‘The Glider’ is the name of the inter-squadron cross-country trophy at the Academy, arguably, the most prestigious of all competitions. In our fourth term, our squadron had prepared hard for this event and we were keen to win. The actual race is usually a blur, as all of us run our hearts out, and practically collapse at the finishing line. I remember crossing that line and then watching the rest of the runners do so. Suddenly, in the last 400 meters, we saw a commotion and watched Salaria in the middle of it. He was, as we jokingly described it later, “running like a headless chicken” — lurching left and right while trying to complete the race. Apparently, he was sick the night before the race but it was too late to drop out, and to not finish the race would have cost us valuable points. Once the race started, Salaria ran on sheer willpower, fighting the easy temptation to pass out or give up. While we all screamed and cheered from the finishing line, Salaria somehow completed the race and collapsed at the end line. We won the Glider that year.

While I was home on leave, during and after my tenure in Kashmir, I sometimes used to visit India Gate. It was usually a lonely drive, not only because I desired it that way, but also because my memories were hard to share, and explain, to my civilian friends. After parking the car, I used to stand alone near the Amar Jawan Jyoti and remembered my friends, juniors and comrades who died in combat. It was probably a self-indulgent moment of forced catharsis, but it played a useful role then. The act of thinking about the departed, and mourning them, helped me to move on with my own life. This is no easy matter, as thousands of veterans can easily recall ‘survivor guilt’ and the pain associated with the loss of fellow soldiers. (For the younger generation the feeling is similar, but different in context and content to the drunken salute from the open Gypsy in Rang De Basanti). However, the journey to India Gate often felt like a false pilgrimage — for in all honesty, the monument was built, and is inscribed with the names of Indian soldiers who died fighting for the British Empire. The Jyoti itself, despite the confusing semantics, is dedicated to the remains of the ‘unknown soldier’. The soldiers who we know died since Independence, and we possess the names of almost every one of them, are themselves unacknowledged, remembered only by their families and friends.

... contd.