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Vijaylakshmi Nagaraj
``I want to raise funds for the welfare of those affected by the Kargil conflict,'' cried mother. Her feelings were pouring out from her heart, and of course I would help her, I reassured her as she made plans for raising money. Age did not deter her enthusiasm though she wished she was younger.
I can never forget 1962, our home in Shillong was the hub of my mother's ladies club activities. They had taken up the task of providing woollen socks for our jawans fighting the Chinese in the cold heights in NEFA (Arunachal Pradesh). They knitted all night for days, the pattern was simple as the urgency was felt to provide the maximum numbers in the shortest time.
As little children, we did our bit too. We paired the knitted socks and packed them in bundles to be sent to our troops. The next thing I remembered was mother packing our bags with an urgency as the aggression worsened and we were sent to our grandparents in Palakkad (Kerala).
During the 1965 aggression I helped mother in her fund raisingactivities. Her club had organised a fete, the proceeds of which were sent to the National Defence Fund. Mother's crisp dosas were famous on this side of the Brahmaputra, paper thin with the right amount of potato filling, the sambhar authentic with the right amount of tang. My duty was at the service counter.
Mother's stall was the first to wind up as her Rs 5 per plate dosas just vanished into the public stomach. The handsome amount she made would boost up the fund collection along with the gold bangles she gave without batting an eyelid. She believed even this was just a drop in the ocean. There was need to do more.
I understood what war meant. My late uncle, an army officer, was in the thick of it. In Shillong we had to follow rules set by the civil defence authorities. There was a proper bunker made in a corner of the garden. Dug deep into the earth, lined with sandbags and with a crude wooden flooring. The bunker was our favourite playroom where my sister and I spent hours playing ``house house''with our dolls and tea sets. The windows of our house were all covered with brown paper so that no light would be visible in the dark of the night. I learnt to react to the civil defence drills. An air raid siren set us all scampering into the bunker, waiting in silence for the all clear signal to boom. Just one light was on as we waited, no TV, no radio, just listening to stories narrated by father, mother or our homely maid. This went on for hours till sleep overtook us.
While walking up the hill to school, if the siren blew it was quick action for my sister and me. We went flat on the ground, face down, ears plugged with cotton wool which mother insisted we carry in our shirt pockets. We would lie still as jets whizzed past over our heads. The all-clear signal and we were back on our feet and off to school.
There were rumours too of spies in disguise. The enemy was trying to enter Shillong. There would be a reward for those who nabbed them. Our eyes and ears were open, we were alert to any stranger orvendor in our vicinity. I wanted to catch a spy and claim the reward; sadly, luck was not on my side.
As the wounded were brought to the Military Hospital, mother and the ladies of her club got activated. They visited the jawans with home-made goodies and lots of cheer. Many who had lost a limb were upset. The ladies talked to them for hours, reassuring them that all was not lost. We teenagers got busy making get well cards. We climbed hillsides to collect wild flowers to make bouquets. We visited the soldiers every day and never tired of listening to their stories of valour. They too looked forward to our childish chatter.
I grew up and got married to a dashing young army man. In May 1999 there was Kargil, today it is a more bold militant all over the Valley. Even as I contribute my wee bit, I pray for the safety of every soldier. For my soldier too, who is out there in Kashmir protecting the borders of our country. The aggression is closer home.
Copyright © 1999 Indian Express Newspapers (Bombay)Ltd.
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