A soldier’s story

A smile no longer lit his face. Three years ago, this clean shaven, cheerful youngster with stars in his eyes, an AK-47 in his hands weari...

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A smile no longer lit his face. Three years ago, this clean shaven, cheerful youngster with stars in his eyes, an AK-47 in his hands wearing and a maroon beret on his head was one of the smartest officers I knew. Always smiling and laughing. Whether he was penetrating deep into the Kupwara jungles chasing terrorists, smashing their camps or playing a video game sitting on his camp cot amidst the freezing Kashmir winter winds.

This was an interesting group of young paratroopers. Some of them had spent as many as seven of their nine years in service battling terrorism in the state. They had been through it all from its growth to peak, the plateau and also what till some time back was being perceived to be a decline. Living in the line of fire, dodging bullets day in and day out for years. "One bullet has my name on it. Therefore I don’t wear my name tag," he joked. That time I laughed with him.

But he was no longer laughing. When I bumped into him recently, the lines on his face had hardened. How many terrorists had he killed, 20, 40, 60 or more? "It just does not matter. In Asia there anyway is a population explosion. Kill 20, there are 40 more out there." At least his sense of humour was intact. Though he was not smiling. "I am not joking. Army is not the solution to the Kashmir problem," he said.

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He inhaled his cigarette deeply. Another change. Earlier he used to take small drags and hardly inhaled. Dark green camouflage fatigues, maroon berets, a Biretta pistol on his hip and his AK-47 by the bedside. "How’s life in the Valley?" I asked, breaking the ice after three years. "Same as it was earlier. It is not that these chaps (terrorists) are more gutsy now. Their orders are to strike at our camps even if it means death for them. They got killed then, they are getting killed now. It is just that they are trying to extract a price for their deaths," he said.

This, he said, would continue. There is no end to it. "Can’t build a great wall in India can we?" No other way of stopping them from coming in. And once in, they are like fish in water. "Don’t believe anyone who says things to the contrary. The terrorists have local support. Whether out of fear or love of lucre. We are not super-humans and can’t sniff them out of hell. It is the job of the local police and their intelligence units establishments," he fumed. "Coming down to brasstacks, partner, Kashmir is the civil government’s problem. And army is not the solution. We can kill terrorists but we cannot give employment to the people. We can strengthen our position along the Line of Control but we cannot fund schools and colleges, build infrastructure and improve the standard of living of the Kashmiris."

Last when I had met him, he did not know Kashmir well. He thought the people were anti-India and pro-Pakistan. But living alongside them, even if not as best of friends, he clearly empathised with them: "If I was a Kashmiri I would have thought life in India is like a jail. And what most Kashmiris have to undergo, if that was happening to you people in New Delhi you would have opted for Pakistan. Or China. Or Cuba or wherever else."

Life is a sham in Kashmir, he continued for us and for the people. "Because we are the only people being killed there. The poor innocent locals and the soldiers. And is anyone paying the price for it? Spare a moment for the people of J&K. Also spare a thought for the senseless killings there."My friend had suddenly grown up. "Not suddenly. Years of living under the shadow of the gun. Each year is like a decade. When I come to Delhi, I see life whizzing past me. Nobody has a moment to think about Kashmir or the soldiers not just of the army but even the paramilitary forces and central police organisations being killed every day. Just a few column inches somewhere, sometimes," he added and lit yet another cigarette.