rediff.com Special: Life in the jaws of death: Ramesh Menon reports from a border village

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The Rediff Special

Some memories never die. Or fade.
A year after the Kargil war, the physical wounds have healed. But the mental ones remain.
To torture. To haunt.
Roving Editor Ramesh Menon travels down the memory lane. Kargil, he remembers, was an experience of a lifetime.
KALAL.
The fields are lush green. The air rich with oxygen. The mountains that rise at the edge of the village stand out against a clear blue sky. On a narrow road a little boy is running after a lamb. The tranquillity around adds to the romance of this village sitting by the Line of Control.
Just beyond the mountain is Pakistan-occupied Kashmir.
A tall, broad-shouldered soldier in battle fatigue with a machinegun slung on his right shoulder walks by. His sharp eyes check for unusual movement. He stops to ask my identity. He recognises every new face. He knows I do not belong here.
Soldiers on counterinsurgency patrol Every outsider is checked in this little village in the Nowshera sector of Rajouri district in Jammu and Kashmir. At night, there are surprise checks. For any outsider or infiltrator lurking around.
Every villager here has learnt to live with terror. And fear of death. Shelling goes on every night.
It usually starts from the Pakistani side. Seconds later, the Indians retaliate.
Today, Pakistan is playing with Australia in the World Cup. A young captain who mans the Indian post adjoining Kalal predicts that if Pakistan loses, it will resort to heavy shelling. It is around 1800 hours IST. The sun is sinking behind the hills.
The captain starts trudging towards his post on top of the hill. It is going to take him a good one hour. He cannot go up when it is bright; a Pakistani sniper could get him. Before he leaves, he gives a quick demonstration of how to fall on the floor when your ear catches a mortar gun from across the border.
I wonder what life in a border village is like. "Just wait till it becomes dark," says Sarjit, a villager, "you will wonder why we live here."
Farmer Shamsher Singh almost pleads: "Please stay and experience the terror we go through everyday."
WE sit on the tallest roof in the village so as to have a ringside view. The house belongs to Rajesh Choudhary, a resin contractor. We are listening to the cricket commentary on the radio. The stars twinkle in the clear sky. There is an eerie silence all around. Inexplicable peace.
The tension builds up. It is clear that Pakistan will lose. Seconds after the last ball seals that country's fate in the World Cup, the firing starts.
The lights in the village go out.
The deadening silence of the night is shattered. The Indian side replies with a volley of small arms fire and mortar shells. The night of terror has started.
The silhouettes of the mountains stand out in the moonlit night. I can see rapid bursts of fire travel from one hill to another. Some lands so close that it sends a shiver down my spine. This is war.
Apart from the sound of firing, the only audible sound is that of children crying. Their mothers hug them close to their bosoms. Fear is in the air. Some are praying.
The only one who does not seem terrified is two-year-old Shamli. He is avidly watching the sparks in the sky. And the shells exploding against a hillock. Balls of fire are lighting up the sky. The colours are rich and fascinating. For Shamli, it is another night of fireworks. Innocence is bliss.
Her father clutches her to his chest. No one is talking. They are just watching the sky.
Pakistani troops fire tracer shots. The shots tear through the sky, bright red. It looks beautiful, but it only builds up the terror. Suddenly, the tension is neutralised as a little boy exclaims:
"What a bad shot! They have missed the target again!"
The shot hits a cliff and rebounds into the Pakistani side.
But the panic starts when a mortar shell lands just a few yards away. And then, another one. And another one. All in the span of a minute. The blast echoes in our eardrums. No one knows if someone is injured. Or dead.
Suddenly, villagers living near the area where the shells exploded, scamper to the building where I am. They feel safe here as it is a cement-concrete structure, deliberately built with thick walls. Most of them crowd into the cattle shed and sit on the floor. Some stand between the buffaloes chewing cud. In the midst of the tragic life they lead, it all looks so funny. They sit around a small kerosene lamp. They are too scared to switch on any lights.
Just a few hours ago, a group of villagers had returned after carrying ammunition and other essentials to the top of an Indian post overlooking PoK. Among them was 71-year-old Jiyalal Chaudhary, who refuses to let age beat him.
"After all," he said, "we must do all we can for our jawans. Had they not been around, Pakistani forces would have walked into the village."
PANCHAYAT member Chaudhary Charan Singh's house is the last one on the Indian side of the border. He echoes a common sentiment when he says that no villager will run away because of the war. "We will ensure that the army gets everything they want as they have staked their life to protect us."
Shamsher Singh finds tension gnawing at him every night. He has just shifted his polio-afflicted 17-year-old son, Bunty Kumar, to another village far away as he finds it impossible to run to a bunker carrying him.
Villagers are scampering in the darkness to get into crude bunkers outside their houses. Most of the 150-odd houses in Kalal has bunkers. The firing is a daily affair after the Kargil war started, though Kalal is civilian area. Mortar shells now lands in their fields, sometimes even in the day.
"We did not see such an intensity even in the '71 war," says Sarjit.
As the gun fire continues, we settle down for dinner. The men help themselves to food in the living room. Women sit in the open forecourt bathed in the soft moonlight. The food is simple, but tasty.
Suddenly, another mortar hits the area. Everyone continues to eat. As if nothing happened. Sometimes, it helps to pretend. One of the elders asks the women to quickly move from the forecourt into a bedroom that has its windows shut.
Occasionally, a flare bursts in the sky. The Indian army is lighting up the area to check if infiltrators are using the darkness to cross in. Usually, whenever the Pakistani army wants to push across militants, they resort to heavy firing and shelling to keep the Indian army distracted.
In the early hours of the morning, we try to catch some sleep. It is not easy. The ghosts of the night wake us up every few minutes. Fear. Tracer shots. Bullets. Mortars. The night seems very long. At 0600 hours when the sun once again touches the trees with gold, I get ready to move out of Kalal.
As I am leaving, a villager frantically waves us to a stop. He takes us to a farm where there is a deep furrow in the middle of the field made by a mortar shell which did not explode. Its top glints in the sunlight.
"Look at our life," he says, "we live in the jaws of death."
It is the spirit of the villagers that remains with me the most. They are fiercely proud Indians. I dig into my pocket to feel the Pakistani shrapnel that they gave me as souvenir. Rajesh Chaudhary's parting shot is:
"Take them to the city and show it around. Only then will people understand what life and death means to us. We do not have even a good doctor or a medical centre here."
There are children and adults searching the fields for shrapnel. Every family has a collection. It reminds them of what they owe to the Indian army that guards Kalal. Every single day.
Photographs: Ramesh Menon
Design: Dominic Xavier
Check out 'What did I get by giving up militancy?'
OTHER RELATED LINKS
Kargil: June 2000
Kargil crisis: The complete coverage
The Rediff Specials
Mail us your comments

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	The Rediff Special Some memories never die. Or fade. A year after the Kargil war, the physical wounds have healed. But the mental ones remain. To torture. To haunt. Roving Editor Ramesh Menon travels down the memory lane. Kargil, he remembers, was an experience of a lifetime. KALAL. The fields are lush green. The air rich with oxygen. The mountains that rise at the edge of the village stand out against a clear blue sky. On a narrow road a little boy is running after a lamb. The tranquillity around adds to the romance of this village sitting by the Line of Control. Just beyond the mountain is Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. A tall, broad-shouldered soldier in battle fatigue with a machinegun slung on his right shoulder walks by. His sharp eyes check for unusual movement. He stops to ask my identity. He recognises every new face. He knows I do not belong here. Every outsider is checked in this little village in the Nowshera sector of Rajouri district in Jammu and Kashmir. At night, there are surprise checks. For any outsider or infiltrator lurking around. Every villager here has learnt to live with terror. And fear of death. Shelling goes on every night. It usually starts from the Pakistani side. Seconds later, the Indians retaliate. Today, Pakistan is playing with Australia in the World Cup. A young captain who mans the Indian post adjoining Kalal predicts that if Pakistan loses, it will resort to heavy shelling. It is around 1800 hours IST. The sun is sinking behind the hills. The captain starts trudging towards his post on top of the hill. It is going to take him a good one hour. He cannot go up when it is bright; a Pakistani sniper could get him. Before he leaves, he gives a quick demonstration of how to fall on the floor when your ear catches a mortar gun from across the border. I wonder what life in a border village is like. "Just wait till it becomes dark," says Sarjit, a villager, "you will wonder why we live here." Farmer Shamsher Singh almost pleads: "Please stay and experience the terror we go through everyday." WE sit on the tallest roof in the village so as to have a ringside view. The house belongs to Rajesh Choudhary, a resin contractor. We are listening to the cricket commentary on the radio. The stars twinkle in the clear sky. There is an eerie silence all around. Inexplicable peace. The tension builds up. It is clear that Pakistan will lose. Seconds after the last ball seals that country's fate in the World Cup, the firing starts. The lights in the village go out. The deadening silence of the night is shattered. The Indian side replies with a volley of small arms fire and mortar shells. The night of terror has started. The silhouettes of the mountains stand out in the moonlit night. I can see rapid bursts of fire travel from one hill to another. Some lands so close that it sends a shiver down my spine. This is war. Apart from the sound of firing, the only audible sound is that of children crying. Their mothers hug them close to their bosoms. Fear is in the air. Some are praying. The only one who does not seem terrified is two-year-old Shamli. He is avidly watching the sparks in the sky. And the shells exploding against a hillock. Balls of fire are lighting up the sky. The colours are rich and fascinating. For Shamli, it is another night of fireworks. Innocence is bliss. Her father clutches her to his chest. No one is talking. They are just watching the sky. Pakistani troops fire tracer shots. The shots tear through the sky, bright red. It looks beautiful, but it only builds up the terror. Suddenly, the tension is neutralised as a little boy exclaims: "What a bad shot! They have missed the target again!" The shot hits a cliff and rebounds into the Pakistani side. But the panic starts when a mortar shell lands just a few yards away. And then, another one. And another one. All in the span of a minute. The blast echoes in our eardrums. No one knows if someone is injured. Or dead. Suddenly, villagers living near the area where the shells exploded, scamper to the building where I am. They feel safe here as it is a cement-concrete structure, deliberately built with thick walls. Most of them crowd into the cattle shed and sit on the floor. Some stand between the buffaloes chewing cud. In the midst of the tragic life they lead, it all looks so funny. They sit around a small kerosene lamp. They are too scared to switch on any lights. Just a few hours ago, a group of villagers had returned after carrying ammunition and other essentials to the top of an Indian post overlooking PoK. Among them was 71-year-old Jiyalal Chaudhary, who refuses to let age beat him. "After all," he said, "we must do all we can for our jawans. Had they not been around, Pakistani forces would have walked into the village." PANCHAYAT member Chaudhary Charan Singh's house is the last one on the Indian side of the border. He echoes a common sentiment when he says that no villager will run away because of the war. "We will ensure that the army gets everything they want as they have staked their life to protect us." Shamsher Singh finds tension gnawing at him every night. He has just shifted his polio-afflicted 17-year-old son, Bunty Kumar, to another village far away as he finds it impossible to run to a bunker carrying him. Villagers are scampering in the darkness to get into crude bunkers outside their houses. Most of the 150-odd houses in Kalal has bunkers. The firing is a daily affair after the Kargil war started, though Kalal is civilian area. Mortar shells now lands in their fields, sometimes even in the day. "We did not see such an intensity even in the '71 war," says Sarjit. As the gun fire continues, we settle down for dinner. The men help themselves to food in the living room. Women sit in the open forecourt bathed in the soft moonlight. The food is simple, but tasty. Suddenly, another mortar hits the area. Everyone continues to eat. As if nothing happened. Sometimes, it helps to pretend. One of the elders asks the women to quickly move from the forecourt into a bedroom that has its windows shut. Occasionally, a flare bursts in the sky. The Indian army is lighting up the area to check if infiltrators are using the darkness to cross in. Usually, whenever the Pakistani army wants to push across militants, they resort to heavy firing and shelling to keep the Indian army distracted. In the early hours of the morning, we try to catch some sleep. It is not easy. The ghosts of the night wake us up every few minutes. Fear. Tracer shots. Bullets. Mortars. The night seems very long. At 0600 hours when the sun once again touches the trees with gold, I get ready to move out of Kalal. As I am leaving, a villager frantically waves us to a stop. He takes us to a farm where there is a deep furrow in the middle of the field made by a mortar shell which did not explode. Its top glints in the sunlight. "Look at our life," he says, "we live in the jaws of death." It is the spirit of the villagers that remains with me the most. They are fiercely proud Indians. I dig into my pocket to feel the Pakistani shrapnel that they gave me as souvenir. Rajesh Chaudhary's parting shot is: "Take them to the city and show it around. Only then will people understand what life and death means to us. We do not have even a good doctor or a medical centre here." There are children and adults searching the fields for shrapnel. Every family has a collection. It reminds them of what they owe to the Indian army that guards Kalal. Every single day. Photographs: Ramesh Menon Design: Dominic Xavier Check out 'What did I get by giving up militancy?' OTHER RELATED LINKS Kargil: June 2000 Kargil crisis: The complete coverage The Rediff Specials Mail us your comments
HOME \| NEWS \| MONEY \| SPORTS \| MOVIES \| CHAT \| INFOTECH \| TRAVEL SINGLES \| NEWSLINKS \| BOOK SHOP \| MUSIC SHOP \| GIFT SHOP \| HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL \| WEATHER \| MILLENNIUM \| BROADBAND \| E-CARDS \| EDUCATION HOMEPAGES \| FREE EMAIL \| CONTESTS \| FEEDBACK