October 4, 2016

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I’ve never shared this with anyone. But I feel it is time. The month was December; the year, 1971. And all this took place somewhere outside the town of Saidpur, former East Pakistan.

My squadron of tanks, 29 Cavalry, was flung wide and far; I could only command the immediate four. Engaged with the most advanced units of the Indian Army’s armored and foot divisions, it had been a markedly gruesome afternoon. My head was ablaze with the incessant orders coming through my wireless; the static between was even worse. My body was drenched in tank-smelling sweat, but I felt no pain. The orders had been given.

Suddenly someone clambered into my tank and tapped my shoulder. It was my wireless operator. “Sir! Message for you on jeep wireless, Sir!” This was highly irregular, bloody annoying. What the devil did Headquarters want?

I climbed out of my tank, in the midst of active participation. God, the din. I hear it still.

I reached our squadron jeep, picked up the wireless, and listened.

“Stop firing immediately.”

“What? What do you mean? Please say again.”

“Just stop firing. We are at a ceasefire.”

In a trance, I returned to my tank. The Indians had stopped firing already. Something was amiss. I picked up my tank’s wireless. It didn’t take long for the next order to come.

“Ceasefire now over. We have surrendered.”

That’s when everything fell away. Or I did.

I pulled off my headset, got out of my tank, and stumbled a short distance to a small bamboo grove. I remember I leaned my head into a tall and sturdy shoot. And I remember how it held as I cried.

My men approached slowly, and gathered about me.

“Sir?”

I put it as simply as I could. “Buss. Humarey liyey jang khatam hai. We have surrendered, boys.” Through my tears I watched them file away, alone and in pairs, to sit and to sob, heads held in hands, just as little boys do. You see, we knew we could be killed. We knew we could be captured, we even knew we could lose; but to surrender? No one had trained us for this pain.

Shortly I saw a jeep approaching from the Indian side; one man and one enormous white flag, was all it brought. He seemed to recognize my rank and headed straight to me. I must’ve cut a sight; shaken in face, shattered in mind, disheveled in body.

He was a major, like me. Couldn’t have been much older than me either; thirty, thirty-one. Trim, handsome, turbaned, and bearded; he was surely Sikh. He got out of his jeep — this was no regular act, you see. He took a big risk in coming alone and engaging privately with me. We’d just been firing at one another, only minutes ago.

He walked right up. He put one hand on my shoulder and the other in mine. He said, “As-salamu alaykum!”

“Walaikum assalam.”

“I’m very sorry, I’m so very sorry this happened. It’s the fault of the banias and politicians on both sides, you know. But, in the end it is us who pay. I’m so fed up of all this. When I get home, once things settle, I’m moving to Australia. I’ve already started the immigration process. I’m leaving with my family.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen with you. You’re all to be taken prisoners. I’m not sure for how long. I feel so sad for your family, so very sad. Do you need anything? Money?”

“No. Nothing. Thank you.”

“Ok. Just look after yourself. You must take care of yourself. Goodbye.”

I knew right there, I knew right then; war and I were done.

The author spent the next two years and four months imprisoned at Ranchi, a town not far from the place of his birth. He was born in 1940, in Muzaffarpur, India. He never learnt the Indian major’s name who displayed such amazing grace. But he wishes him and his family every respect in return.

The author served in 20 Lancers/29 Cavalry in the Pakistan Army and fought in the 1965 and 1971 wars with India.