Hierarchy and hypocrisy

The eight widows sat huddled in the cold, braving chilly winds while waiting for a piece of metal. Their husbands had taken bullets in th...

The eight widows sat huddled in the cold, braving chilly winds while waiting for a piece of metal. Their husbands had taken bullets in their chests and fallen fighting for the country. And on the occasion of the Army Day, the nation was paying back the debt by honouring them posthumously.

The chairs were cold and sitting through a sunless, foggy morning was a rather uninviting proposition. Most hacks were standing close to the wall at the parade ground or rushing off to the parking lot every few minutes to have a smoke. The widows sat still, waiting for the proud moment when their brave husbands8217; names would be called.

I saw that they were all young women. Indeed, leafing through the army pamphlet it was evident that their husbands had all been in the prime of their lives 8212; majors, subedars and havaldars. There was little I could do to make them feel better, except probably write a few words recounting their heroic deeds. This, I thought, would be my way of paying tribute to some of the men who had diedfor the nation, leaving their families in a permanent void.

I approached the public relations department for a backgrounder on the posthumous awardees. But they appeared nonplussed. The parade organisers, Headquarters Delhi Area, had not forwarded them any such material. I approached the organisers themselves. A strapping major looked at me amazed. How had someone dared to ask such a silly question. 8220;Give me a break!8221; he said. 8220;This is just the Sena Medal. We can8217;t go around getting their bio-datas and circulating them.8221;

He was standing not far from the saluting dais where all the widows were sitting, probably wondering how to pick up the threads and soldier on. 8220;Actually the backgrounders were not prepared,8221; he explained.

This, when the announcers would tom-tom the curriculum vitae of almost every general who participated in the parade. Be it a brigadier, who was just the second in command of the parade, or the parade commander, the general officer commanding himself, and even the chief of armystaff. Barring the time they were born or probably an A-minus they may have got in a class III math examination, all their achievements would be detailed.

But there was not a mention of the bravery of the 10 officers and junior commissioned officers who had died for the country. Not a clue about the circumstances in which they fought or where. The nation, I thought, might never know if the soldier had repulsed a Pakistan army intrusion in sub-zero temperatures on the Siachen glacier or tracked down foreign mercenaries holed up in the Poonch-Rajouri jungles or taken a hail of bullets in his chest trying to get a misguided insurgent in the north-east to lay down his weapon.

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At the high tea after the parade, senior officers told me at length about how babus in the Ministry of Defence decided who got an Ati Vishishta Sewa Medal or a Param Vishishth Sewa Medal service medals reserved for generals and above. 8220;Who were they to decide how distinguished is my service? The nation should know what work we do,8221; asenior officer said.

Casually I asked him if he knew for what act of gallantry the officers had been awarded the medal posthumously at the parade. He replied: 8220;Pro-bably for some action in the Valley or in the north-east. The poor boys are dying every day. In fact, you must come sometimes to Sena Bhavan and see what we are doing to make the fighting easier for them. Only if the babus clear the damn project. They even put a spoke in our medal nominations. Otherwise more officers would have got an AVSM instead of the VSM.8221;

As for the widows, after receiving the Sena Medal from the chief of army staff, they disappeared into oblivion once again.