading its silvery wings sideways. A dense mass of white low-cast clouds hovered over the mountain ranges of Simla. The giant metallic albatross grandly carried a hundred and eighty sturdy soldiers inside its womb.
The morning light brightened as it rose past Simla. The darting sunbeams rendered a lovely crimson hue to the eastern horizon. Leaving all these playful rainbow clouds below, the bird dipped its wings into the magical golden sky higher above. Beneath, the sky of Kullu Mannali stretched itself. The Himalayan ranges held their heads up like giant waves emerging out of a sea of clouds.The aerial cruise continued to happen for the next half an hour.

Slowly but steadily, the giant bird nosedived towards the ground. An even whiteness spread itself all around. In between the tall peaks of the Ladakh and the Zanskar ranges stood a grayish valley. A piece of idyllic landscape with a couple of dwarf houses, winding narrow streets and the blue-bodied Indus beckoned surreptitiously. A few tiny vehicles like toy cars were plying along the narrow asphalt roads below.

Suddenly out of the bird’s belly, emerged ten pairs of giant wheels. He, right then, witnessed the world’s highest airbase out of the window. A hoarse voice announced the outside temperature to be at chilling -7.9 degree Celsius. He plucked abalaclava out of his pocket to brace himself against the cold. Zipping his jacket up to his neck, he quickly put his gloves on.
With a sudden jerk, the plane kissed the runway. The intensity of noise gradually subsided. On reaching the tarmac, two engines of the machine bird IL76 came to a halt, while the rest two made a deafening noise as the back shaft opened up. These two, too, would stop shortly.
He and the other soldiers slowly disembarked. A three-tonner military vehicle stood on the tarmac. He shivered as his shoes stomped through the gathered up snow along the edges of the runway. Layers of woollens wrapped his body. His nose and cheeks, uncovered, experienced an unprecedented cold.

A shortness of breath gripped Alok as he grabbed a seat for himself after stuffing his luggage in the back end of the transport. He kept huffing and puffing all the way. Alok, growing despondent by degrees, was on the edge. It seemed as if he knew no one, as if a miserable void rested on all sides. He was in a whirl for sure. Something in the shape of a black bayonet enwombed in a large whitish bubble kept penetrating inside his skull. It continued to go uninterrupted. What should he be doing now? He was at his wit’s end.
Unable to raise an alarming cry, to lift his hands upwards in agony like a drowning man, allthat he could feel was a caring hand massaging his chest. Another hand, he felt, was rubbing down his back. Someone poured out a glassful of lukewarm water for him to drink. However, the piercing bayonet kept entering the white sphere again as soon as he shut his eyelids. Even the sphere itself was vanishing as if it were a mere bubble. Finally, he realized, after opening his eyes, that he was saved from severe high altitude suffocation and swooning.

As the vehicle started to move forward, he clearly felt that three people were holding him tight. While the muscles of his hands and legs trembled, he got to know his co-passengers. On his right side would sit one, called Saroj Kumar Jha and the one who stood right behind him was Vinod Kumar. Sergeant Nand Singh kept massaging his chest until then sitting on his left side. All of them were returning from an official leave. Alok looked out of the window. Rows of army barracks stretched on the right side of the road. The smoke-belching chimneys, emerging out of the roofs of those barracks, rendered the scene to feel much like the factory locales shown in some foreign films. Except for the engine’s whirring, no other sound could be heard.
The transport vehicle departed immediately after dropping them off at the entry of the billet. Two Ladakhi teenage boys, at that time, were laboriously carrying two kerosene barrels down the stairs. The inmates of the billet eagerly greeted them. Their luggage reached its destination as the inmates lent a hand in moving them in. Afterwards all of them snuggled up on the chairs that were laid around a conical pot.
It was indeed a warm place. A long thin cylinder from the pot ran upwards and penetrated the ceiling. Black smoke smouldered above the roof. Alok must have caught sight of that smoke on his way. It was the bukhari, the oven, the prime source of fire, warmth for life. A rubber pipe, coming out of a Jericane, tied to the iron grid of a window, steadily maintained fuel supply to that central source of fire. It seemed like an ailing patient on a saline or blood drip. They warmed their hands over it. One of them served tea in mugs. The tea warmed and cheered them up all. They sprang up with life back again.

Right then the machine bird took off with a robust jar making the floor and the glass windows of the billet shudder. Apparently, the flight prepared to return to Chandigarh with the army backload. Alok felt somewhat uneasy. Wasn’t it the similar uneasiness he had experienced on the day he, left behind his near and dear ones to head for the training centre at Belgaum? At times one might be lonesome even in the middle of a bustling crowd.

All on a sudden, he noticed a grinning man eyeing him up from the opposite seat. Only a little while ago he shook hands with him. He looked familiar. Was he an old acquaintance? He must have seen him before, somewhere. And now his smiling face threw the windows of his memory open. Was he not Jayant? Alok’s eyes glinted with recognition.
Jayant, too, smilingly nodded. Only a man of intense passion and infinite joys would nod so gleefully while talking, Alok thought.
-Saala! Took so long to recognize?
-It’s tough to imagine you with this fuzz and all that, so don’t blame me!
-You, too, look different. I’ve identified you in spite of that! After all we are old pals since the days of gawky underpants!
Alok was delighted. That same voice, same unchanged laugh- after a lapse of so many suns- impossible! Alok laughed out loud. The past awakened within his secret memory -chamber. Kadam kadam badhaye ja - some thousand odd hours of drilling and parading together and training together in the jungle. They were on the sacrificial altar of corporal Muththu, the ruthless drill instructor. The horrific memories of hundreds of hours of frog jumping, rolling or crawling! And merely pubescent tender boys they were when it had all happened, when the forlorn yarns of their home and school would bring lumps to their throats quite often.

Perhaps an anecdote or two of a lovely brunette, an object of mutual desire, would dwindle between them –a beauty adored by one, with ease, would enter into the dream realm of another. What was the need to see for real?

A new township or a human habitation, unexplored so far, unfurled itself bit by bit with all its surging youthful novelty. Countless also were the desires of the heart, those oh-so-secret longings! And those blood-shot eyes of discipline alongside! Hours of uninterrupted punishment. Blood, oozing fresh out of the bruised elbows and knees, would mingle with the brick-red gritty soil. The red soil would get into the wound in turn. When the signs of nausea and giddiness showed up, they would gently tend each other. Thus the inevitable reality, in dribs and drabs, could build them as tough as cast iron. After a while, they would become inured to the hardships. Enjoying simple pleasures of life, ignoring all physical hazards, might become easy then. The past details raked his memory up as Alok met Jayant after a good lapse of time.
The two friends kept prattling on as the day drew in. Special cloths were issued after sundown. The feeling of suffocation returned as Alok walked about ten odd steps towards the billet with the heavy load. A blackish dart, as if spewing out of a white globe, rushed straight to him. He stretched out on the bed. Jayant gave his chest a gentle rub. Saroj fetched lukewarm drinking water for him. Jayant said, rolling his eyes coaxingly, “stop pulling stupid stunts like this, silly nuthead! Take no risk if you don’t want to pop off! Wait at least for three-four days until you find your feet.”
Towards the evening, he settled himself down to write a letter.
Sweetheart, I never knew that such a vast swathe of land could ever exist on earth where a noiseless void/tranquility sits so perpetually, except for nature’s occasional twitters. Measureless amount of snow, besides hard rocks and the snow-wrapped sand, stretches itself as far as the eyes can see. The solitary trees stand in the cold like equidistant dead pillars. Their plumes are falling off one by one. The dry fallen foliage of memory stays afloat all alone. Not even a single bird lives here. At least I am yet to witness one. Neither could I hear one tweet.
I brought a rather weighty trunk knowing little that a soldier has to carry his own luggage to an air-force flight. Some of the colleagues at Chandigarh said that except for the short summer months, it might be impossible here to read. The book trunk, hence, is dumped at a friend’s place.
Having written all that, Alok gazed vacantly into the space. The trunk used to be his old companion. He collected his books gradually one by one over a long stretch of years. He, too, like many other airmen, was fond of reading during his leisure hours. Hence, it was a little disappointing to have left the books else where.
Now, unable to gather his thoughts together systematically, Alok put the pen and paper back into the bag. Not much could be done today. Apart from lack of appetite and nausea that he faced in the afternoon, he now suffered from a bout of headache and body ache, which might be happening because of the scarcity of oxygen at that altitude.

Here Alok did not wear lungi anymore, his favourite casual togs for all time. Instead, a clingy and close-fitting woollen innerwear wrapped his lower body up too snugly, causing an itchy discomfort in his legs and thighs. For some inexplicable reason, tears swelled up in his eyes while scratching his legs. Antara’s face popped up before his eyes. She was not by his side then and the realization emptied his heart out. Riding on an unspeakable time of discomfort, he journeyed across the pell-mell of his mind with his wife Antara and daughter Toda. It was only after about an hour that he finally dropped off to sleep.

Mantu’s ice-cream stall right in front of the school gate! Five penny for a pair - one red, another white! The school bell made a resounding clang. A coloured blob of ice hanged from one side of the wooden stick after a good licking and the leisure hour ended. Alok grabbed an opportunity to slip a chunk of ice inside a fellow student’s shirt. Next what followed was a mad fit of skipping and fidgeting. An energetic exclamation roared aloud- “you wicked brat! On your back too a good many times”…

The fascination with ice grew on him much later. Alok began watching the Doordarshan much after 1980. Since the time he saw footage of a dog-drawn sledge expedition on the old black-and-white TV, an ardent fantasy for ice has secretly lured him within . The cinematic portrayal of Simla-Shrinagar, music and romance in movies and finally the transfer order- a perfect combination for puffing his fantasy up and the recipe made his desire go up, carrying the load of his fervent imagination. Each single minute appeared different since that time. Whether or not he liked that, he could not decide for himself. Goggle-eyed with awe, he took in the intricate patterns of time and nature.
The water would bubble away all the time in a large pot in the washroom. They drank and bathed from that same source. Saroj cautioned him as he attempted to pour a bucketful of water down the toilet- “hey, hey, that’s going to freeze!”
“Hot water for that too?” Alok, visibly embarrassed, enquired.
“Ji haan, of course!” Saroj grinned from ear to ear- “that’s why there’s no flush system!”

The pen broke off a thousand times while writing. The work resumed only after warming the pen over the bukhari. The temperature dipped as low as -11.7degree Celsius, his mind refused to believe it, although his body clearly felt the biting chill. Unbelievable!
The snow-wrapped mountains and the reflected sunbeams made for a dazzling blinding radiance. By each passing day the temperature dropped. A dense blanket of snow gradually forwarded its imperialist grip on all the hills and mountains and valleys of the region.
The clear sky that stayed on for two days as a relief was followed by a four-five day long frozen fit. Snow drizzled down continuously during night and day. Like a dreamland. The days flew past. As if in a trance. Not even a single leaf remained green anymore in the entire valley. The trees tried to capture all the sap in their stems to prevent vapourization from their green leaves, which gradually turned from yellow to grayish brown. Leaves fell out and flew off with the sudden whiff of strong wind that thrashed them hard. And the trees with only the stems awaited warmer happier days as much as all the Ladakhi Tibetans. Months piled over months in much hardship while that elongated waiting phase. Children dreamt of growing up, secretly aspiring to reach their teens and adolescence.

Alok mentally prepared himself for going to the glacier. He now needed to grasp the military strategies well, at least as much as he could. By what means did his predecessors fight and what would the present strategy possibly be? What sort of attack deserved what manner of retaliation? The position of the opponent, their firepower and a whole lot more! He regularly attended every class. A queer excitement raked his concentration up as the dream of being part of a real warfare steeped in him everyday by slow degrees. A swelling phalanx of the Kaurava army might be heaving before them! He felt as if his decision to register in the army was finally ready to bear fruits.
The multifarious images of warfare, as he had learned through many fables and the recitations of epics which he had later read himself, merged.

Outside everything turned white as snowing continued. It was hard to say whence the mountains sprang and where did their margins end. The sky in the backdrop, of the same hue as the mountains, was tough to be separated at the first glance. The outside temperature was minus 19.8 degree Celsius. Since early morning, Alok felt a pang deep within himself. No one did he miss as dearly as Toda.
Alok heard a queer twittering of an unknown bird towards the afternoon. He stepped out after hearing it tweet for the second time. Where exactly could it be? It was a sad mingling of a magpie’s whistle and the cooing of a cuckoo. He madly searched about every nook and cranny in vain and told other fellowmen in the billet about it after returning. Nobody believed him. Saroj and Jayant eagerly stepped out and nosed around for a while only to pooh-pooh Alok’s fervent imagination later.

An increasing sense of restlessness grabbed him after sunset. Four dainty glasses slipped from his hand and shattered into a thousand pieces. Having guessed his restlessness, Jayant assured- “Don’t be impatient. From tomorrow, we will go out and stroll around. You sure will feel better. Don’t think about the war always”.
“How can I stop thinking even then? Can you really? The war still is on.” Pair of Jayant’s gloomy doleful eyes saddened more than before.

About that same time inside the billet, a quick arrangement was on. Their necessary things were being laid in order. Their boxes were kept in a row and shrouded in a white cloth. Saroj sprayed a generous amount of room freshener around the whole place to ward off the fusty smell and to freshen the mind up at least temporarily. An attempt as vain as lighting up incense sticks near a dead body.

Vinod laid an assorted array of liquor bottles and glasses on a table. A cocktail party was about to start with a bang. Different accompaniments were kept handy too like fried peanuts, mixtures, soft drinks and pakodas made of potato, onion, eggs and chillies. They drew up the charpais around the lighted bukhari. Inside a glass globe a heavenly pair would dance gracefully. On the wall, a photo of Samantha Fox in her buff was on full display. The focusing lights brightened her features. The curvaceous nubile form bloomed each time the pack of men to gaze desirously at her . Her smile too wore a separate hint every time. Alok seemed to take pleasure in it for he found it exceedingly thrilling. Nand Singh put the lights out as soon as the commanding officer entered. The blazing table lamp continued to burn away. In the intoxicating wink of the lamp they all blurted out together –“cheers!” The glasses rose high up in the air, clinked together and the liquor spilled. Samantha dazzled on the wall. The room blazed with lights as soon as they took their first sip together. Then a long flow of multilingual songs of different melodies and tunes would start. A prompt shayari session would follow.
The only shayar of the gathering was Saroj Kumar Jha, Alias Bawla. They were all ears. After a formal ijazat and a full-throated irshaad from all, Saroj’s poetic soiree commenced.
“Is mehfil mein kayee tarah ke log peete hain/ kuchh khushiyaan manane ke liye/ kuchh gham bhulane ke liye/ tum kis mitti ke bane ho Bawla/ jo peete ho gham mein doob jane ke liye”
( In this gathering the gathered drink for reasons galore; some to celebrate,some to erase pain,Of what earth thou art composed oh moonstruck who drinks to drown in pain)
A heartfelt ovation was poured on him instantly. Saroj, with an unfazed ardour moved ceremoniously on to his next, a nazm by Mir Taqi Mir-
‘Saazish-e-dil jalavara mann se muft galte hain..’

Saroj sounded like a doleful mourner. That’s the power of alcohol, the demon drink. It would always be a potential means of turning a narrow rivulet of unhappiness into a multitudinous ocean of grief with its waves unfolding mysteries in each turn.
When Vinod’s turn came, he threw up a challenging puzzle .

He raised his eyebrows mysteriously, grinning all the while. Right then saroj promptly replied-

“chiraagh, an oil lamp. It flickers out at dawn giving light the whole night long.”

Vinod nodded to agree and moved over to the next one.

“Bison ka sir kaat liya/ na jaan gayi na khoon baha. None is slain, nor is a drop of blood shed, although twenty are beheaded straight off.”

Everyone looked stupefied, scratching heads, sulking, touching cheeks and all. The commanding officer, too, dodging the eyes of others carefully inserted a finger under the balaclava and scratched his head. Silence prevailed for a while except for the sound of breathing and sipping.
Jayant blurted out finally-“nakhun, nails.”
All clapped energetically.

Sergent Bansal’s lambent wit sparkled through the Hindi poems of Kaka Hatharsi. They doubled up with laughter with each dose that revolved usually around Kaki who invariably was the butt of ridicule. How wittingly and effortlessly did the poet point fingers at the embarrassing truths of the society!
Nand Singh, the inexplicable Sardarji among them all, shared a number of side_splitting, ubiquitous Sardar gags. A wave of nostalgia hit all as Jayant sang an evergreen song by Mukesh. The blast of their mutual gaggle unexpectedly halted around 10 O’clock for the light went out suddenly. Dilkumar and Nand Singh started up a Sri Ram Honda generator for power backup. The party mood was back with a bang at once! Sanjay Kumar Pathak sang a Bhojpuri sad song for them.

The sadness of the song touched one and all in spite of the fact that only few could make out the lyrics distinctly. Passions ran high and perhaps in its effect the commanding officer himself broke into an infallibly romantic number.
“Laila main laila..”

The rest hesitated little to hum along. After eleven thirty, all eyes were directed to the ticking clock. Some were glued to the television with equal eagerness. Some munched on. A queer medley of dancing crowd, flaunting strange costumes, hastened their pace on Doordarshan. In one swift and noisy go Dilkumar drank his last shot of rum down to the dregs. Right under Alok’s nose, he bravely soaked up eight robust pegs.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty nine- happy new year! Handshakes, hugs, and all! The cheer grew uncontrollable. “Bawla” recited a poem by Makkhan lal Chaturvedi -
“Mujhe tor lena banamali , us path par dena tum fnek..Tear me and throw me on the path where every patriot goes to sacrifice his head”

Alok truly enjoyed his full-voiced recitation. Using the metaphor of a flower, the poet had expressed ardent patriotism. a flower, though small, would desire to sacrifice its life for the motherland as the soldiers on the warfront. Dilkumar smothered him with kisses as a token of his appreciation. “Cut it out, yaar!” Saroj smilingly said, wiping saliva off his own cheek. All clapped again. A Tamil pop song slipped from Dil kumar’s lips –

“Surangini ,Surangini, Surangini ka maal kanna wa..”

All lent voices to the swaying melody. Hand in hand vinod and Dil kumar began to dance. The mood infected one and all. Commanding officer too restricted himself no more. Soon the same refrain of the song and the noise of clapping wavered unendingly. Alok could not but doubt whether their hands were following the instructions of their heads. A strong wafting wind shook the asbestos roof noisily.

The dinner was no less celebratory. The sumptuous spread had included chicken, paneer, pulao, papad, raita. One juicy rasgulla for each, straight out of a K C Das can. Alok overstuffed himself after many days. He felt bloated. “Mitra, you shared nothing!” -The commanding officer, before retiring to his room for the night, quipped affectionately. Alok replied with a coy smile- “I am hardly good at anything special…no, never, not in their league! All I could do was that piece of dance I did with you.” A loud roar of laughter rose instantly. The gaggle continued even after the commanding officer retired to his chamber. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords were freely bandied about among them. This banality seemed to be far from offensive in their queer surrounding. These, instead, oozed out oodles of hearty warmth. The party mood broke off at once when Dil kumar started throwing up. Nand singh made him drink lime water, while Vinod helped him clean up. Vinod, Saroj and the rest retired to their billet after Dilkumar staggered his way to bed.
Alok, like the rest, decided to go to sleep. The newly commenced year stayed awake in the sleeping bag. It was tough to fall asleep. Memories haunted. Father-mother-brother-sister-wife-daughter-the little diamonds of his soul! Toda, his dear little girl, took up the whole of his consciousness. Her lisping, babble, mature mental faculties, systematic habits that she evidently inherited from her mother-he recalled everything.
About that same time the afternoon bird cried aloud yet again. Could that happen for real? In a biting chilly night?Was it a mere illusion? Yet he heard it loud and clear. Mournfully sang that invisible cooing creature. Alok held his breath back, as if enjoying the endless doleful note. Sharp snowy winds might thrash down all the foliage from the trees standing outside. Every little thing would be cast off like these fallen leaves. Heaviness sits upon his heart that lonely night.
Clamourous excited voices roused him just as he dozed off after lying awake for long hours. “Fire, fire” the rallying cry made him sit up on the bed. Wrapping an overall he rushed out at once only to witness a most horrific sight. The nearby billet had caught fire. The lulling wind of the tragic night was in no mood to spare a morsel. In their effort to douse the gushing flames the airmen from other billets and an army of ladakhi boys threw blobs of loose snow and weighty sandbags into the fire.
A bereaved wail saddened all- “Jal gaya Vinod, he’s all burnt!”
Alok hastened towards the crowd. Vinod was laid on the sand. He heaved a wailing groan. Rushing towards the guard post with an intention of calling an ambulance Alok found that Saroj had already done it by now. On his way back to the horrid accident scene, Alok felt short of breath yet again. Jayant carefully rubbed down his chest and all the while Alok clutched him tightly. Vinod’s wailing cry was brought down to a piteous long groan. The nauseating stench of the charred human skin hanged heavily in the air.
An ambulance hurried him to the general hospital.
After an hour or so they finally managed to snuff out the gushing engulfing flames. The billet by then was reduced to ashes. All belongings of twenty airmen were completely gutted. They must have forgotten to put out the bukhari fire before retiring to sleep. An

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Subhrasankar Das
Lektorat: Promila Arora
Übersetzung: Subhrasankar Das
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.09.2020
ISBN: 978-3-7487-5693-4

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
All the soldiers of the world