Mr Wagle looks at his watch. ‘Oh, my God, it is past midnight. Chalo chalo, I think we have had enough excitement for the day. The curfew is over. We should now return to our houses.’
Reluctantly, we disperse.
The next day, we are in the bunker again. Today Mr Bapat’s son Ajay is here too. He must have returned from his grandmother’s place. He is a big show-off, always boasting about his toys, his computer, his skates, and his numerous girlfriends. We all hate him, but keep it to ourselves. We don’t want to quarrel with a fifteen-year-old who looks seventeen. Today he has got a little diary. He calls it an autograph book. He is showing the other children some scribbles. ‘This is Amitabh Bachchan, this is Armaan Ali, that one is Raveena’s, this one is the famous batsman Sachin Malvankar’s signature.’
‘And what about this one?’ asks Dhyanesh. He points to a dark squiggle which is completely indecipherable. Ajay thinks about it, and then says sheepishly, ‘This is my mother’s. She was testing the pen.’
Putul is carrying something with him too, but it is not an autograph book. It is a writing book. His dad has told him that no school does not mean no studies. Now every day he will have to sit in the bunker and write essays. Today’s topic is: ‘My cow’, even though Putul doesn’t have a cow.
On the TV, a military spokesman is giving a briefing. ‘Pakistani air strikes against Indian air bases in Ambala, Gorakhpur and Gwalior were successfully neutralized. Indian forces have taken Baghla and Rahimyar Khan. Pakistani forward bases at Bhawalpur, Sukkur and Nawabshah have been completely destroyed and the Shakargarh bulge is under our control. In Chhamb sector, our soldiers have repulsed a massive Pakistani attack to take the Mandiala Bridge.’
We cheer wildly. There is a lot of clapping and shaking of hands.
Balwant Singh is sitting, as before, in front of the TV. ‘So they have attacked Mandiala again,’ he says with a shake of the head. ‘These Pakis never learn from their mistakes.’
It seems to me that Balwant is waiting for someone to ask him about the Mandiala Bridge, but no one takes the bait.
The TV programme changes to a studio debate. Some experts are discussing the war. A bearded man with glasses is saying, ‘We all know Pakistan has close to forty nuclear warheads. Just one fifteen-kiloton fission bomb explosion over an urban area with a population density of about 25,000 per square kilometre is sufficient to kill about 250,000 people. Now if you extrapolate this data to Mumbai, where –’
Mr Wagle says, ‘The water will become air. The air will become fire. A mushroom cloud will burst into the sky. We will all die.’
Mr Kulkarni switches off the TV. ‘This is too depressing,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we listen instead to the inspiring story of our war hero. Balwantji, you were mentioning the battle of Mandiala Bridge yesterday. Please tell us about it.’
Balwant perks up, stretches his arms and hitches up the sleeves. He scratches the stump of his leg, swivels his chair around to face the group, and begins.
‘There is a very high escarpment across the Munawar Tawi called Mandiala North. This is where the enemy attacked on the nights of the third and fourth of December, and because we had virtually no troops holding that particular feature, our posts were overwhelmed. Then the Pakis began moving forward with both tanks and infantry towards Mandiala Crossing where I was deployed with 35 Sikh, alongside 19 Para Commando.
‘By then we had understood that the key objective of Pakistan’s 23rd Division was to capture Mandiala Bridge. Once that happened, we would be forced to abandon Chhamb and all the area west of Tawi. So by midday on the fourth of December we had begun fortifying our position. 31 Cavalry was reinforced by one squadron of the 27th Armoured Regiment, and 37 Kumaon were despatched from Akhnoor to launch a counter-attack to recapture Mandiala North. But tragedy struck when the CO of 37 Kumaon was killed instantly by Pakistani artillery shelling before he could join us. So the battalion was rendered leaderless and reached Tawi only after last light. It was therefore diverted to the east bank, overlooking Mandiala Crossing. And so when night fell only 35 Sikh and the para company of 19 Commando were guarding Mandiala Crossing, together with the tank troops of 31 Cavalry, who were holding Mandiala South.
‘Two Pakistan battalions – 6 POK and 13 POK – launched a ferocious attack across Tawi at around 0300 hours on December the fifth. They came in with their American Patton tanks and Chinese T-59s, guns booming. Jets from the Pakistani Air Force screamed overhead, strafing the area, dropping thousand-pound bombs on our positions. I saw vehicles burning everywhere, shells exploding, and tanks moving towards us like giant steel insects in the tall elephant grass. The artillery firing was so heavy that within fifty minutes it had gone through the entire depth of our positions. 13 POK ran into our 29 Jat unit and dispersed it. As they advanced, they captured Point 303 after killing the CO. Defence of this feature was also entrusted to 35 Sikh, but unfortunately some of my compatriots did not respond to the call of duty. They just fled in the face of a sustained barrage by enemy artillery. Having secured Point 303, the Pakistanis ordered their reserves to move forward and consolidate the bridge-head. By first light, they had overrun Mandiala Bridge. It appeared that only a miracle could save us now. Can someone get me a glass of water?’
Balwant Singh is an accomplished storyteller. He emphasizes the right words, pauses at the right places and asks for a glass of water at the perfect time, just when the suspense is getting unbearable.
Someone hastily brings him a Styrofoam cup filled with water. We crane forward. Balwant resumes after taking a gulp of water.
‘It was at this point that the Commander of 368 Brigade personally joined us from Akhnoor. When he arrived he saw a scene of utter destruction and confusion. Soldiers were running hell for leather from the scene of battle. The ground had become a cratered wasteland, scarred with dead bodies, rubble and the burning wreckage of our tanks. There were fires raging everywhere. The waters of the Tawi had turned scarlet with the blood of soldiers. It was total pandemonium. Not like they show you on TV, where you press a button, you launch a rocket and then sip tea.
‘The CO, who knew me, said, “Balwant Singh, what is happening? Where have all our men disappeared to?” And I answered him with a heavy heart, “I am sorry to report, Sir, that many have deserted the scene of battle and fled to safety. They could not withstand the overwhelming force deployed by the enemy.” We had lost three tanks and many men.
‘The CO said, “If we all start thinking like this, how will we win this war?” Then he sighed. “I think this situation is hopeless. We should retreat.”
‘I immediately protested. “Sirjee,” I said, “the motto of our regiment is Nischey Kar Apni Jeet Karon – I Fight For Sure to Win. I will never give up without a fight.”
‘“That’s the spirit, Balwant.” The CO thumped me on the back and told me to rally the remaining men. My platoon commander had also deserted, so the CO put me in charge of the platoon. Our battalion was given the task of moving forward immediately to recapture the bridge. The Delta company of Gurkha Rifles was also ready for assault, together with the remaining tanks of 31 Cavalry.
‘The morning erupted in cannon and machine-gun fire. Mandiala Crossing became an inferno, a cauldron of fire, concussion and explosion. With sniper bullets whizzing past our heads, machine guns spewing out continuous and deadly fire, enemy aircraft wailing overhead and bombs crashing all around us, we charged from our position with fixed bayonets, shouting the Sikh battle cry, “Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal.” We fell upon the advancing enemy and bayoneted many to death in bloody hand-to-hand fighting. This bold action completely demoralized the enemy. The tide began to turn in our favour. We started pushing the enemy back.
‘At that point, the enemy decided to bring their tanks across the Tawi river. So far, they had remained on the other side. The moment they crossed the bridge and came over to our side, we would have been completely exposed. It was essential that we stop them from crossing the bridge. Now our T-55 tanks
belonging to 31 Cavalry and the 27th Armoured Regiment came into action. At first our tanks withstood the enemy onslaught well, but when the Pakistani Patton tanks began rolling across the bridge, two of our chaps abandoned their tanks and ran away.
‘I don’t know what came over me. I just ran towards one of the abandoned tanks, opened the hatch and slipped inside. I knew about tanks, but I had never driven one before. Still, it took me only a couple of minutes to figure out the controls and very soon I had put the T55 into motion. As my tank started up, it came under heavy fire from the enemy concealed in bunkers. So I moved my tank towards the enemy trench. They thought I would give up in the face of their sustained firing, but I kept moving relentlessly towards the bunker, till they jumped out and fled. One of them tried to clamber on to my tank. I immediately put the turret on power traverse, swung the 100 mm rifled gun around and knocked him away like a fly from milk. Meanwhile, our other tanks had begun targeting the enemy, and within twenty minutes only one enemy Patton tank was left. I chased it as it tried to get away. My tank received a direct hit from it and went up in flames. But my gun was still functioning. I kept chasing the Patton and shot at it, barely fifty yards from my position. The enemy tank stopped suddenly and reeled backwards, its turret spinning around like a drunken man. Finally it stopped turning and the tank burst into a ball of flame. I got on to the Bravo-I set to my CO and said, “Eight enemy tanks destroyed, Sir. Situation under control.”
‘Mandiala Bridge was now almost within our grasp. The enemy had scattered. Its tanks were destroyed, but there were still isolated pockets of resistance. The enemy had sited some machine guns and rocket launchers around the bridge which were still active. And, most important of all, the Pakistani flag was still flying atop the bridge. I had to tear it down. Dazed by concussion and ripped and bloodied from shards of flying metal, I began inching towards the Pakistani bunker. All around me, I saw corpses in the churned and muddy ground. I kept on moving forward and advanced to within ten yards of the enemy bunker, which was ringed by a tangle of barbed wire. I then lobbed a smoke grenade into the bunker and three Pakistani soldiers tumbled out, dead and bleeding. There was only one soldier remaining. As I raised my rifle to shoot him, I realized suddenly that it had jammed. The enemy soldier also saw this. He smiled, raised his gun and pressed the trigger. A hail of bullets hit my left leg, and I fell to the ground. He pointed the gun at my heart and pressed the trigger again. I said my prayers and prepared to die. But instead of a deafening blast, there was just a hollow click. His magazine had finished. “Narai Takbir – Allah O Akbar!” he shouted and rushed at me with naked bayonet. I met him shouting, “Jai Hind” and neatly side-stepped his charge. I then clubbed him to death with the butt of my rifle. Finally, I leapt at the enemy flag, tore it down and replaced it with the tricolour. When I saw our flag fluttering atop Mandiala Bridge, it was the happiest moment of my life, though I knew I had lost one leg.’
Balwant Singh stops speaking, and we see that his eyes are drenched in tears.
Nobody stirs for almost a minute. Then Putul goes up to Balwant Singh and holds out his exercise book.
The soldier wipes his eyes. ‘Arrey, what is this? I cannot do your maths homework for you.’
‘I don’t want you to do my homework,’ says Putul.
‘Then what is this book for?’
‘I want your autograph. You are our hero.’
Everyone claps.
Dhyanesh raises the same question again. ‘So which award did they give you for this battle?’
Balwant goes silent, as if we have touched a raw nerve. Then he says bitterly, ‘Nothing. They gave out two MVCs and two PVCs to 35 Sikh. Three of my colleagues got Sena medals and a memorial was constructed in Jaurian. But they didn’t give me anything, not even a mention in despatch. There was no recognition of my valour.’
He lets out a sigh. ‘But not to worry. I take satisfaction when I see the flame burning over Amar Jyoti, the memorial to the Unknown Soldier. I feel it burns for people like me.’ Turning philosophical, he recites a poem in Urdu: ‘Unheralded we came into this world. Unheralded we will go out. But while we are in this world, we do such deeds that even if this generation does not remember, the next generation cannot forget.’
Everyone goes quiet again. Suddenly, Mrs Damle begins singing, ‘Sare jahan se achcha Hindustan hamara . . .’ Pretty soon everyone else joins in singing the patriotic song. I don’t know what comes over us youngsters, but we organize a spontaneous march past. We form a single line and file past Balwant Singh, our right fists clenched tightly in a gesture of salute to this brave soldier.
This was our war. He was our hero.
Balwant Singh is so overcome with emotion, he starts crying. ‘Jai Hind!’ he shouts, and shuffles out of the room, leaving us alone with the rustle of elephant grass, the sound of exploding bombs, the acrid smell of cordite, and the stench of death.
Mr Wagle comes to the dais and makes an announcement. ‘Dear friends, I have the honour of informing you that tomorrow we are being visited by a team from the Soldiers’ Benefit Fund, SBF for short. Our beloved Prime Minister has made an appeal to all Indians to contribute generously for the benefit of our soldiers, who sacrifice their lives so that we may live in freedom with honour and dignity. I hope all of you will dig deep into your pockets to help the SBF.’
‘But what about the soldier in our own midst? Shouldn’t we do something to help him as well?’ Mr Shirke shouts.
There are cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’
‘Yes, you are absolutely right. But I think the biggest service we can do to Balwantji is to get his achievements in the 1971 war recognized. We will give a memorandum to the people from the SBF who come here tomorrow.’
We are all excited. It looks as if finally we are also contributing to the war effort.
There are three of them who come. A tall man, a short man and a fat man. All three are ex-officers; the tall one is from the navy, the short one is from the army and the fat man is from the air force. The short man gives a long speech. He tells us that our soldiers are doing a great job. Our country is great. Our Prime Minister is great. We are great. And our donations should also be great. They pass around a basket. People put money in it. Some put five rupees, some ten, some one hundred. One of the ladies puts in her gold bangles. Salim doesn’t have any money. He puts in two packets of bubblegum. Balwant Singh is not present. He has sent word that he has a touch of flu.
Then the inquisition starts. ‘Did you fight in any war yourself?’ Kulkarni asks the army man, a retired Colonel.
‘Yes, of course. I saw action in two great wars, ’65 and ’71.’
‘And where did you serve during the 1971 war?’
‘In Chhamb, which perhaps saw the greatest battles.’
‘And which was your regiment?’
‘I am from Infantry. The great Sikh Regiment.’
‘Did you get any medals during the 1971 war?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I got a Vir Chakra. It was a great honour.’
‘What did you get this great honour for?’
‘For the great battle of Mandiala Crossing, in which 35 Sikh did a great job.’
‘What kind of person are you? You take medals yourself and deny others, without whose support you would never have regained that bridge.’
‘I am sorry, I don’t understand. Who are you referring to?’
‘We are talking about our own soldier, who was a hero during the 1971 war at Chhamb, who lost a limb. Who should have got a Param Vir Chakra, but only got tears. Look, Colonel Sahib, we are civilians. We don’t know about your army rules and regulations, but a grave injustice has been done here. Can you see whether something can be done even now? It is never too late to honour brave soldiers.’
‘Where is this great soul?’
‘He is right here in our chawl.’
‘Really? That’s great. I would love to pay my respects to him.’
So we escort him to Balwant Singh’s room
. We point out his door and watch as the Colonel goes in. We loiter around, unable to resist prying.
We hear loud voices, like an argument. Then a banging sound. After ten minutes or so, the Colonel comes rushing out, seething with anger. ‘Is this the man you were complaining didn’t get a PVC? He is the greatest scoundrel I have ever seen. I wish I could wring the swine’s neck here and now.’
‘How dare you talk about our war hero like this!’ admonishes Mrs Damle.
‘He, a war hero? That’s the greatest joke in the world. He is a bloody deserter. Ran away at the first sight of trouble in the Chhamb sector. I tell you, he is a bloody blot on Sikh Regiment. He should have had fourteen years’ Rigorous Imprisonment. Unfortunately, desertion cases are closed after five years, otherwise I would have reported him even now.’
We are astounded. ‘What are you saying, Colonel? He recounted to us in great detail his exploits at Chhamb. He even lost a leg in combat.’
‘That’s a complete lie. Let me tell you his true story, which is actually quite pathetic.’ The Colonel adjusts his belt. ‘Balwant Singh was not in a good frame of mind when war broke out, because his wife had just given birth to his first child in Pathankot. He was desperate to be with his family. So great was his longing that at the first sign of trouble in Jaurian, when Pakistan attacked with artillery in full strength, he deserted his post and ran away. He managed to reach Pathankot and hid in his ancestral house. He must have thought he had left the war far behind, but the war did not leave him. Two days after his arrival, the Pakistani Air Force strafed Pathankot air base. They didn’t hit any of our planes, but two thousand-pound bombs fell on a house close to the airfield. Turned out that the house was Balwant’s. His wife and infant son perished instantly in the attack and he lost a leg to shrapnel.’
‘But . . . how could he re-create the scene of battle in such great detail?’