Dear A,
“We, the willing, are doing the impossible for the
ungrateful. We have done so much, with so little, for so long, we are now
qualified to do anything, with nothing.”
This quotation was written diagonally on the first
page of his diary as he showed me his poems. My host is a young man, whose
spirits are still volatile despite the sub-zero temperature of this place. It
is our first meeting. He does not know that the quotation is by mother Teresa,
he does not know mother Teresa at all. He thinks it was said for him,
dismissing any reason for researching its origins. The young man got engaged
recently, the reason for an occasional blush whenever the subject of his future
comes up. I only reached here the night before, but we are close friends now.
There is something in the wind, with flakes, that urge people to speak in never-ending
monologues. Discuss emotions, exchange secrets, talk about themselves – things
they do not talk about ‘normally,’ not the least when they are engrossed in the
workings of the ‘civilised world.’ I asked him about the quotation on the wall
and he said let’s call it a day.
My room, call it my studio apartment, is a typical
bunker, built on self-help basis, thanks to our meagre resources. Carved out
from a hillock, it is a classical one-window room of fourteen-by-ten feet. The
ten-foot high ceiling had 70 girders. Trivial information, you say? I count
them every night before I can sleep. No, I have not grown insomniac, but I dare
not venture out to count stars in this part of the world.
On one side, the empty cartons have been arranged,
covered by gunny bags, only to be topped by the prayer mat. I have a lot of
time to pray and reflect, probably since I am the closest I could get to Him.
The other wall supports the bed (an arrangement of empty cartons) upon which
lies air mattress, along with our sleeping bags. Tastefully, the
big-flower-print bed sheet does not permit the attention to drift to the poor
structure of the bed. The dark toilet is an extension of the same room. An old
cough syrup bottle has been modified with kerosene oil to serve the purpose of
the lamp which practically lights up nothing. The empty ghee cans are our
makeshift geysers. Basic instinct is the best aide when it comes to anatomy in
the dark bathroom. The room décor is an artistic arrangement of the empty
containers of food, fuel and fire. Food cartons serve as tables, fuel cans as
stools and empty (fired) cartridges as bedside teapoy items. The most decorated
table has boxes of chicken cubes, noodles, egg biscuits, brick-game and yes,
our window to the world, the radio. Other inhabitants include a Fujika (a
kerosene-lit heater), petromax, the books that you have sent and the military
phone – this masterpiece of technology which connects me to you, remains
silent. The weather, the snow, the wind, the electric power everything conspires
against our probable communication. Reminds me how Shah Latif narrates the
plight of Sassi after she had been robbed of Pannu:
“The camel (which carries Punno) is my enemy, the
wind (which is erasing the foot prints of caravan) is my enemy, the sand is my
enemy and so are the brothers of Punnu,
And most of all the sun is my enemy, for having
risen so late and not waking me up”
Our high point of the day arrives when we sit down
for dinner. Fresh vegetables are a luxury. We have to live on roasted onions
and tomato puree, which is canned. The weather denies us the luxury of fresh
vegetables, and much more. After getting over with dinner, we gather around the
radio and switch it on. This really is the world on our finger tips. There is
no FM here, only the BBC and loads of incomprehensible regional channels. The
alternative to BBC is Radio Pakistan, which runs the night-time transmission.
About the night-time transmission, it is the radio’s revenge from the
television for morning shows.
Another day has gone. The vigilant sentries change
over their duties. Far from home, away from gatherings, phone calls, SMS-es,
these men, I think, are doing something which can never be monetised.
Purposelessly, looking against the ravishing snowstorms, their biggest foe is
the weather. You can never predict its move. It sulks within and you only
realise how loosely you hang between a life and death when it hits you. A minor
headache turns into cerebral edema and a man full of stories, intentions,
commitments and emotions becomes, what they call, a ‘causality.’
The radio is tuned up and we start receiving our
dose of military bashing. A whole lot of qualified individuals start describing
us as a merry-making mob, with no clue about how one can party at 20,000 ft
above the mean sea level. My mind races. Huge chunks of budget for tomato puree
and canned vegetables. Power hungry for morally supporting everyone that we
have, people who love us and people who are the reason we live to guard this
piece of land. Luxurious lives in a make-shift room with empty cartons. I think
the quotation on the wall is not so over-rated.
Hope to hear from you soon…
Yours faithfully,
H
The author, who wishes to remain anonymous, served
his tenure at Siachen with the men who were trapped under an avalanche on Saturday. This letter is one
of the several that he wrote to his wife during his time at the glacier.
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