and arrow. “Why worry? I will destroy those cowardly Kauravas!”
Ma pulled him into an embrace, saying fondly, “My Arjun is here.”
How well he fit inside her arms. Usually he was her Munu, today he had graduated into a fighter hero.
In school, no opportunity was missed to speak about the war. Many of us discovered patriotism, as more than words, an urgent feeling. The staff room would echo raucously with argument, our prime minister's name invoked with much anger, for having kept the nation unprepared. In the assemblies, special prayers were said; as the anthem was sung, some pupils and even teachers broke down into tears. One day some army bigwigs came and spoke to us about glorious careers in the military, about patriotism and the need to defend Mother India. They told us about Shaheed Dinoo, who had bravely gone behind enemy lines, walked up to their commander,and said, “I was a Chinese boy who was kidnapped by the Indians. I will take you through the pass.” And when the Chinese followed him, thishoom-thishoom, our jawans were waiting for them. And Dinoo? The Chinese commander had his head cut off.
If the ultimate objective in life was to attain moksha, release from the cycle of birth and unity with the Absolute, did the outcome of this war matter? Had it already been settled by karma? On the other hand, the Gita enjoined duty no matter what the result. Thus discussed my father and his close followers. Meanwhile ordinary men and women prayed and sang to the gods; women knitted sweaters, donated their gold.
When our local MP arrived in the back of a pickup, standing beside a large brass tapela in which to collect the gold, it was Mansoor who took the bulkier of Ma's two bangles to add to the collection.
And when in school some of the older boys collected signatures pledging to defend the nation, I too pricked my forearm with a pin and signed my name in blood.
Did our India even have place names like Namka Chu? Or Thagla Ridge? Or Che Dong?
It was at Namka Chu, a gorge high in the Himalayas at the border with Tibet, that the Chinese first attacked, with their AK-47s and large guns, their booted, well-trained soldiers. They came from all directions, surprising the fewer Indians who sat shivering in their cotton clothes and canvas shoes, manning light machine guns. Oh yes, our Punjabis and Gurkhas and Assamese and others were heroic, but they stood no chance. They were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred; Indian regiments were soon in disarray, the platoons fighting to the last man. They were annihilated. Hundreds dead, hundreds wounded and captured.
And the “shameless” Chinese, as Nehru called them, were moving to other positions, threatening an all-out war.
We had been attacked and could not defend ourselves.
In spite of the bile and nervousness which the war produced in us, there was an element of comedy to our exaggerated responses that we wouldlong remember. Ma prepared for the eventuality of the Chinese army reaching as far as Gujarat by having two kitchen knives sharpened; jewellery and other valuables like photographs and a sari had been gathered and packed in a trunk to take with us if we had to leave our home. A blanket, a ladder, and some food and medicine were on standby, in case we had to make a jump and hide in the dry well at the back of the house. A snake had already been forced out of it.
“We are ready,” Ma then said, red-faced and huffing from her efforts, a determined look on her chubby features. “Let them come!” Aawé to khari, Chin-chin lok! Beside her, her little Arjun with his bow and arrow.
One late evening after dinner, as I sat at my table in the courtyard poring over newspapers, my father came over from the library and said to me, “Karsan—come with me outside for a moment.”
Ma had come out of their room and stood watching as Bapu-ji and I stepped out from the side of the house into the shrine compound. Bapu-ji had in his hands a package wrapped in an old copy
Ma pulled him into an embrace, saying fondly, “My Arjun is here.”
How well he fit inside her arms. Usually he was her Munu, today he had graduated into a fighter hero.
In school, no opportunity was missed to speak about the war. Many of us discovered patriotism, as more than words, an urgent feeling. The staff room would echo raucously with argument, our prime minister's name invoked with much anger, for having kept the nation unprepared. In the assemblies, special prayers were said; as the anthem was sung, some pupils and even teachers broke down into tears. One day some army bigwigs came and spoke to us about glorious careers in the military, about patriotism and the need to defend Mother India. They told us about Shaheed Dinoo, who had bravely gone behind enemy lines, walked up to their commander,and said, “I was a Chinese boy who was kidnapped by the Indians. I will take you through the pass.” And when the Chinese followed him, thishoom-thishoom, our jawans were waiting for them. And Dinoo? The Chinese commander had his head cut off.
If the ultimate objective in life was to attain moksha, release from the cycle of birth and unity with the Absolute, did the outcome of this war matter? Had it already been settled by karma? On the other hand, the Gita enjoined duty no matter what the result. Thus discussed my father and his close followers. Meanwhile ordinary men and women prayed and sang to the gods; women knitted sweaters, donated their gold.
When our local MP arrived in the back of a pickup, standing beside a large brass tapela in which to collect the gold, it was Mansoor who took the bulkier of Ma's two bangles to add to the collection.
And when in school some of the older boys collected signatures pledging to defend the nation, I too pricked my forearm with a pin and signed my name in blood.
Did our India even have place names like Namka Chu? Or Thagla Ridge? Or Che Dong?
It was at Namka Chu, a gorge high in the Himalayas at the border with Tibet, that the Chinese first attacked, with their AK-47s and large guns, their booted, well-trained soldiers. They came from all directions, surprising the fewer Indians who sat shivering in their cotton clothes and canvas shoes, manning light machine guns. Oh yes, our Punjabis and Gurkhas and Assamese and others were heroic, but they stood no chance. They were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred; Indian regiments were soon in disarray, the platoons fighting to the last man. They were annihilated. Hundreds dead, hundreds wounded and captured.
And the “shameless” Chinese, as Nehru called them, were moving to other positions, threatening an all-out war.
We had been attacked and could not defend ourselves.
In spite of the bile and nervousness which the war produced in us, there was an element of comedy to our exaggerated responses that we wouldlong remember. Ma prepared for the eventuality of the Chinese army reaching as far as Gujarat by having two kitchen knives sharpened; jewellery and other valuables like photographs and a sari had been gathered and packed in a trunk to take with us if we had to leave our home. A blanket, a ladder, and some food and medicine were on standby, in case we had to make a jump and hide in the dry well at the back of the house. A snake had already been forced out of it.
“We are ready,” Ma then said, red-faced and huffing from her efforts, a determined look on her chubby features. “Let them come!” Aawé to khari, Chin-chin lok! Beside her, her little Arjun with his bow and arrow.
One late evening after dinner, as I sat at my table in the courtyard poring over newspapers, my father came over from the library and said to me, “Karsan—come with me outside for a moment.”
Ma had come out of their room and stood watching as Bapu-ji and I stepped out from the side of the house into the shrine compound. Bapu-ji had in his hands a package wrapped in an old copy
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