Life in ammunition boots

Right in the middle

Every time that the military is called upon to manage a crisis -- natural or man made, soldiers place duty above their personal losses and grief! Such situations invariably remind me of Havaldar Narayan.

We lived in the military quarters in the Cantonment area of New Delhi, opposite an army unit where Narayan was temporarily attached from his parent unit in Bikaner. It was in the mid 90s that Narayan, his young wife and baby son moved into our spare room with a washroom, a utility space that doubled up for a kitchen with an independent access. His son had a heart condition that needed to be operated upon, but before that the baby’s macrocephaly needed to be treated. The medical care and surgery were being handled by the AIIMS and funded by the army.

Their presence was unobtrusive. Occasionally we saw them go out on their regular hospital visits on a moped.

Almost five months after their arrival, we saw them rush out on a Sunday morning. Later in the day, Narayan called to say their son had passed away. When he realised how expensive it was to fly their son’s body to Kerala, he buried his firstborn in a nondescript cemetery in an unmarked grave. That night they returned to our home, a shattered couple. We offered them succour and solace. The next day his wife stayed with me while our husbands were at work.

Narayan, in the meantime, was busy. He had to complete all the paper work and formalities related to his child’s case. He had to ensure that the balance of funds lying with AIIMS, sanctioned by the Army for his the operation, would be duly refunded to the Army. He had to sign out of the unit he was temporarily attached to in Delhi, and buy train tickets to get his wife back to Kerala.

His parent unit in Bikaner had now moved to Siachen, and he had very little time to report for duty. That night, after dinner with us, they took leave.

In less than a week, Havaldar Narayan was back on his way to report for duty. He spent a few hours with us before he resumed that journey to Siachen.

It hit me then that a soldier has no time to mourn a personal loss, no time to comfort a grieving wife. His sacrifice is supreme. This brief but poignant
interaction has made me understand that the call of duty outdoes personal grief.

To understand a soldier’s life one must wear his ammunition boots!