A Grim Tale Of A Nation And Its 40 Soldiers

‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once’: William Shakespeare

Year after year, on February 14, when flowers, chocolates and gifts are exchanged, our leaders never forget to salute the 40 bravehearts that lost their lives in Pulwama. They never forget to remind us of the courage and the supreme sacrifice involved.

What they forget to mention is how those deaths were merely political fodder for an electoral gain. What they forget to say is how there were no qualms in using martyrdom to reap a thumping victory. What they forget to disclose is how some precious lives were considered so cheap and expendable that without uttering ‘Open Sesame’ a dark cave containing a treasure of votes would be discovered. Thus, the Grim tale of A Nation and its Forty Soldiers is silently buried in gallantry.

Joblessness, rising prices, demonetisation, farmers’ suicides all grew inconsequential as hyper nationalism became the new religion- the proverbial ‘opium of the masses’. Drunk with the patriotic fervour unleashed by the propaganda machinery, ALL inconvenient questions of the ‘Hows’ and the ‘Whys’ were conveniently forgotten.

How such a large quantity of RDX managed to filter through our country; how the explosive-laden vehicle went undetected on a highly secured route; how the intelligence agencies failed to detect the footprints that led to such a massive incident was ignored.

Or Why the tragedy was even allowed to happen in the first place; why the long convoy of vehicles carrying 2,547 personnel had to travel by road and not by air; why the warnings of a possible ambush was royally ignored; why everyone involved was told ‘to keep quiet’ on the non-provision of the aircraft that was refused; why facts were not out in the public domain; and why there was so much hypocrisy involved in the conduct of the main characters, everything was silenced.

What adds to the murkiness is that everything was all lost in the cacophony of the victorious and gleeful cries of a new breed of journalists that were being born in our Republic: ‘THIS ATTACK, WE HAVE WON LIKE CRAZY’!

But just like the Sun and the Moon, even Truth has a way of raising itself from the mouldy yeast of lies. It may not do a daily darshan but it emerges. Eventually. And when it does, it highlights the fact that all that relentless mobilisation of emotion was only to hide some failures.

What Satya Pal Malik said in an interview to Karan Thapar; or what General Shankar Roy Chowdhury confirmed later, were facts loaded with implications. Even though the veil of secrecy shrouding the tragedy is finally lifted, Malik and the General have merely confirmed what many defence experts have said all along.

Who was responsible for the oversight, or why it did not jolt the security apparatus into action is a secret left for us to decode. However, to any discerning mind, the narrative created back then is not only too bizarre to comprehend, it is also as clear as daylight.

On the first anniversary of the terror strike, when Rahul Gandhi hinted of the ‘bungling’, it immediately spurred furious allegations about ‘insulting the martyrs’. When Digvijaya Singh shared in Twitter about an intelligence note of a possible attack, the retweeting was blocked.

Even the ‘Frontline’ magazine’s investigation of how the warning bells had already sounded in early January itself was blacked out by the media. Back then the staple reaction of a muscular nationalistic campaign that was aided by a constellation of pliant prime time news anchors and its army of foot soldiers was alarming.

Anyone demanding to know if there indeed was any oversight, was immediately vilified and silenced. And termed an ‘anti-national’.

Patriotic lessons have been planted in us even as we were growing up. At home by my Daddy and in school by our teachers. But Daddy’s lesson was not about hollow jingoistic slogans that we hear now. His stories involved his participation as a child and the sacrifices of his uncles, who had played their small part in the history of our Independence.

Unfortunately in school, it was more of a ‘concept’ of fighting the intruders. The evils within our own country, or the system responsible for ‘outsiders’ to conquer us, is seldom educated. The valiant common man who fought the internal system is never given the badge of a patriot.

We learnt only about the Kings who were ambitious to spread their empire. Not about the ‘subjects’ that formed the majority of the kingdom. We were told how mighty the King’s empire was, not how satisfied or unsatisfied the people under that rule were.

As a result, our entire understanding of the word ‘patriotism’ was totally flawed. For which we are all paying a big price now. Perhaps the only way the souls of all the martyred soldiers can attain peace, is for us to wake up and at least acknowledge the hypocrisy that is disguised as patriotism.

When the great bard said that cowards die a million deaths, what he meant was that every time someone runs away from a challenge; every time they chicken out from answering questions; every time they label their own citizens as ‘anti-nationals’; every time they flee from the fear of being exposed; Every…Single….Time, a little of that person dies inside.

But, the true martyrs; those who are used as pawns in a game of victory; those who are not afraid to face the challenges of life; those who do not think of themselves but the work ahead of them; those who believe that sacrifice is the pinnacle of patriotism; those who have no time for manipulations, machinations, or cover-ups; they are the real heroes. Even if they taste death, but once.

From the dawn of Independence to this day today; from the icy terrains of the Himalayas to the scorching deserts; from unfurling our flag elsewhere to coming back wrapped in it, it is our Jawans who deserve all our respect. ‘For those who choose to fight, life has a special flavour that the protected will never know!’ The least we can do is to know the truth and acknowledge it.

Jai Hind!

Views expressed are the writer’s own.