Nishan-e-haider
Mortar eruptions abound. Accentuated with the staccato burst of machine gun fire.
A man in a million dollar suit of arms cowers in the shadow of a ridge. Hoping against hope to draw breath in the moment following the ear splitting blast of a missile being launched.
Amidst the half second silence between shooting and reloading, he rises from hiding, aims his M-16 at the vast expanse of white before him, hoping for a stray bullet to find its mark in a Hindu heart. Lets out a yell, YA ALI!, purges his fully automatic assault rifle off the contents of one magazine and ducks back behind the cover of snow and stone at the sight of a flash of gun fire aimed at him from where he had aimed.
Behind him, far below, is the camp. Constantly being shelled, with only 10 seconds of respite for every minute of ammunition raining down. It houses the doctors and the nurses whose purpose here is to cure frost bite and defend against hypothermia. But under the surprise assault has expanded to saving the lives of the small band of soldiers sent along to protect them.
The engineers guarding against volley after volley of avalanche and snow drift, work studiously along the cliff side, setting up anchors and mesh rails to hold the river of snow at bay. How long their makeshift efforts will hold is anybody’s guess. Just long enough for them to retreat, or long enough for re-enforcements to come from far below this hell of ice and sleet.
The thermometer reads -55 C. As cold as it gets. Piss freezing cold. Blood numbing cold. Spirit sapping cold. And yet the soldier continues to duck and rise, rendering heroics of Tolkien proportions. Holding at bay the descending army of white on white with courage bordering on stupidity. Every time he dares to rise from behind nature’s protection, he sees the enemy closer than before. Marching on; Secure in their numbers, loosing men but never relenting. They know the only thing between them and the end of a decades old war of egos is one man with a gun and a compound full of soon to be hostages.
The missile falls right besides him. Sinks into the snow drift. A dud? Maybe. Or maybe just delayed long enough to offer him one last chance. He looks at the silver bullet like projectile, with the Tiranga proudly painted in the orange white and green, jutting out menacingly, threatening every thought, every breath. Almost mocking him into drawing a breath into a taking a step, holding him hostage to the possibilities. He looks long and hard at that which would blow him to a billion pieces and scatter him like bird food all over the deathly white expanse of the glacier. In his mind, he could see the army advancing. Row upon row of soldiers with their guns and minds aimed solely at the destruction of what he holds dear. Inching ever closer upon the helpless ensemble of healers and builders as unable to protect themselves as he was unable to heal himself.
There comes a time in every man’s life, when he has to make a decision between two choices which define the rest of his life. By the virtue or condemnation of which he will be judged forevermore. One of them reeks of such rampant stupidity that even the conception of it is indicative of insanity. The other, although the wiser choice, lacks something much more essential than lucidity: Honor.
He considers running away at break neck speed down to the bomb shelters dug out along the perimeter of the base camp. He even almost sees himself rolling along the slope of the hill stretched out beneath him screaming and yelling for everyone to take cover. He knows that the missile exploding where it has landed is only a threat to him, that none of its explosive power will ever reach the others, so his running now would be running away. In fear, in shame. In disgust.
If he stayed, however, there was hardly any doubt that he would die. Either by the warhead resting next to his shoulder blades, or a hail storm of Indian bullets that would come pouring down on him in less the 10 minutes. But if he stayed? And the missile doesn’t go off? Maybe he can stall them longer. Maybe he can kill enough men to make them reconsider. Either way, death is imminent, survival demands escape.
He turns to look at the valley below, can see the small orange dots indicating the engineers laying the mesh covering along the cliff to hold against avalanches. There’s hardly 4 miles between them and the enemy. And smack in the middle, guarding the sole 1200 foot wide rock providing access across the bottomless ravine between the two mountains, is one soldier.
There isn’t much left to consider. He is the son of a proud father. The progeny of a legacy of patriotic heroism. Generation after generation of his blood line have given their lives, in sweat or in blood, to the protection of their country. For him to turn and flee now is the gravest possible insult to the ghosts of his forefathers. He smiles. Destiny has come.
Spits next to the buried nose of the missile, whips around and peeks over the edge of the rock that is now both his cover and his burden. They are closer yet again, vary of wasting bullets at one man hiding behind a shield they cannot yet penetrate who is merely a temporary hindrance at best anyway, they focus instead on shelling the compound that lies behind. Cripple them before crucifying. Demoralize them so by the might of the victor that they may surrender in shame.
You’re not in the country of surrendering men. The soldier thinks, and unleashes a furious volley of gunfire. Bullets at the rate of 10 per second, rip a hole in the human wall of soldiers marching towards him. Shocked and stunned by the ferocity, the suddenness, the accuracy… the temerity of one man, the entire battalion halts.
He ducks in anticipation of return fire. But it doesn’t come. Dares himself to peek over the edge again and give the sniper undoubtedly waiting for him a chance at glory.
Decides against it, and gives a passing glance to the missile propped up next to him. The hazy outline of an idea, like the first whiff of charcoal beginning to burn dances through his mind. Death before him, and to the side. And behind him lives that deserve saving more than any have ever before.
Exhausted but resolute, he slumps back against the rocks, wondering who will miss him the most. Who will cry, who will pretend to be strong and be the shoulder for everyone else to cry on. Who will tell his father to be proud, his mother to be strong? His little brother to stay as far away from war as possible. His sister that she should never give in on her beliefs.
All the faces cascading through his mind, are crying his own tears. And every eye is wiped by one hand. One face shines brightly through them all, smiling, beaming, eyes dark with horror but spirit high with conviction. The face he loves more than any other, the eyes that will cry the most when he’s gone.
He unzips his jacket; the cold wind immediately knifes through the wool underneath and takes his breath away. But he doesn’t fear the cold, the inevitability of pneumonia that a half a second of exposure has ensured. He fears nothing. Except never touching her face again. Never feeling the caress of her lips on his.
Drags out the only piece of personal effects infantry men are allowed to carry.
A picture.
His wedding.
They sit atop the stage, staring into each other’s eyes, defying convention and tradition and admonitions of elders. How happy they both were. Everything was perfect. Everything was right. The year of utter bliss that followed. The beautiful union of two loving hearts. No need to meet behind shadows anymore, no need to lie and hide. Man and wife, finally. After so many years of turmoil and angst they had won for themselves the social security every teen age love dreams of. A life time together. Growing old in each other’s arms… the vision of utopia they had nurtured through every stage of maturity until it became obvious that without each other, neither was nothing.
And then the posting to Siachen. One year purgatory that every captain in the armed forces of
How hard she had cried when he told her he was leaving. She pretended to be angry to be sad. But he knew that even as she wept, inside she smiled thinking of his return. The joy of it all. The romantic potential of such a separation. One year sabbatical from each other, for the sheer ecstasy of it ending. Stupid stupid woman.
And this is how it ends, then. He thought. A war that wasn’t meant to be. A force lulled into a false sense of security by the promise of a friendship that could never truly be unconditional. We fired the first shot fueled by our pomposity and religious stupidity; we held their kin hostage on another front and murdered them because of one man’s idiotic sense of self-righteousness. And the only thing left remaining between our betrayal of a promise and its only logical repercussion is one man with a gun. Who is to blame doesn’t matter anymore. Our General made the worst possible decision and now I have to pay the price. Fitting really, poetic justice. He ordered the first shot, they will fire the last. And we’ll be back to being even again. Back to hating and fighting and spiraling downwards into fear of imminent doom every day from across the border. But there’s no way in hell that I will let them get past me. Tomorrow, you can have you revenge, today I claim my destiny.
One man with a gun, can change the world.
He puts the picture back into his pocket, struggles for a second with the zipper of his jacket. Smiles at the futility of the act. Suddenly aware of the futility of it all. Aims at the missile, closes his eyes, and presses the trigger.
“They were stalled, sir.”
“Stalled?”
“Stalled. Sir”
A General doesn’t need to voice all his questions, sometimes a look is enough.
“The mountain side that collapsed in the avalanches last winter had allowed a natural barrier to access to our holdings from the Indian controlled passes above.”
“I am well aware of that sergeant, it was heralded as an act of god to aid our dwindling forces up there in lieu of the insurgence I ordered against their stationed forces in
“Yes, sir. But there was also this natural formation that somehow came to rest a few miles above one of our highest camps. Providing a fairly wide and stable avenue of access to an invading army. A vantage point so to say…”
“Indeed. We had sent engineers to determine the best possible defense against that boulder falling with the next avalanche.”
”Only, Sir, that boulder wasn’t a boulder. It was a cliff. It was lodged so that if it were to move down along with the snows, it would act like a natural bulldozer, wiping out anything in its path until it came to rest against something stronger. Our camp certainly wouldn’t be that something. It would be wiped away, like dust.”
“Understood.”
“Therefore, our engineers, along with the Chinese contingent, decided instead to reinforce the natural drop offs along the perimeter of the camp with mesh ramparts so as to allow the camp more time for an evacuation in case of calamity.”
“That is not a very good solution.”
“No sir, they failed to realize that the cliff side they were guarding against was actually stuck over the ravine between the two pieces of the mountain. That blowing it up would not only eradicate the danger of it coming down on our men, but also destroy any possibility of an attack like the one the Indians launched.”
“Continue”
“Their attack, as you know, Sir, came without warning. We had only a handful of soldiers escorting the engineers and the medical staff for this expedition. When the first mortar fell, according to the last communiqué we received, only one of the captains was left standing along with a handful of engineers who were deployed by the captain to continue work on the ramparts while he went to man the natural bridge that the Indians were planning on using.”
“Oh god, Alone?”
“Yes sir, most commendable. But the cover that the cliff side provided allowed for him to be quite eventful.”
“If they only had known to blow up the cliff side.”
“He did.”
“He did? How? hadn’t I dis-allowed all heavy artillery to be carried on recon expeditions? They weren’t supposed to be carrying any thing besides the standard issue M-16s.”
“If you hadn’t, sir, if they had mortar or rocket launching capability, he might have still been alive.”
“Sergeant!”
“No one knows how he did it, sir. If he had shot at the cliff, it would have done no damage. He had no grenades. No explosives. The only thing we know for sure is that all of a sudden, the engineers witnessed a big explosion right by the cliff, followed by a rumble and the cliff disappearing into the ravine. The Indians continued to shell the camp, until our reinforcements arrived and responded with mortar fire. That is when they turned back, unable to get across the chasm.”
“And thus, they were stalled.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Who was the brave soldier, sergeant? I think after a long time we have a recipient for the Nishan-e-haider.”
“Your son, sir.”
Comments
momekh is absolutely right... your narrations and writing style is compellingly absorbing and holds such mesmerism that it captivates no matter how many times you read it.
U should seriously consider getting some published.
The day is the 22nd. I'm weary of doing the high schoolk ghar wali party thing. Lets touch base over the weekend, hopefully you'll be free and we can hang out.
Expressome: I am actually beginning to consider publication. So many people can't eb all wrong :P Thankyou for the compliments and the encouragement. Wish you'd read teh novella though, which is primed for publication. Its gory and stuff sure, but i could use your input.