Come September and my mind goes back to another time, another place, the 1965 Indo-Pak war. All through summer, the air was thick with rumours of a possible war. We moved from a small military area near Jammu to Jullunder on August 8. A service wife learns to up and go at short notice as also to settle down quickly. And so we were settled by the end of the month, looking forward to an extended, peaceful stay. That wasn’t to be.The attack came in early September and the regiment officers and men had to move straightaway. I didn’t dare ask where my husband was going. But I couldn’t help ask ‘‘What about us? What do we do, the children and I?’’ Listen to the news, he said, read the papers and do what you think best.Then came the waiting. There was no TV to bring the war into our homes. We remained glued to the radio. The telegram man was dreaded like the plague.The first letter brought sad news. An officer from the regiment, Lt. Seth, had been killed. Another letter followed. ‘‘The war is getting on fine, we’re giving the enemy a bloody nose’’, it said.We, the wives, were doing our bit, visiting the military hospital, attending to the wounded, writing letters for the soldiers, sharing the grief of a loved one lost in the war. ‘‘Two of our officers lie wounded in the hospital’’, my husband wrote in the third letter. ‘‘Take them some home-cooked food and fruit’’.I set out for the officers’ ward. On the way, I came across a young officer in a wheelchair, both eyes bandaged. I walked up to him and introduced myself. ‘‘Capt. Sen Gupta — ‘Joso’ of 16th cavalry’’ he said. We talked for a while about common friends. As I was leaving I wished him a speedy recovery and added gently ‘‘keep your spirits up’’! ‘‘I have lost my eyes, ma’am, not my spirit’’, his words were ringing in my ears as I walked away.‘Action for India’ is a NGO that helps war widows and disabled personnel deal with their problems. After Kargil, they held a press conference. The parents of three young officers who lost their lives in Kargil were guests of honour. Each mother walked upto the dais and, in a choked voice, read out her son’s last letter home. There wasn’t a dry eye in the hall.Also invited were two retired disabled officers who shared their experiences. One was Joso Sen Gupta. After introducing myself for the second time, I remarked ‘‘we’re meeting after 34 years’’. ‘‘No, you’re forgetting’’ he said. ‘‘We met at a common friend’s place in Calcutta in 1970’’. And so we had. He had remembered.He couldn’t see me then. And he couldn’t see me now. But I could see he hadn’t lost his spirit.
