1962, the year my world changed forever
We were living with our elder brother, a handsome army captain, in the charming town of Mhow in Madhya Pradesh not far from the Lone Tree Hill in 1962 when the ‘Hindi Cheeni bhai-bhai’ slogan of the 1950s became a fallacy of the past.
That year, I learnt for the first time at the age of seven about war, loss and death. It was when our brother had to leave in October for the North-east to lead a platoon of Maratha soldiers that a pall of gloom sat on the house. He was not the only one. Young officers were called out of Mhow to face the Chinese aggression on the Indian borders.
“Why are we fighting the Chinese? Aren’t we brothers? Chacha Nehru said we are bhai-bhai then what’s gone wrong?”
“The Chinese have betrayed us. They want to take away our country’s land. That’s why your brother and other soldiers have gone to fight them,” my mother said, looking up from the woollen socks she was knitting. All the women folk in Mhow were knitting socks, caps and vests to be sent to the soldiers in the forward area.
“Where has brother gone?” I wanted to know and was told a strange name called Bomdila in the Himalayas. “It is very cold there and I am knitting socks for him,” she said with half a smile.
“What will happen to him?” I asked a bit nervous. At this, his wife, my pretty bhabhi, who was knitting a cap, flashed a smile at me and said, “He will defeat the Chinese and return victorious!” Then she hugged me.
Soon sad tidings started reaching Mhow. Two officers who had gone to war from there had been killed. The older one had two children and the younger one had been married just two months ago. My mother’s knitting needles clicked faster and the smile vanished from bhabhi’s face. The ladies of Mhow started donating rings and bracelets to the national defence fund.
“All Chinese are not bad. Uncle Sheng in Chandigarh makes such nice shoes. Please ask daddy to send me two pairs for my birthday; one pink and one white,” I tried to start a conversation but was silenced and told to go and do my homework. Much later, I learnt that Uncle Sheng, the shoemaker, was jailed for a month even though he had nothing to do with the war.
There was no news of my brother or of our moving to Delhi where my father, who had spent all his savings on building a house in Chandigarh, had got a job as an assistant editor with a newspaper.
Then one day in early December, a message came that our brother was alive and reaching Delhi. Bhabhi got ready to receive him. He was back but not victorious. He was to tell the tale many times of young soldiers killed and others returning from the mountain terrain in torn clothes going hungry for days.
My mother thanked the powers that be over and over again, “It is a blessing that my son is alive!” But even before my brother and bhabhi returned from Delhi, there came another blow in a telegram announcing daddy’s death.
“Was he killed by the Chinese?” I asked putting my foot in the mouth. I was told that he had suffered a heart attack. I did not know what that meant but looking at my mother hold her chest and weep, I started sobbing too. Soon mother was gone and my school-going brother and I were left in the care of a brother officer’s family.
When the three of them returned, my birthday party had been called off but there were two pairs of shoes, pink and white, bought from Uncle Sheng’s shop. He was out of jail, I was told. That cold December in 1962, I learnt of war, death, hunger and jail. My world had changed forever. Even then, I recall thanking God that Uncle Sheng was safe.
I LEARNT FOR THE FIRST TIME AT THE AGE OF SEVEN ABOUT WAR AND DEATH. IT WAS WHEN OUR BROTHER HAD TO LEAVE TO LEAD A PLATOON IN NE THAT A PALL OF GLOOM SAT ON THE HOUSE
CORRECTION
The writeup, Mission admission is a testing time for parents (HT, Dec 11), was written by Dr Ankur Malhotra and not as rendered earlier. The error is regretted.