Two people used to call me up when I was in Bluechip Computer Consultants. My room mate who used to work with Coca Cola and my former college mate from Trigent Software. I was therefore quite surprised when the caller identified himself as a relative from Pattambi, Kerala. His voice was almost inaudible, just a whisper. Though he started with courtesies like how-is-work-and-life-and-stay-and-food, there was something amiss, something unusual. Then the words came out slowly, sadly "Nammudey Ajay??.." he said, and wept through the phone. The feeling just sank in; my eyes hooded; my heart beat faster; there was a lump in my throat; because it meant a life cut short; it meant a bereaved, sorrowful family. It meant that I would live a life filled with fond memories of our togetherness.
The child is the father of man. During childhood there are some people whom you like and dislike instinctively. These likes and dislikes are carried forth as the child metamorphosises into an adult. It was as a child of 8 that I first sized up this young son of Mother India while we were on summer vacation. Though of the same age he was taller,smarter and stronger than me. He had a conservative demeanour and conversations with him usually centered around studies, soccer, village humour, temple committees, festivals and politics. Even those days he had a surging ambition to join the Indian Army and used to tell me about the merits and pride of being in the armed forces. He was passionate about this ambition and he realized it after his B.E. degree when he joined the Indian Army as a Lieutnent at the young age of 22. But the love which had first struck during those boyish days still held good as e-mail and chat became our medium of communication.
Scores of people came to pay homage to the martyr from Pattambi. Amidst the
crowd and the sadness and the cries, I heard in whispers as to how he got
killed. On a mission to flush out Pakistani intruders perched atop hillocks
and mountains in the snowy Himalayas, Indian jawans had to climb up near
vertical slopes. Thereafter the intruders started hurtling down rocks and
boulders to stop the advance of the Indian army. One such boulder hit Ajay
and he went down ; all the while encouraging his men to keep fighting to
the finish. That was the last mortals saw and heard of him. Only God knew
when he died; only God knew how he died. But then the mind never stopped
imagining; it visualized him lying wounded and paralysed gasping for
breath; it visualized him thinking of the people whom he loved and crying;
it visualized him lying frozen; with the snow and the blizzards for
company. The same wretched mind brought a thin film of extreme sadness in
my eyes; which welled up and flowed in a torrent down my cheeks. When I
left for Bangalore 15 days later; the sadness and tears had not dried
up...
Time and again when I visit Pattambi, there are some facets of it which never change. Boats still ply on the placid waters of the Bharathapuzha river. Nubile women with long, oily hair pray at the Thirumittacode temple. Hindus and Muslims together celebrate the Pattambi Nercha every year. Our palatial Menon tharavad still retains its ethnic grandeur. Ayyappan Vilakkus and Paanas are held with much fervour in the religious month of December/January. Tastefully caparisoned elephants are a majestic sight in the innumerable utsavams. But then despite the crowd and the noise, I would forever be alone. Conspicuous by his absence by my side would be a gallant young former officer of the Indian Army, my cousin Ajay.
Hey Mere Watan Ke Logon,
Zara Aankh Mein Bhar Lo Paani,
Joh Shaheed Huey Hain Unki,
Zara Yaad Karo Qurbani...
- Sudhir.G.V.