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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 3 |
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| The Divide |
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True love in union of souls.
Purity of hate, severed in faith.
Fearless, pure innocent breeze,
bound by the goodness of earth.
Nations, far apart, across a thin line,
in surreal world.”
— Jesse |
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| The Line of Control |
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(1948-65-71-till date)
It was the most asinine line cut across the map anywhere in the world.
The asininity ran 813 km long.
The genesis of the line defied mundane thinking. It was not meant for knowledge
of mathematically inclined meek. The line defied the laws of linearity and stumped
Newton’s gravity business conceptually.
One had to be a very near relative of an ox to understand it.
It had no logic. In fact, it logically defied any logic.
It did not separate any geographical features. It did not divide on the basis
of population, religion, ethnicity, tribal affiliations or culture for one.
It did not demarcate any communications, lifelines or natural resources. It
did not differentiate between flora, fauna or climate. It was not based on mountain
ranges, highest definable ridges, rivers, the natural watershed principle or
any other conceivable internationally accepted issue, which demarcated boundaries
between sensible nations. It started from the sea level in Jammu region to soar
into invisible peaks of Ladakh. Of few known tangibles, it definitely had uprooted
families, separated families and severed the scenic wonders of this magnificent
land. However, one thing it failed miserably was in its inability, to diminish
the majestic aura of the ever dominating Himalayas and its various subsidiaries.
The line cut haphazardly across desolate mountaintops, ridges, forests, glens,
vales, pasturelands, rivers, lakes, ponds and villages, and in one interesting
case, bisected a house. Poor, confused and terrified owner, Mohamad Yakoob,
bathed in India and defecated in Pakistan. His sons studied alternatively in
Indian-Administered Kashmir or Pakistan-occupied part, depending on the quality
of education or the chances of passing the grade on either side, but his daughters
definitely attended the Indian school.
This great divide was the outcome of death, blood, sweat, and countless charges
across its desolate wastes. Many a youth of their country had breathed their
last on it sealing this line’s fate. Madness was sublime, tactless with
impunity, confounding and never ending, but so were the extreme national passions
attached to it. Where human blood was shed, reasons became immaterial, logic
lost in aimless wind. Both the armies propelled by sheer sacrifice and some
stupid blunders by eminent politicians on the Indian side and despots across
had ensured the creation of this majestic invisible line.
Most of the uniformed men, on this or that side of this ludicrous line, owed
their soul to it.
One could be labelled a traitor, insensate, punch-drunk goon outright if you
did not pay your witless, trivial, daily dose of obeisance for it being so omnipresent,
as real as the majestic land it stood on.
Behind this line and sometimes on top of it, lay two most hostile armies in
the world, eternally sizing up each other. Distrust was downright acceptable
and so was the unfathomable hate.
No quarter was given or asked.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, was its anguished tale.
Having studied the symptoms of its occupants for the last five decades, the
social scientists were on the verge of coining a new word called ‘Inpa’.
‘Inpa’, the new word, will find usage in English Oxford Dictionary
and be defined as the complete breakdown of mutual trust between two societies,
total incompatibility, and existing only to harm each other (origin, Indo-Pak
mutual distrust over ages). Genetic biologists going a step further, were investigating
the manifestation of mutant gene in the form of a tail or a wart on right side
of the brain. God only knew what it would be referred to scientifically.
All this stemmed from unidentifiable hate.
It was also the most heavily guarded line in the entire planet. It could shame
the famous dividing lines of Korean thirty-eight parallel or earlier Sinai or
the German iron curtain ones.
The line had witnessed three wars, each bigger and more ferocious in death than
the last. Seers had it predicting a nuclear war now if its sanctity was further
breached or if it courted another conflagration. It had pukka minefields of
1948, 1965 and 1971 vintage, including some intermittently laid in-between.
All exploded with equal ferocity, killing in equal measure. In reality, the
older ones were meaner. No authentic records existed of their actual deployment.
You only discovered them when you were negative in a limb or a life.
Multi-layer defence systems and almost all the arms listed in the ‘Jane’s
Defence Weekly’ were very tastefully deployed. The well-known arms factories
in the world of some substance had made a killing here, fuelling mutual fears.
Legend had it increasing western countries GDP by a mere per cent. They were
ever too thankful for it remaining disputed, with assured yearly remunerations
so obtained, to fatten and spruce companies’ account books. They would
move governments, overthrow dictators, and sow more distrust to ensure that
no tranquillity returned to this good profitable line. It was their oil strike
in this otherwise miserable area.
Along it, on both sides lay thousands of bunkers, gun positions, mortar pits,
automatic weapon pits, observation posts, listening posts, medical bunkers,
tactical operation bunkers, ammunition bunkers, rest shelters, cookhouses and
all a mind could comprehend. They were over-ground, under-ground, cut in side
slopes, over the trees, under the trees, on front slopes, on rear slopes, in
tunnel form, etc. They were made of brick, cement, iron, sandbags, cut logs,
rocks and in few cases, soiled wheat/rice bags or jerricans. Wherever, however
they were, the aim was very clear. Each had to have the best visibility towards
the enemy, with maximum killing zone or impact and be secure from enemies’
observation and fire. Any commander could go insane meeting all the above requisites.
May be, they deserved the line more than their soldiers manning it. The atmosphere
would have been surely less tense had brilliant strategists, unit pride or desire
to do that bit extra, had not made a straight line on a map so complicated that
sometimes one could not comprehend who was in the front, flank or the rear.
Desire to nibble at other’s folly still persisted and was exploited to
the hilt by any mentally robust leader.
Such commanders breathed in abundance on both sides of the famous divide.
On these defences lived human beings. Same in anatomy, blood, vital parts, but
definitely different in thoughts.
On the Indian side, Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Buddhists, Jains, Parsees and Christians
of various hues—from North to South or from East to West, representing
the entire mass of Indian Sub Continent, manned the defences.
On the Pak side, Muslims and only more faithful Muslims shouldered each other
to stem a more numerical superior army.
Despite olive green or khaki one wore across it, men on both sides of the line,
laughed, aped, mimicked, cried, sulked, backslapped, cracked bawdy sleazy jokes,
and fantasized avidly. When bullets were not being exchanged as a daily bread
and butter routine, they showered choicest expletives at each other with full
fervour and gusto. Sometimes when loneliness got the better of post-commanders,
much against vehement advice of their men, they sauntered up to that line and
exchanged pleasantries, sweets, food and sometimes much in demand, Indian manufactured
liquor. Few moments later, they would personally be throwing grenades, firing
weapons, to draw enemy’s blood, across that demeaning line.
They lived, slept, ate, woke-up and existed because of that famous line.
It was called, the Line of Control, LoC in short.
And on that line, the state of ‘Inpa’ was complete. |
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| Khuni Nallah |
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(2030h, 03 Mar)
It was also a very dark night that blanketed the entire Haji Pir sector. Its black effect was accentuated; more so, in the narrow defile leading to the LoC. The dark surrounding became bleaker because of the early moon hiding behind the thin layer of clouds. Man-high, thick foliage of bushes and Fir trees compounded the problem of light even further. Winds were steadily picking up their tempo howling their way up the slope. Dull shapes of ragged crest-line bordered the distant canvas in black timeless overhang.
They had been walking for over an hour, but to be precise, they had been actually crawling crablike on all fours. Both men were sweating profusely, more due to fear, than the actual fatigue. Reshab Mehmood slowly parted the branches of a thick hibiscus bush behind which they had taken temporary rest and peered cautiously down the slope. He easily picked up the silvery snake like bed of the river flowing diagonally across his position. It was shining in splendor in spite of the darkness of the night. Its roar of watery flow also rumbled on to his ears clearly. He scanned the area carefully, first with the naked eye, then through the night vision goggles hanging on his chest with the help of a thick nylon strap.
He registered nothing suspicious.
Caressing his new goggles, he felt pride seeping into his anxious brain. Out of all the trainees and known guides, in all thirty-six different Jihadi camps, he and his younger first cousin had been chosen for this special mission. They had proved their worth earlier and had passed the stringent test organized by Pakistan’s Special Services Group and the ISI with flying colours. However, despite the capabilities of this new gizmo, he still preferred his animal instincts to lead him, as they were your very own in usage and trust. Trust no one except your instincts had been the family and his community’s motto, and he be damned to put his life into danger in the hands of this toy.
Getting the group across was a major responsibility bestowed on his shoulders and he had serious differences on the timing and planning of infiltration. The group and that ISI bigwig preferred a dark night while like all guides he wanted a full moon night for the basic advantage of good visibility. Those fools can never visualize that undergrowth adjoining the de-facto border for miles in depth provided adequate cover. If one knew the jungle pathways, one could move in a tunnel of bushes, right through the LoC.
Afghani’s paranoia against moonlit night stemmed from the fear of better Russian hit capability during full moon days. Moreover, the basic terrain they operated upon in Afghanistan was stark naked in vegetation. The bloody Indians had no matching capability to look so deep or engage them effectively at night. The need of those crucial hours, when you were effecting infiltration, was your ability to see reasonably the path you were treading upon and undertake effective evasive action on being detected. On these treacherous slopes, one false step meant certain death and God forbid if one had to run in dark.
He had agreed to this plan, as he could not refute the logic of that potbellied ISI officer. He had reasoned that the Indians did not chase the infiltrators and fought from static temporary pickets at night. That too hitting one, the probability was one in twenty. It was only in the morning that even on a small suspicion they launched massive rear area searches. The dark night will preclude that possibility also and as for night navigation, he was given this wonder toy.
He slowly slithered forward from his hide. The lower portion of his elbows had become raw due to continuous crawling. The leather and cotton cushioned elbow pads were good for an hour, but definitely not more. With a shake of his head, he willed the pain away, trying to concentrate on the job at hand. The rustle of bushes behind, being trampled by his half-brother Risal Mehmood, was a reassuring sound to his chilled ears.
This was an excellent place to infiltrate.
All they had to do was roll down the slopes. It did not require negotiating steep mountains initially. Knowing the area before like the back of his hand was a definite advantage. The spine along which they were climbing down was steep and narrow enabling keeping an easy direction. The problem would start only once they hit a small fast flowing stream. It had been nicknamed Khuni Nallah by both sides due to the heavy toll in human blood this stream had extracted during the 1971 conflict. Above the opposite slope of that stream lay a dominating Indian post, which provided effective observation on both sides of the Pir Panjal mountain range.
His father had witnessed many fights in these lofty mountains since 1947 as an Indian fighting porter, lugging ammunition up these blood soaked slopes. Toothless, old, tottering abbu had regaled countless children of his family narrating the tales of distant battles. The most fascinating and his favourite one had been fought at this Nallah, in which scores of Sikhs had died trying to capture the right eastern hump from the hands of Pakistani Rangers. The battle had raged for two days, with Indian troops stuck at the base of the massive rock, held back by accurate Pakistani machine gun fire. The fierce Indian Commanding Officer had charged along with few men at that accusing gun holding back his victory and died leading the third assault. Those mad khalsa’s had carried the body of their beloved Commanding Officer into the attack, strapped behind a jawan’s back and charged the summit like deranged dogs, to win the day for their dead Commanding Officer. The area has been in the Indian hands ever since and at present was occupied by some Nepali troops. He could never understand these strange slit-eyed people. Why the hell leave your land and fight for another country. Fight under and whose loyalty. But of what little he had heard of them, they fought well and fought hard, hard enough to send shivers down few Baluchis he had met. Crazy people they were, he reasoned.
Despite the obsession of both those sides to man an invisible line, his community regarded all this as a big farce.
His clan had never recognised this illegal boundary between the armies of Pakistan and India. It had no local standing in his community. For generations, their grandfathers had moved along the majestic mountain slopes and used these tracks. The green pastures, vales and crystal clear mountain rivulets were their property gifted by God to them. This was nature’s bounty and it helped them to sustain their livestock, a holy work passed down from the times of the Prophet.
Who were these silly people to deny them their natural rights?
As for the actual boundary, it was a belly aching joke amongst his tribe. Especially in his earlier formative years he had soiled its sanctity at every opportunity offered. It had been a secret initiation into manhood. The communities cabal conducted such organized hops once every two years. Few oldies gloated in training them to slither, crawl, observe the movements, and live in cold till the time they were confident that the young wards will not balk at the first sight of danger. The fear of crossing the world’s most densely manned, heavily mined and fortified line had disappeared by the time he had attained his sperm ejaculating manhood.
His own half cousin’s beloved wife, Bijli was from Kalakot, twenty kilometres across the LoC, inside Azad Kashmir. Ah! what a time it had been. The whole barat of thirty-one men had fooled the Indian post bang on the LoC and bribed the post commander of Pakistan Rangers to get across safely. Three days later the whole party had returned but this time with a bride, to their make shift bakarwal camp, right under the nose of the Indian Battalion Headquarters. The very next day, he had presented his precious shepherd dog to the Commanding Officer and had gleefully obtained a jerrican of even more precious kerosene for being so generous to the gullible Bihari troops. But, those were good and easy times, about eight years back.
The LoC was not manned so heavily then, as now. In his middle years, the anxiety of repeated crossings had given rise to fear and worry. Ayesha, his husky wife, hated his sudden trips across, but this was the only honourable means left to support his clan. Jihad had been a God sent opportunity. Only the bakarwals had the ingenuity, aptitude, adequate sense, intelligence and the guts to exploit the God’s cause. For each crossing, he was paid rupees 10,000 by Colonel Iqbal of the ISI, including a free AK-47 to boot. This time he had hit a jackpot. For the same work that fool was giving 50,000. Well it was their money and who was he to comment on someone’s generosity. But whatever the case be, he wanted any one side to win the conflict. At least the whole Pir Panjal range will be free to roam and exploit. They had given the Indians last fifty years to do so, but they had not delivered the goods. They lacked will. They were a weak nation; for by which logic did they return the captured areas back to Pakistan after each victory.
A victor being so generous?
No wonder the grave of India’s bravest Rajput was in Afghanistan and not the other way round despite the plunderer losing seventeen times. One has to grab the one, the only one chance, for the God does not bestow largesse each and every time.
What part of brain did the Indian leaders use?
Not the saner one, surely. He was certain, at least leaders of his clan would never make such a gross folly. The only problem was that his like-minded religious leaders or the nation based on such pure ideals had never won of late. Where had the bellyful fire of the earlier Muslims disappeared? He was not sure on whose side the all-merciful Allah was.
His father had rejoiced the famous Indian victory at Haji Pir in 1965 only to cry at their stupidity, later. The legendary tale of it was well known even to a nincompoop child on both sides of these sacred ranges. Few brave men had encrypted that legend in golden letters by driving out a horde of panicked Punjabi Muslim soldiers from a mountain fortress without firing more than a few rounds.
But who wants legends if one can’t nurture them.
This was another famous Indian problem and weakness. They do not bind on sacrifices of their soldiers or dwell with pride to make brave legends. Where a soldier is not respected that nation was sure to die repeatedly. It had been Indian history since ages and fools never seem to learn from the past. He had seen how the Pakistani soldiers were respected. It was an eye opener and they sure will win. Now for the next fifty years, they will support Pakistan and give them the chance to unify their divided lands.
It had taken them the better part of an hour to come down three hundred metres to Khuni Nallah’s edge. Reshab had been scanning the opposite sky line, patch by patch, through his night vision goggles to pick any presence of Indian ambushes, which he was certain will be placed with regular monotony. The only major issue was where they would be located? In this guessing game, fruits generally fell on the lap of a man who displayed more patience. So many times he had sensed presence of Indian troops by their nervous movements, small sounds of hushed whispers, loud farting and even a whistle like snore once. It had been tragic to that snoring idiot, as he had slit the person’s throat, escaping in the wake of confusion he had left behind. Aren’t those idiots taught that noise travels far at night?
However, today no sound except the shrill shriek of the screaming wind pierced his immediate surroundings. He hated this. Though this would help in muffling the sound of a large body of men walking through the bush, but it took away the advantage of his acute sense of hearing. Again, the time was at premium, as it was not a crossing of five or six men this time. Head to tail in single file formation, it will take at least an hour for those forty-six odd jihadis to cross the Khuni Nallah only, not discounting the time required for crossing the ambushes in depth.
He peered a last time into the oblivion ahead with the faintest hope to catch something. He was disappointed again. He touched Risal’s shoulder and gently tapped it twice. This innocent, silent, signal had been practised many times in the past and mastered at one of the Tanzeems, but ISI run, training academy at Kala Pahar in Kel sector of Pakistan-Administered Kashmir.
Risal took out his Japanese torch and pointed it towards Pakistani post Kabul. He blinked it repeatedly twice in quick succession of three flashes into the void of darkness above. At the same time, Reshab took out his walky-talky and whispered, “Tir Allah Tir,” twice. |
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| Post 113, Pakistan |
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(2045h, 03 Mar)
“Who are you?” whispered the devilish old man discreetly.
“A devout Muslim.”
“Who is the maker of this world?” inquired the white-haired man
quietly.
“Allah.”
“What are you?” the old man crooned into his ears softly.
“A messenger of Allah.”
“What is your role in life?” interjected the old fool quickly.
“Do as Allah wills.”
“What is Allah’s desire?” questioned the old sage.
“Make people see the righteous path.”
“What is your desire?” quizzed the tottering half-bent man.
“I have no desire except to work for Allah’s cause.”
“What is Allah’s cause in these times?” the red lips thundered.
“Show the infidels the light of Allah.”
“How will you show the light to the infidels”? shrieked the old
fraying maulvi.
“By simplicity, love, logic, persuasion, coercion, terror and death,”
he calmly replied.
Gul opened his eyes to the sound of running shoes.
There was a sudden alarm in his mind. The body lying on the bed tensed. His
hand automatically crept towards the AK-47, for reassuring safety. The weapon
was not far, and resting on the crook of his left arm. He was drenched in sweat
and breathing hard. Head still, his grey eyeballs quietly rotated on their axis
and confirmed the absence of any hidden dangers inside the confines of the concrete
pillbox. Mad mullah will never let him rest in peace, he thought. God bless
his soul for showing an insignificant man like him, a glorious path to zannat.
“Gul, Gul the message has come,” shouted panting Mosul excitedly
as he galloped inside the bunker. “They have confirmed it by the right
code on the radio and I myself saw the correct light signal.”
“Allah be with them,” he said getting up. Putting on his shoes,
he walked outside.
Group of forty-six jihadis were expectantly waiting for their beloved leader
to make an appearance. Six feet tall this Afghani did not disappoint them in
the manner of his entry. Gul knew the importance of impact on his freedom fighters.
As was the custom amongst tribes of Hindukush, it was who they feared the most,
was always the undisputed king. He approached them like a lion on the prowl,
with eyes fixed straight ahead, mesmerizing the void in front to his personal
command. He purposely let the shawl covering his shoulders slip sideways, revealing
a sleek AK-47 reflecting against the dim light. Four grenades casually clipped
in two rows and a side holster holding a reminiscent relic, a .38 Webly Scot
police special of 1928 fame, a fantastic steal of his grandfather, of a killed,
famous, rich, white-trader of those times, made up the part of the armament
on body display. The crown piece was a rocket- launcher strapped on to his back.
“The day has come to fulfill our childhood dreams and keep the promises
made to the almighty Allah. On the other side of that divide lie armies of Dar-ur-harb
who have suppressed the right of free worship of our Islam. Those infidels believe
they can deny that right when people dedicated to righteous path like you, exist
in abundance. If we could make the mighty communists run away like dogs, with
their dirty tails shamefully tucked in between their legs, then who are these
half-cast kafirs. They don’t even have half the army or weapons, the likes
we faced in Afghanistan. It is adequate time in history of the millennium of
our religious calendar that the sword of Islam beheads idolators of Hindustan.
The fight has been going on for a little over a thousand years. It’s time
we finished it. You all will finish it. They are the same kith and kin of defilers
of our sacred land, booted out by merciful Mohammed and avenge them we shall,
even in hell,” he thundered pointing his hands above. “You are my
tigers and we have tasted blood, death, dangers and victory together before.
Zannat does not come by visiting Mecca or Medina, but by dying for a true cause.
Death, glory, wealth and women are yours to plunder in the vale of Kashmir.
Remember Gazni, Sher Shah and the great Mughals who conquered these weak people,
on a whim of an idea. We have that faith, strength and resolve to achieve the
impossible. On your shoulders, rests the fate of a nation and eyes of the Muslim
fraternity, from Istanbul to Islamabad, are fixed on you. You are their deliverance.
Be rest assured that I will never let you down and I expect nothing less from
you,” he exalted the stunned audience of ardent Muslims.
Blood began boiling amongst the group. Passion aroused, team began sizzling.
It was hard not to be seduced by Gul’s fiery bantering. He had the conniving
knack of stirring life into a dead man. Few started cheering and clapping wildly
forgetting for a moment the sensitivity of the place.
Subedar Mastan Gillani, post-commander of Pakistani post Kabul, (called post
113 by the Indians) ran up to the open compound shouting, “Shut up you
fools. Have you left your small pecker thinking brain at home?” Grabbing
the nearest jihadi who was about to let a burst from his Klashnikov in the air,
Frontier style, he screamed in chaste Punjabi. “Bhainchod, are you strolling
on the streets of Lahore with a randi by your side? Keep shut and stop making
this ridiculous comic drama,” he thundered even more forcefully and concurrently
scratching his massive buttock in not-so-subtle manner. The big flat nose implanted
on him also flared, deep crimson red.
Momentarily, Gul was taken aback. Comprehending the situation quickly he gestured
his fellow warriors to calm down and dismissing three inch taller Mastan with
the shake of his hand he carried on, “Tarik and Mosul you will be the
scouts. Ahmed’s group will lead from the front. I will be in the middle
followed by Kasim’s group. Fazal will bring up the rear. Remember we have
rehearsed this movement many times. Fire back immediately on being fired upon.
Indians love to hide behind boulders and bullets will keep them fixed there.
Remember that dead men cannot fire back. Safety after detection lies in arms
held in your hands and so use them well.”
Irritated, Subedar Mastan sulking in a corner grabbed the first opportunity
of break in Gul’s dialogue and interjected now scratching his big nose
in sheer nervousness, “You all must leave now. Do not make noise while
leaving the post. Bhainchod Indians are very trigger-happy but don’t worry
I will provide all fire support, if your move is detected. I have two machine
guns covering you. Allah is praised on your brave efforts. Whole Muslim community
is indebted to your sacrifice. Move, hurry-hurry, I saw an all clear signal
ten minutes back.” He waved his M-16 rifle around in animated jerks to
goad them to move.
Annoyed, Gul shot back a threatening stare at Mastan and let the man feel his
annoyance. He sat on the ground pensively. He mouthed powerfully “Allah-o-Akbar”
and started his prayers. Without a murmur, all sank into the floor in prostration.
Five minutes of prayers followed. Mastan, with his head bent down at an acute
angle from the neck, frustratingly walked around in circles. His hands darted
in quick draw towards his bums or the nose or the hanging balls to soothe the
equally mysterious itchy eruptions.
He hated this rabble.
No person in right frame of mind could or should trust them to do anything meaningful.
They create only problems for his post, whenever they cross. Last month in Indian
retaliatory firing, he had lost two good boys hardly in their teens. They in
sheer childish enthusiasm had creeped out in the open to see infiltration being
carried out. Their bodies had been torn in two equal halves, as they caught
an accidental heavy machine gun burst right in their torsos. His own life had
been made miserable by the Commanding Officer on failure of command and control
at his piquet. He had begged his Major sahib to use some other post this time,
but the rascal had turned down his request. But his superior officer had given
him more visible nose-bound ulcers and few hidden ones inside his underwear
when he had forced him to accompany the guides and the key men of this unruly
bunch down to the nallah for a dry rehearsal for area-familiarization and confidence
building. His own confidence had been shattered in leaving the safe confines
of the post. He had even mumbled some excuses but the smiling assassin, his
Major Irfan had turned it down even before he had blurted in his request. He
had reluctantly gone down with Allah’s name on his lips and had returned
uttering the same Almighty’s name uninterrupted for minimum five hours.
He was last to leave and first to enter back to the safety of his bunker. His
waning faith in God had taken a sudden upswing after that death-defying walk
down to the naked LoC.
All seemed to be creating deliberate trouble for him, he belched to his own
thoughts. It was time he checked through the person of his native village, employed
as a batman to Colonel sahib, of any pressure being applied by someone in the
unit to have him replaced. He liked the independence enjoyed here. Sahibs only
made appearances before a major visit or during an induction operation. His
immediate boss regularly skipped that part too, often to be in warm bed of a
low cast kafir Hari bibi, in the rear. Believe that those low caste Hindu woman
made a very enthusiastic bed. Such a major operation and all the directions
he had got were on a telephone through the Battalion Adjutant, whose face he
had yet to see in person. Company Commander had made a brief stopover in the
morning and had left everything on him. If any fuckup takes place his head was
sure to be hanged. To top it all, these idiots were making merry and dancing
before crossing the LoC.
Indians were just across.
The Russians, who only operated from Kabul or other secure bases in depth, allowed
everyone to dance their way, straight into the war. However, Indians, like flies
could be found in every imaginable nook and corner. Safety lay in silence. Unlike
the chicken hearted Indian troops he had served on this LoC, a decade earlier,
these queers fired even at the noise of a silent fart, that too done under a
quilt. Earlier, it was a standing joke that their orders of fire, would come
from dhoti-clad masters, in Delhi. Now it was pure and simple, a tooth for a
tooth and an eye for an eye. You fire one burst they fire back two, send one
bomb, receive two and the game continues. Life was reduced to showering the
choicest abuses, as boys also shied away from firing back.
Gul caressed his beard thrice with the cup of his hands and with religious gyration
of his head he got up silently, at the same time beckoning others to follow
him. He paused at the entrance of the crawl trench and shook hands with his
men as they disappeared into the next bend. It was good to have experienced
war-hardened section commanders. Without his active involvement, he was confident
that they would keep the flock together. With an expert eye, he made out everyone
file out in right order of march.
It was also good to be a leader. It also felt good just being one.
With it came the automatic right to direct troops from the centre.
His youth had passed courting death for his leaders and now it is their time
to do it for him. In any case as an Afghani, he could not be sacrificed for
these, feminine Kashmiris. We had never asked for their help fighting the Russians.
We all fought alone. Only later did the Americans came and fawning Pakistanis
entered when victory was almost in their grasp. At the first opportunity, these
Indian ass-licking Kashmiris came begging to us for help. Where were they when
we were at war? Hiding beneath firans of their women and warming their hands
in those small fire-lit earthen pots they carry even to shit, I am sure. How
could these Muslims live with Hindu heathens in the first place?
Weak earlier-Hindu genes, may be.
He briskly went over the issues at hand. Mental arithmetic reflected an awesome
firepower he was lugging. Twelve rocket launchers, eight under barrel grenade
launchers, two hundred fragmentation grenades, few silencer pistols, one hundred
and twenty kilograms of RDX, seventy pencil timer detonators, thirty- six AK-47,
ten sniper rifles, five 62mm mortars, seven hundred rounds per weapon and the
first American Stinger missile of the war in this theatre was an impressive
booty indeed. He was more than prepared for Indian border patrols and will get
a surprise of their lives if they barge into his brave jihadis. When these weapons
will bark in vale of Kashmir, then its misguided inhabitants will listen to
one voice of mighty Allah, through him.
If Allah Tala loved him, he will definitely succeed.
Wasn’t it the maulvi at Peshawar who had prophesied to his father that
he, Gul, had bigger missions in life to achieve? Rehman Gul, his father, had
not even batted an eyelid in giving his sixth son in charge of the maulvi. Blessed
be the soul of his father and that of Islam Mohammed for showing him the true
path. Days in madarasa had element of fun, caring, carefree attitude and passion
for all that stood for almighty Allah. Maulvi had loved him like his own child,
goading at each step to develop qualities of leadership, which he displayed
in abundance. A tap on the shoulder by Fazal rudely shattered his thoughts.
“Your turn to go,” he said.
Subedar Mastan bear-hugged the loving-departing brother Gul and escorted him
up to the strands of barbed wire enclosing the post. Waving him off, he walked
over to his field office situated inside a bunker. He opened a wooden shelf.
Profusion of various knobs on the console stared back rudely at him. He hastily
connected the mains to a 12-volt battery and the console now lit up like a Christmas
tree. A young engineer from Islamabad had specially installed this radio set
a few months back. He fiddled with the knobs and the harsh static clutter disappeared
when he pressed on a flat switch highlighting on green neon background, ‘Transmit’.
“Akbar to Badshah. Tir launched. I repeat again Tir launched,” Mastan
shouted into the microphone.
Without waiting for the message confirmation, he turned off the power supply.
That young engineer had told him that any message reception at the receiving
end was automatic and taped. Good, his nation had made such stupendous leaps
in technology, but he still had one mundane report to give. He picked up his
field telephone and on cranking the shaft vigorously got connected to his Company
Commander.
He gave detailed account of the days proceedings. “Ji hazoor, the whole
post is on stand to. All men are operating the automatics. We will give them
a befitting reply,” heard his runner Attar who was waiting outside the
door, with mess tiffin filled with special mutton curry and piping hot nans.
It was the time for sepoy Attar Sayeds’ commander to eat good and rest
long.
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143 Experimental Unit
(2057h, 03 Mar)
Atop the Kannauri Peak, overlooking the famous Indian Goddess shrine, housed
in a dugout, Naik Bhonsle of 143 Experimental Unit, was totally bored. It was
a six-hour shift and it had not even crossed his half time duty mark. He was
dividing his attention equally between two-month-old Bollywood film magazine
and stealing frequent glances on the screen ahead. Pakis seemed to be recuperating
from yesterday’s Id-Ul-Zuha celebrations. At this time of the night, the
set in all probability should be busy enough to leave him dazed. The squeaky
short rattling snores of his number two, cuddled near the warmth of an oil bukhari,
told the sorry tale.
The latest state-of-the-art Siemens ATM 2500 set, with number of small boxes
with ‘Bharat Electronics Limited’ written across their face, mounted
co-axially on to the latter, filled half the space of the room and was an awsome
sight. Capabilities of this re-engineered equipment were tremendous. It could
acquire a whisper, on any HF, VHF or UHF radio set, up to fifty-five mills error,
from the plains of Punjab to the crest of the Pir Panjal ranges, with an in-built
computer chip to monitor five hundred known frequencies. Its fabricators boasted
of automatic decoding sequence, performing million operations per second, to
break almost any known code in the world. It was best of the best that Indian
technology could deliver. It had not disappointed the manufacturers or the users
alike till date except for a few glitches here and there. With deployment of
four such sets in a grid, they virtually covered the entire Northern Indian
sub-continent.
Green flicker of lights on the control panel combined with the sound of whirl
of winding tape, he re-focussed his attention to his dominion of specialization.
He hastily put on his microphone headset and rewound the tape, which had stilled
after completing its pre-programmed operation. “Akbar to Badshah. Tir
launched. I repeat again, Tir launched,” the message filled his ears.
He leaned closer and carefully noted the angle of message reception.
“Wake up you lazy Bhogal,” giving a light kick on the makeshift
wooden box bed on which he was snoring.
Bhogal got up with a start and stared stupidly at Bhonsle. “Call the duty
officer immediately,” and Bhogal slowly lumbered out, to the adjoining
room, where the duty officer was busy watching the highlights of the cricket
match between India and South Africa.
Lieutenant NP Singh, an officer on temporary attachment, listened to the taped
transcript and dialled on direct hot line, one by one, other stations on the
grid. He then busied himself noting something on his drafting pad.
“Get me the quarter metre map first,” he said without looking up,
obstructing the mouth of the telephone momentarily with his palm and replied
“thank you” before putting the handset on the cradle. He spread
the map and started marking long lines across it. He then walked over to the
metre scale map, pasted on the sidewall, which occupied its area in its entirety.
Consulting the earlier map repeatedly, he started feverishly plotting the line
all over, the second time. Three lines originating from various units like this
one bisected each other, east of Haji Pir Pass, in 311 Mountain Brigade defended
sector.
Lieutenant NP, with twenty-six days of Army service under his belt and entrusted
the important job of manning the ‘mad house’ for the first time
was at quandary on deciding as to what to do with the intercept. His boss was
on a sneaky pilgrimage to the Vaishno Devi shrine with his relatives, who had
dropped at the base, today morning. Resolve to do something sparked when he
saw the Naik expectantly looking at him.
With mock authority, he called the operator. “Get me 311 Mountain Brigade,”
he ordered. At ‘who in the brigade?’ on operators query, he got
a bit flustered on not knowing designation of appointments and then hesitatingly
said, “Anyone.” After a considerable time and number of army exchanges
later someone replied, “BM, three double one.”
“Sir, I am officiating OC 143 Experimental Unit. We have just intercepted
a transmission from your area.” He pressed his ears to the handset and
again repeated the same details but this time added his rank and name to it.
“Lieutenant NP, our sector is 76 kilometre wide along the LoC. How can
you precisely help?”
“Well sir, at one hundred and ten kilometre distance that we are from
you, I can give an accuracy of two kilometres and the grid reference we have
recorded is 789456,” NP proclaimed knowledgeably.
“Ahem, that’s something positive. By the way, do you guys exist?
This is the first time in my two years here that I have heard from your setup.
Hope it’s no military buck passing of a goof up on your end,” Brigade
Major, Major Zusti echoed his sentiments.
NP was taken aback, immediately going on defensive and wondering had he made
any blunder, blustered without thinking, “No sir, we were established
in 1982 and our reporting is regular, twice a day, to Command Headquarters.
In fact, you can hear the taped version of the intercepted message,” running
the taped version, fed directly into the telephone. “Hope that has satisfied
you sir that we are not lying,” he added without much ado.
“Thanks, keep in touch.” Brigade Major put down the phone and dragged
the small talc covered map lying on the side table of his bed. It depicted the
deployment of the forces down to the last man of 311 Mountain Brigade. He carried
the map even to his toilet and it had virtually become an extension of his body.
He knew the grid references of the entire length and width of the Brigade Defended
Sector by rote. Though he always discounted all the contact-intelligence provided
by higher agencies by factor 6 out of 10, he willed himself to inform 1/9 Gurkha
Rifles of eminent danger, only because of the fact that he had never interacted
with experimental unit earlier. Only intelligence worth reacting was the one
provided by the units on ground. For more than once, they had footslogged the
jungles and beaten around the bushes, on some vague information, some vague
person, in a vague location in the rear had obtained from a vague informer.
The indispensable problem was that everyone wanted to play a cowboy without
coming in front, where the tangible dangers lay.
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