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 There are three stories that I remember clearly when I think of Gurdeep Salaria. But I should introduce him properly, as I was trained to do, when I was in the military. Gurdeep Singh Salaria was my coursemate in the National Defence Academy. We were in the same squadron and effectively lived together from 1990 to 1993. He died while fighting militants in Kashmir on January 9, 1996 — it is eleven years today — and was posthumously awarded a Shaurya Chakra. I have stories to tell about him, of how we as a nation honour him, and men like him, and what it tells us about our country.

Camp Rovers is a typically grueling army-training event held in the second year of the Academy. It is a map reading cum basic survival training and endurance testing exercise, and concludes with a ‘race back’ to the Academy with weapons and heavy loads that, appropriately, qualify it to be one of the toughest exercises for that age group in any army in the world. Winning the ‘race back’ is prestigious for the squadron as it is a measure of team spirit and physical toughness.

On the final day, while our squadron was leading the race, one of our fellow coursemates collapsed from heat and exhaustion, 2 km short of the finishing line. Getting him along was crucial as a drop-out meant a loss of crucial points. At that stage there were only four or five of us left as the rest of the squadron had already staggered ahead. We not only had to distribute his load and weapon but also had to carry him on our shoulders to complete the race. Our feet and shoulders hurt, the heat was killing and we swore at each other, but we bonded, as people who undergo adversities together do. Unsurprisingly, Salaria was one amongst us — he was someone like that. Throughout the camp, he played the role of a leader, worker and unifier. He pushed, cajoled and cursed us — forcing us to work together. Under a blazing sun, we carried our coursemate and stumbled across the finish line. We won Camp Rovers that year.

‘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.

“See, Mukho, see how short my lifeline is?” Salaria said as he showed me his palm, “Do you know that Nostradamus predicted a war between India and Pakistan in 1996, and I have a feeling that I will die in that war “. I tried not to laugh too hard and hide my obvious disbelief. This was in the early 1990s — after the collapse of the Soviet Union, when we believed anything was possible, even the alleged prophesies of an ancient Frenchman. I was a sceptic of the end-of-the-world stories, and in fact, did not believe in much else either and this infuriated Salaria. “Your lack of belief may be fashionable, but I am telling you, in 1996, there will be a war over Kashmir and I will die fighting!!” On January 9 1996 — so early in that year — Salaria was killed in a firefight in Kashmir.

The Indian Express played a huge role in constructing a war memorial to honour soldiers from the states of Punjab, Himachal and Haryana in Chandigarh. Although the idea of regional war memorials is commendable, the need for a national war memorial remains. Probably to address this concern, President Abdul Kalam, while inaugurating the memorial in August 2006, announced that he would extend his support to the construction of a national war memorial.