Dusk had fallen when short and stocky Lt Col Rajnish Behl, Sena Medal, entered the old stone building with sweeping arches and green ivy climbing up fading brick walls. It used to be a school in British times but was now serving the Army’s need for a Base Hospital. Stepping briskly, he walked down the long corridor with its dangling light bulbs, encircled by green tin shades that looked like Chinese fishermen hats, spilling pools of yellow on his uniform.
**
His feet found their way to the Intensive Care Unit by muscle memory alone. He had been coming there twice everyday; sometimes thrice if he could find an hour between office hours. Reaching the point beyond which visitors were not permitted, he stood on his toes to peer through the small rectangular glass window built high in the door. On a sanitized white bed, lay his company second in command Major Abhay Singh Rathore, SM, VSM, still and lifeless. He was connected to a ventilator.
**
The doctors had been frank. The chances of Rathore surviving the next 12 hours were near zero. It was going to be a long night. Behl stared through the glass, taking in every detail of Rathore’s angular face. His eyes were shut, his head was swathed in white bandage and transparent tubes entered his nose and mouth. The rest of his tall, lanky frame was covered with white sheets. On either side sat his parents – thin, grey haired retired Brigadier GS Rathore and a tired looking, disheveled Mrs. Rathore. Each of them was grasping each of Abhay’s hands as if trying to help him hold on to the life that the surgeon had said could ebb out of him anytime. For a moment Behl considered going in but then decided against it, granting the old couple the dignity to grieve alone in those last minutes of their only son’s life.
**
Running a hand over his tired eyes, he sat down to wait on the wooden bench outside the ICU, folded arms resting on his chest. He could sense a migraine attack coming and leaned his head back, feeling the hard wood pressing into the nape of his neck where his crew cut ended. He had hardly slept in the past few days. Each time he shut his eyes, a dozen different images of Rathore assaulted his senses, driving sleep away. This time he saw Rathore in the mountains of Kashmir – with an untidy stubble, face streaked with grime, cheek bones standing out from days spent climbing craggy mountains on tinned rations. “I’m not afraid of enemy bullets, Sir,” he was saying, “My father told me there can only be one with my name written on it, so why fear the others. Buzdil sau bar marte hain, main bas ek baar marunga.” Behl felt the bile rise in his throat and stifled an urge to vomit.
**
On his lonely vigil outside the ICU in the past one week, Behl’s mind had flashed before his eyes almost every single memory he had of Rathore. Some had surprised him because they had been lying buried so deep in the cobwebs of time that he had forgotten about their existence. Rathore joining the unit as a second lieutenant eight years back – slim, good looking, and with that familiar swagger of immortality that almost all young officers who have not seen action come with. Rathore during the unit’s North-East tenure – leading cordon and search operations – fierce, unafraid, taking risks that an experienced soldier never would. Rathore, during the Kargil war, insolent and reckless – insisting on accompanying him on the tricky operation to flush out intruders from Peak 5412 that had eventually got them both a Sena Medal each. Rathore, sitting in a crevice, his rifle beside him, cracking five-day-old dry puris between his teeth, joking that they were better than his mom’s cooking. Rathore, back from the war, celebrating his own invincibility – in the bar at Dum Pukth, the classiest restaurant in the city, coaxing a voluptuous Russian girl for a dance, lustily egged on by the other bachelors.
**
And the last memory, of a week back, when he had opened his door at persistent bell ringing to find Rathore standing there in faded jeans and a white Egyptian cotton shirt – handsome, smiling, with a whiff of expensive after shave. He was holding a carnation for “ma’am” and a box of chocolate for the kids. “You can call it a bribe Sir. But I’m having dinner with you. The Mess cook is trying to poison me.”
**
They had sat in the stringed white garden chairs till late in the night, their shoes getting wet patches from the dew on the grass, sharing a bottle of Chivas Regal, breathing in the musky odour of Rathore’s cigarette mixed with the sweetness of the jasmine. Eventually, they had decided to leave the unfinished bottle for the weekend and had gone in for dinner. Rathore had left around midnight, saying he had to get some sleep. He had an early morning duty at the firing range.
**
In his eight years with the regiment, Rathore had done two tenures in Kashmir, and had two gallantry awards to show for those. He had built up a formidable reputation. He had always led from the front, he had proven himself many times and he featured frequently in the langar gupp. When he cracked jokes with soldiers much older and addressed them by crass expletives, they were flattered by the familiarity. At the regiment Bara Khana, they would hold out their plates for him to pick up the best morsels of meat. They would load his glass with one large rum after another and ensure that he returned to his room drunk and whistling. The men doted on him and did rough calculations on whether they would be lucky enough to serve with him when he took over command of the unit.
**
When the regiment was being deinducted from Kashmir for a well deserved peace tenure, word got around that the Brigade Commander was looking for an officer to act as a guide for the new unit. No one was surprised when Rathore’s name cropped up. He had no complaints. “Don’t forget to tell the girls I’ll be there soon,” he had quipped, waving Behl off as he got into his Jonga to lead the convoy of happy soldiers back to Srinagar from where they would catch a flight back to peace.
**
After a few days of moving around villages that were dens of militant activity, introducing the new unit to informers and vice versa, Rathore’s task was effectively over. He was just biding time till his date of leave when one morning information came that a suspected militant was holed up in a nearby village. A cordon and search operation was ordered. Rathore offered to lead with two soldiers. Walking in a single file, the three closed in on the suspected hut. Suddenly, a shot rang out and a bullet ripped right through Rathore’s neck. He clutched his throat, puzzled by the patch of red staining his hand, not realizing that he had been shot. Paratrooper Laxman Das, right behind him, fell without a word. The bullet had gone right through Rathore and lodged in Laxman’s heart. The third soldier was quick to react and shot the militant who was visible at the window for a split second. Rathore turned around and mouthed “Shabaash!” before sinking to the ground.
**
While Das died on the spot, a profusely bleeding Rathore was evacuated to Chandigarh. Doctors were amazed to find that the bullet had missed both his wind and food pipe. Rathore survived.
**
Behl lifted his sore head from the hard bench and massaged the mark the wood had left in the back of his head absentmindedly. He glanced at his watch. He had been sitting there for more than an hour. Getting up he walked to the ICU door one more time. Rathore’s mother had fallen asleep with his limp hand in her fingers. Wisps of henna coloured hair had escaped from her bun and were spilling over in untidy rings on her tired, tear-stained face. Brigadier Rathore was stroking his son’s other hand gently, staring vacantly into space. He had aged 10 years in the past one week. Behl took off his shoes, and with a gentle knock on the door, walked in quietly.
**
“Shall I get you some coffee, Sir,” he whispered to the old man. Brig Rathore gestured that he would be coming out for a smoke. Gently caressing his comatose son’s hand one more time, he pulled the sheet over it and followed Behl out into the corridor. “Abhay’s mother is sleeping after two days. I don’t want to disturb her,” he said, putting his hand in his shirt pocket to draw out a cigarette. Lighting it, he led Behl to the bench. “If you don’t mind, can you tell me one more time what happened that day?” he said, his tired eyes fixed on the glowing end of the cigarette.
**
“Rathore – I mean Abhay – was in charge of the firing practice that day,” Behl said, his voice clear and emotionless. The senior officer listened intently, a steady hand holding the cigarette away. “Two companies of 12 soldiers each were shooting at the same range. After one company finished firing, Abhay told them to lower their weapons and went to check the targets to see how well they had fired. To save time, he asked the other company to train their weapons meanwhile. Just when he was returning from the target a bullet from one of the soldiers hit the target, ricocheted and hit Abhay in the back of his head,” Behl said, his voice unwavering. “Has the man been identified?” the retired Brigadier asked looking straight into Behl’s eyes. “Yes, Sir” “Do you suspect foul play?” “No Sir. It was an unfortunate accident,” Behl answered, his eyes not leaving the Brigadier’s for a second. “Where is the boy who shot Abhay?” the Brigadier asked quietly. “He is outside, Sir. He has been wanting to meet you,” Behl replied.
**
The retired officer sat in silence for a while, his arm resting on the back of the bench. “Call him,” he said, finally. Behl strode out of the long corridor in quick strides. He returned a few minutes later, followed by a slightly built young soldier in Army fatigues. Not older than 20, the boy marched down to the bench where the Brigadier was sitting, stood at attention and saluted him smartly. The old man stubbed his cigarette and stood up to look at him. He took in the tears streaming down the boy’s face, the swollen eyes and bent down slightly, straining to read his nameplate. “Bacchi Singh Bhandari,” he said slowly, reading out from it, “Teri koi galti nahin thi. Apne aap ko maaf kar de.” Taking a step forward, he put an arm around the weeping soldier.
**
“This is not how Abhay would have liked to die but the bloody bullet had his name written on it,” he said softly. With a final pat on Bacchi Singh’s back, he turned around, dry eyed, ramrod straight and walked back to the ICU. Behl lowered himself onto the bench, staring blindly ahead.
Cour·age (Noun): The ability to do something that frightens one.
Strength in the face of pain or grief.
Rachna Bisht-Rawat is a journalist and writer. She is also mom to a nine-year-old and gypsy wife to an Army officer whose work takes the Rawats to some of the most remote corners of India. You can read her blog at rachnabisht.com