The year is 1988. In a small house overlooking the snow covered mountains, I lived with my parents. With infinite serenity around us, we could live our lives in that small house we called home. In summer, every inch of land would be encompassed in a layer of green. It was the finest artwork that He could ever make. In winter, the scenery defied any law of beauty that ever existed. No words could do justice to what we would witness year after year. It was breathtaking. It was undiscovered. Its beauty lay in its loneliness. For if it were ever discovered, it would be plundered by development. It would be like putting maquillage on a goddess. So intense was the beauty.
On long summer days in my childhood, I would often walk for hours together along the base of the mountain taking imaginary pictures. On one such day, I walked longer and further than I would. I had been told not to walk too far as the mountains were a threat in summer owing to the melting ice caps. But, that day, there was an unusual pull of nature. I lost track of time and kept walking, till I had reached the opposite end of the mountain. And there lay another house. It was almost like a mirror image of mine. I wondered if I had walked all around the mountain and reached my house. As I walked towards it, I soon figured that it wasn’t my home. There was a boy scampering across the knee-height grass fields, chasing a rabbit, with a smile on his face. I walked towards him, till he noticed me. Soon as he did so, his smile faded and he ran towards the house. It was getting dark so I turned around and made my way home. I was on time as I had traded my play-time for the extra-long walk. The boy across the mountain’s behavior kept my thoughts occupied. I decided that I would leave early the next afternoon to reach the other side quicker. And so I did. I walked on and on; the only difference, today my walk was not purposeless. As I reached the other side, I saw the boy again. I recollected that I had walked towards him the last time and probably that was what had scared him. So I stood still. As soon as the boy across the mountain saw me, he froze. Even though he was far away, I knew he was afraid. I figured the best gesture I could make was a wave. So I did. And surprisingly, he waved back. I smiled. I began walking towards him. He still kept waving. When I reached close enough, he stopped waving and smiled. We acquainted each other. His name was Imran. He went to school in the school on the other side of the mountain. By the time, we exchanged names of our schools; I realized it was time to leave. I bid adieu and left. Mother didn’t suspect that I had strayed so far off. But I had a smile on my face which was unusual. On noticing my smile, she jokingly asked, “Kyun puttar! Apne jigari dost ko mil aaya hai kya?” I ran to my father without answering her question. We dined and went to sleep. The next day, I ran back as fast as I could after school. Put on my shoes and sprinted to meet Imran. That was the first day we played together. I explained my time constraint and he agreed to walk halfway across the mountain so we could play for more time. I was happy with the plan we made. We played every day from that day on… until I told my parents about Imran. “Us ladke se kabhi milna nahi samjhei!!” said my father. ”Agli baar us se mila to maar maar ke tere paon tod doonga” I listened with my head bowed down. I reckoned that Imran’s parents would definitely beat him if he said he had me as a friend. The next day, I walked to meet him, for the first time, without a smile. We didn’t play that day. I told him what had happened and he thanked me that I told him that. The way he had described his parents, both of us were sure he would be beaten black and blue, if he told them he was playing with me. As we parted that day, I gave him a rock with both our names engraved on it and asked him to treasure it. Although it had been only a year since we met and played, it was hard to let go. We left with tears in our eyes and memories in our hearts. I never fully understood why my parents were against my friendship with Imran. Until quite later.
The year is 1999. I am an army man fighting at the frontier in Kargil. For a whole month, I have seen more dead than living. The bloodshed, the cold, the starvation have taken a toll on each and every one of us. Not only us, the Indian soldiers. Fond memories of home haunt us all. Even though nightmares fill our dreams, for an instant in those dreaded thoughts, we think of home and our loved ones. We each wake up with tears in our eyes and resume our daily duty of killing enemies. A war started by people who seldom partake in it. War of governments for a piece of land, best left alone, for the purpose of extending their national borders. Yet it is we who fight day and night. We fight for survival. Every day we live is a blessing. Every day we live is a curse. Every day, we question the rationality of the war. Every day we launch futile attempts to retrieve our long lost sanity. The war is no place for a 20 year old to be. We were merely quarreling puppets in this war of puppeteers. The adrenaline had worn out and we were exhausted. We just wanted to go home. I had enough blood on my hands to be condemned to a lifetime of hell. But, if and when I returned home, I would be decorated with medals. Not only justifying the wrongs I have done, but being rewarded for it. Suicide attempts were an everyday affair. The war is nothing like they show in the movies. Pumped up, blood thirsty soldiers driven, by the love of their nation, to kill the enemy. No. We knew we had to kill. Those were orders. But we failed to understand why. Nothing validates the “murder” of so many youths. After almost a month, there were rumors about the Pakistani army being forced to retreat. This came as relief to us all for we did not seek to kill. There was no warfare that day. It was a mutual day of relief. Still, the watchtower remained vigilant on either side. We all dreamt of going home and meeting our loved ones. We smiled after eternity. The next few days, the war seemed to die out, as the Pakistani forces were pushed back into Pakistan. It was the last week of war. There was exchange of fire but there were very few casualties, as Indian forces moved closer to the border, forcing retreat. The week was quite impassive as our morale went up. We were almost cheerful.
It was the last day of war. It was probably a last ditch attempt on part of the Pakistani army to inflict damage, on orders of the Pakistani government as we would later come to realize. To say the least it was utterly imprudent. It was a group of about 20 Pakistani soldiers who charged towards our camp firing wildly at anything they saw. It was suicidal. Even before they could reach within a few meters of our camp, they were dead. As we braced ourselves for another attack, there was news from the Indian government saying Pakistan had willingly pulled out of the war. Our camp exploded into cheers. Placing down our weapons, we prayed to our Gods and thanked Him that He kept us alive. As we walked outside to breathe the lead free air, we wandered around the land that we had succeeded in retaining. I walked towards the bodies of the 20 odd soldiers who had effectively brought an end to the war. My heart went out to them as they would have been alive if not for the tactless decision made by the Pakistani government. As I strolled around the corpses, I stumbled on something. It was a rock. I found it peculiar as it didn’t belong there. I lifted it off the ground. I brushed the snow off it. I noticed that there was something engraved on it. My heart almost stopped. It skipped a few beats and then raced. It was the rock I had given Imran. It fell out of my hands and my legs gave way. I couldn’t feel my limbs. I crawled around looking for Imran’s corpse, frantically scanning the name tags on the uniforms. “LT. IMRAN ABBAS” read one of the uniforms. I looked at the lifeless face of Imran and memories came rushing back. I took his head in my lap and closed his eyes. I was overwhelmed with sadness. The war was over but we all paid a heavy price. Mothers left childless; newly married wives, widowed; I lost a friend I loved dearly. And the governments offer money calling it “compensation”. That’s outrageous for the loss of a loved one cannot ever be compensated. I looked at the sky and mumbled a silent prayer for the boy who lived across the mountain.
