Please, no sympathy

Politics makes strange bedfellows. So do wars. Or, should I say, war-like situations. I remember this and suppress a smile every night wh...

Politics makes strange bedfellows. So do wars. Or, should I say, war-like situations. I remember this and suppress a smile every night when I share my bed with Sufi the cat, relegated to the sitting-room sofa till a week back, but now welcome to rest her selfish head on my pillow. An empty house and a lonely wife need company too. Having an Army officer for a husband makes many demands, the more so when he is on the proud call of duty.

8220;At last I get a chance to earn my salary. Don8217;t worry, I8217;ll be back soon,8221; he said, with a jaunty wave from the Jonga. Of course, there was no question of tears. Army officers8217; wives don8217;t weep. 8220;Else they weaken their husbands,8221; is the standard emotional blackmail. And weak husbands in the line of fire will just not do. So, seldom will you find a woman crying whether her man is off to Sri Lanka or Siachen. Or even Kargil.

In those familiar combat greens and DMS boots, these men in olive have been around me for a lifetime. Smirking at my jibe that boot-putties8217;protect them from head injury. 8220;My father is an Army officer,8221; I remember declaring proudly in class. It was one of those memorable moments when I could look my teacher in the eye. 8220;When a soldier tries to run away from war, he is shot because he becomes a traitor. We don8217;t want cowards in our family, do we?8221; I recollect Papa nursing his evening drink as he balanced my wide-eyed brother on his lap, then an impressionable 13. The answer would always be an awed nod of agreement.

Paratrooper Samir is now in Batalik. 8220;Tell Papa I8217;m going to fight like a soldier,8221; is what he told Mom when he called home, before leaving.

Governments may forget, but soldiers remember their promises. 8220;Buzdil aadmi nahin chahiye. Dushman ko maarega, phir marega,8221; you will frequently hear commanders pepping up raring-to-go men 8212; in war exercises, in war-like situations, in wars. Whatever you care to call them.

The same commitment is passed down families. Visit a cantonment today if you want to see for yourself.Mess halls no longer ring with the clink of crystal, nor do pipe bands play. The men have all gone, leaving deserted canteens, empty swimming pools, indefinitely shut institutes. A stillness hangs over the houses of officers and jawans, where parents, wives and children wait for the phone to ring.

Soldiers who had been on six-hour alert for more than a fortnight have gone, picking up packed bed rolls. Newly-married men have left wives, fathers-to-be have left without seeing about-to-be-born babies, young lieutenants have left days before they were to be pipped captains. They will all be back, we hope. When, nobody knows.

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Tears, no. Romance, maybe more subtle. Birthday cards secretly packed between combat uniforms to be accidentally discovered at the right time. Framed pictures of sweethearts and wives, rolled up in jungle caps, to be opened in tents pegged on snowy mountains or burning dunes. From home-made pickles to prickly-heat powders, from Ray Ban glasses to clean underwear, affection finds manymanifestations.

Of course, husbands are being missed. Not just as a reassuring male presence but also when bank accounts have to be made joint, when mothers have to run around for children8217;s admissions, when coolers have to be filled, when cheese cans refuse to be opened, when newspapers don8217;t have to be shared, when tea is sipped alone on first-floor balconies, when handkerchiefs peep out of last-used trousers. When beds are shared with cats.

But no sympathy please. Out here in the Army, we8217;re a tough people. We will pray and we will hope. For the crisis to end soon. So that fathers can return to boisterous games of cricket with waiting children. And life can go back to its normal shade of green.