When I got married, I was a fresh-faced 23-year-old from a civilian background. It was a rather abrupt jump into the world where naam, namak and izzat were the supreme tenets. I learnt that for the men and women of this world, the Indian Army is a way of life and the uniform is worth living and dying for.
The army inculcates in one a sense of belonging. We become best friends with our neighbours and unit members even if it is for a short duration of two years. In the absence of our families, we form surrogate families that stand by us through thick and thin. And although we pack up our whole lives and move to a new station every few years, and make new connections, the old ones never cease to be a part of our lives.
Over the course of our years in the army, we find so many people from the forces standing by us during hardships and happiness that we learn to treat the entire organisation as one family, irrespective of rank, religion or region.
When we talk of the army, usually the outsiders imagine a life of glamour.
In reality, deaths are a part of our lives, which we are taught to deal with; with dignity as part of our grooming as army wives.
When my husband first spoke of a colleague who had been martyred on the border, about 10 years ago, it came as a jolt. Martyrs are usually relegated to the 4th or 5th page of a newspaper. His whole life and his balidaan (sacrifice) of the highest order was encapsulated in less than six inches of column space. We read it but never connect with it. It’s just news, not a real person who lived and died for a cause and who possibly leaves behind a devastated family.
But that day, when my husband spoke of his brother in arms, I was affected in a way I hadn’t been before. Because that day, that news emerged from the pages of the newspaper and became reality. I could not stop thinking about the officer, how he must have felt in the last few minutes. Did he desperately want to see his wife or newborn one last time? Or was he dedicated to discharging his duty till his last breath? Knowing these men, it was probably the second.
As I grew in years in this organisation, I heard more and more stories of valour and martyrdom.
One of my neighbours had to leave station suddenly to attend the funeral of a dear friend who had died in a MiG 21 crash. Most of my civilian friends would not even have been aware of the news. It was not mentioned by any of the leading television news channels. Yet, here was a young man, who was full of life and who no longer existed; one who had died in the line of duty and yet our nation had failed to pay its respect to the fallen soldier.
Another time, I saw a post about an officer martyred in an attack on a camp in J&K while scrolling on Facebook. I didn’t know him, but had briefly met his wife during one of our tenures. She was in my friend list and I would often see pictures of the happy couple and their baby on my social media feed. And suddenly, just like that, he was no more.
The loss is real, the price of war is paid by those who are left behind.
Every time there is an attack, we scramble to call our loved ones or wait anxiously for a call to know that they are fine. For most Indians, it is news on the TV screen. It’s a matter of debate. It’s a chance for chest-thumping and showing a lot of verbal josh in tandem with news anchors who, come war, will lead the battle from the comfort of their plush AC offices. Suddenly the nation wakes up and wants revenge.
We, as a nation, want revenge as long as it is someone else’s son/brother/husband facing death to satisfy our blood thirst.
Our valour is confined to our living rooms, where we discuss how it is imperative to go to war while calling out for another hot cup of tea from the kitchen. We become Facebook warriors, spreading hatred and malice against anyone who speaks against war because, of course, war is a must and everyone will participate as long as we are required to show our bravery only on social media.
The whole situation seems exciting, a break from our monotony, a space to vent out. Yes, it is exciting, until it is you who must keep a cool head and lead men from the front as battle lines are drawn.
Everyone I know in the armed forces is ready for any eventuality and it’s a matter of pride for them to protect this country against all dangers even when they are aware of the grave danger they face.
But have we ever stopped to think about the people who bear the real brunt of a war?
I guess, not a day passes when I don’t think about the ones who are left behind. Old parents who were looking forward to spending the rest of their lives in peaceful contentment, but now stare into an empty abyss of loss and grief. A young wife who barely had any time to enjoy the company of her husband before he becomes nothing but a memory. Young kids who will grow up hearing stories of their father’s valour but never really know the man behind the stories.
They say it gets easier with time, but it never does.
We just learn to face the news stoically. Grace. That’s the word. That is what the army expects from its women. In the face of danger and loss and loneliness, a lady must handle every situation with dignity and grace. So, we hide our emotions and face the world with dignity and grace, just as it is expected of us.
And they say it gets easier with time, but it never does.
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