Thursday, 14th February 2019, for us, here in Kenya was a day almost like any other. Though it was Valentine's Day, the fact that it came almost in the middle of the week, did not leave much scope for catching a quick lunch with my husband (like the impromptu one last year!) or ordering in dinner. Plus there was the fact that my neighbour and I spent a lot of time supervising the guys we had called in to clean the water tanks on our compound and the only time I went through the headlines on my on line newspaper from India, was when I had my cup of Kericho Gold tea that morning. Post tank cleaning supervision and lunch, it was time for my classes to begin on Skype and with the Board Exam set to start in India next week, I am taking additional classes for my 10th grade students almost every day, with the result that I was now in class right until dinner time here.
So with eyes burning from staring at the screen, back stiff with sitting for a few hours at a stretch, the brain in a sozzled mess from fielding oh so many last minute doubts from students, I first barely registered what my son was saying, even as I rapidly rolled out chappatis for dinner. "Mom, he repeated, didn't you read the news? A convoy of Indian soldiers was attacked today, when a vehicle laden with explosives rammed into their bus, at a place called Pulwama in India's northern most state, forty men died, Mom, at 3:15 pm India time." I asked him if he was sure he was giving me the latest news and how he knew about it. He patiently repeated it like one talking to a small child, "Mom, people came up to me in school, (we are two and a half hours behind India), to say how sorry they were to hear about the attack, the WhatsApp group that I am in with the boys from our housing society in Pune have been discussing nothing else all evening...." And it was then that I realized that what he was saying had to be true.. members of our armed forces had been treacherously attacked, yet again.
Late on Friday evening, I asked my husband to switch channels to the news from India so I could see what they were all saying on the second day after the attack and to also watch respects being paid to the forty CRPF men whose Tricolour wrapped coffins had been by then, brought to our capital, New Delhi, before being taken to their respective villages, scattered throughout the length and breadth of India, for their last rites. Images of raw, unfettered grief greeted me, mothers and other women wailing, wives on the verge of collapse, (honestly there should be a law against cameras recording these very private moments and against news reporters thrusting mikes into the faces of all and sundry from each devastated family...) children crying, some too young to even comprehend that Daddy was never coming back and men swearing revenge on the country that was deemed to be responsible for this attack.
The news channels were, as usual, debating the matter to its last fragments, with all kinds of subject experts (some self proclaimed and others genuine) and smarmy politicians who obviously wanted to use the opportunity to squeeze in sympathy votes, (India goes to the polls later this year), dominating the panels. But one lady in particular caught my eye and stood out among the rest. Every other panelist addressed her first, actually listened whenever she said anything and they all expressed condolences on the death of her brave son, who had been martyred in Kashmir just over two years ago. Her name was Mrs. Meghna Girish and she is the wife of a retired Air Force officer and the mother of Major. Akshay Girish, who had given up his life, while defending the Nagrota camp from heavily armed terrorists, disguised in police uniform, near Jammu, as part of a Quick Response Team. He left behind a very young wife, a then three year old daughter, a twin sister and aging parents and grand parents.
A quick Google search, even as I was watching the news debate, revealed everything I had forgotten about the attack in Nagrota. At that time, when it had happened on 29th November 2016, we had been deeply affected, not only because of precious lives lost at the hands of terrorists but also because my Dad had been posted to Nagrota more than twenty five years ago. And then, on one of the search links, I came across Mrs. Girish's blog. I had already listened to the lady speak with quiet dignity and a face full of genuine sympathy for all the forty families so deeply affected by the latest dastardly attack. I knew I had to read it. And so at 11:00 pm last night, I started reading it, right from her very first entry, made mere days after her son had been killed, while defending a building which had families of fellow soldiers residing in them.
She starts with the birth of her twins in the mid eighties, her son's struggles with his health in the early years, his determination to join the Air force, like his father, and the eye problems which eventually led him to joining the Indian Army instead, where fate had the ultimate sacrifice in store for him. The story is so beautifully chronicled that within a few minutes into the blog, my tears were flowing freely, as she describes their close knit family, the school years, her son's wedding, the birth of a grand daughter and then her daughter's wedding. All the very simple joys of life that all of us take for granted, day in and day out. The final day of her son's life and the way they get the news, after being on tenterhooks all day, is absolutely heart wrenching...Each post ended with her thanking people for the support given to the family and her gratitude to all the strangers who came to show solidarity with the family and she always asks God to bless everyone. Her faith, despite what life dealt out to her, remains tangible, unshakable, unbreakable.....By 2:00 am this morning I had not finished nearly two years worth of posts and my eyes were swollen, my nose was red and running and I knew I had to stop reading and finish it the following morning... If I was so affected just by reading about what a family goes through while facing the death of a martyr and its aftermath, of a three year old daughter crying out loud that she wanted to see her father, of a young wife left to pick up the remains of her life, what about those many, many Forces families that go through this year on year, even as our country tries to continue waging a war on terror?
The Girish family now belongs to an organization that connects all the families whose family member made the supreme sacrifice and as she writes about the Kargil martyrs of 1999, she mentions meeting the family of late Major Padmapani Acharya, who was awarded the Maha Vir Chakra posthumously, ( India's second highest military honour), sending me whizzing down my own memory lane....
The year was 1986. My Dad had just got posted to Gauhati, Assam, and we had all moved from Pune. I was cycling around in our Army - Air Force Housing Area, when a fancy name plate on the terrace parapet wall of a first floor house caught my eye. 'Acharyas', it said in bold brass letters and I could see a plethora of plants around the entire terrace area. I was impressed, as my Dad had an ordinary wooden name plate and we were yet to buy a single plant, having very reluctantly parted from the beautiful garden of our colonial style army bungalow in Pune. Gradually we got to know Acharya Aunty, as we called her and found her to be a lovely, genuine lady who was the Principal of the little Air Force Primary school. Her then eighteen year old son, Padmapani or Babloo 'Bhaiya' (older brother) as we called him, was away at college and came home only for vacations. He was great friends with the daughters of our immediate neighbours who were in college themselves (I was in middle school then!) and that was how we used to often see him in our block....By late 1987, the Acharyas had got posted out and as luck would have it, we were allotted their house! Gone were those lush green plants, gone was that eye catching name plate, we had well and truly moved in...The Armed Forces are perpetually short of housing,so an officer doesn't usually get a house accorded to his rank until it is almost time to move out of that particular city...
Twelve years sped by, we all grew up and then the Kargil war started. Captain Vikram Batra, (he has a twin too), Captain.Saurabh Kalia and many others, both officers and soldiers, gave up their all to defend our nation and became house hold names. And then, I read in the newspaper, early one morning, that Major Padmapani Acharya, son of Wing Commander J Acharya, had been martyred too at Kargil, leaving behind a pregnant wife...This, I told my husband, HAS to be the tall, lanky, Babloo Bhaiya we knew. I was awed that I actually knew a Kargil martyr and that my sister and I had moved into the bedroom that had once been his, all those years ago... As the mother of a then one year old daughter, my heart went out to Babloo's wife, Charulata, who I had read then, delivered a baby girl, Aparajita, (the undefeated one) three months after her husband had breathed his last. Internet searches in later years revealed a family pitching in to bring up the little girl, just as her father had instructed in his last letter home...
Thanks to Mrs. Meghna Girish, I got to know that Aparajita Acharya is today in her second year of law college, plans to follow her late father's and grand father's footsteps in the Armed Forces and has just penned a coffee table book about the father she never knew, titled, 'Our Babloo, The Hero Of Drass.' It was released on what would have been his 50th birthday, had he but lived...
And so, more than seventy years after independence, India keeps losing her men in uniform. To many of us, it is a face on television, it might bring a quick tear to the eye and then, as we get on with our lives, all is forgotten...What about the shattered families and dreams they leave behind? Many organizations are working to help the families and educate the children, just as their fathers would have wished.. It's not always about money but about showing you care, in your own small way. Reach out if you can, the internet will show you the way, and do read Mrs. Girish's words to feel just a fraction of their pain...We salute our martyrs, they who died, saluting our flag and kept it flying...
https://findingnewmeaning.blog
So with eyes burning from staring at the screen, back stiff with sitting for a few hours at a stretch, the brain in a sozzled mess from fielding oh so many last minute doubts from students, I first barely registered what my son was saying, even as I rapidly rolled out chappatis for dinner. "Mom, he repeated, didn't you read the news? A convoy of Indian soldiers was attacked today, when a vehicle laden with explosives rammed into their bus, at a place called Pulwama in India's northern most state, forty men died, Mom, at 3:15 pm India time." I asked him if he was sure he was giving me the latest news and how he knew about it. He patiently repeated it like one talking to a small child, "Mom, people came up to me in school, (we are two and a half hours behind India), to say how sorry they were to hear about the attack, the WhatsApp group that I am in with the boys from our housing society in Pune have been discussing nothing else all evening...." And it was then that I realized that what he was saying had to be true.. members of our armed forces had been treacherously attacked, yet again.
Late on Friday evening, I asked my husband to switch channels to the news from India so I could see what they were all saying on the second day after the attack and to also watch respects being paid to the forty CRPF men whose Tricolour wrapped coffins had been by then, brought to our capital, New Delhi, before being taken to their respective villages, scattered throughout the length and breadth of India, for their last rites. Images of raw, unfettered grief greeted me, mothers and other women wailing, wives on the verge of collapse, (honestly there should be a law against cameras recording these very private moments and against news reporters thrusting mikes into the faces of all and sundry from each devastated family...) children crying, some too young to even comprehend that Daddy was never coming back and men swearing revenge on the country that was deemed to be responsible for this attack.
The news channels were, as usual, debating the matter to its last fragments, with all kinds of subject experts (some self proclaimed and others genuine) and smarmy politicians who obviously wanted to use the opportunity to squeeze in sympathy votes, (India goes to the polls later this year), dominating the panels. But one lady in particular caught my eye and stood out among the rest. Every other panelist addressed her first, actually listened whenever she said anything and they all expressed condolences on the death of her brave son, who had been martyred in Kashmir just over two years ago. Her name was Mrs. Meghna Girish and she is the wife of a retired Air Force officer and the mother of Major. Akshay Girish, who had given up his life, while defending the Nagrota camp from heavily armed terrorists, disguised in police uniform, near Jammu, as part of a Quick Response Team. He left behind a very young wife, a then three year old daughter, a twin sister and aging parents and grand parents.
A quick Google search, even as I was watching the news debate, revealed everything I had forgotten about the attack in Nagrota. At that time, when it had happened on 29th November 2016, we had been deeply affected, not only because of precious lives lost at the hands of terrorists but also because my Dad had been posted to Nagrota more than twenty five years ago. And then, on one of the search links, I came across Mrs. Girish's blog. I had already listened to the lady speak with quiet dignity and a face full of genuine sympathy for all the forty families so deeply affected by the latest dastardly attack. I knew I had to read it. And so at 11:00 pm last night, I started reading it, right from her very first entry, made mere days after her son had been killed, while defending a building which had families of fellow soldiers residing in them.
She starts with the birth of her twins in the mid eighties, her son's struggles with his health in the early years, his determination to join the Air force, like his father, and the eye problems which eventually led him to joining the Indian Army instead, where fate had the ultimate sacrifice in store for him. The story is so beautifully chronicled that within a few minutes into the blog, my tears were flowing freely, as she describes their close knit family, the school years, her son's wedding, the birth of a grand daughter and then her daughter's wedding. All the very simple joys of life that all of us take for granted, day in and day out. The final day of her son's life and the way they get the news, after being on tenterhooks all day, is absolutely heart wrenching...Each post ended with her thanking people for the support given to the family and her gratitude to all the strangers who came to show solidarity with the family and she always asks God to bless everyone. Her faith, despite what life dealt out to her, remains tangible, unshakable, unbreakable.....By 2:00 am this morning I had not finished nearly two years worth of posts and my eyes were swollen, my nose was red and running and I knew I had to stop reading and finish it the following morning... If I was so affected just by reading about what a family goes through while facing the death of a martyr and its aftermath, of a three year old daughter crying out loud that she wanted to see her father, of a young wife left to pick up the remains of her life, what about those many, many Forces families that go through this year on year, even as our country tries to continue waging a war on terror?
The Girish family now belongs to an organization that connects all the families whose family member made the supreme sacrifice and as she writes about the Kargil martyrs of 1999, she mentions meeting the family of late Major Padmapani Acharya, who was awarded the Maha Vir Chakra posthumously, ( India's second highest military honour), sending me whizzing down my own memory lane....
The year was 1986. My Dad had just got posted to Gauhati, Assam, and we had all moved from Pune. I was cycling around in our Army - Air Force Housing Area, when a fancy name plate on the terrace parapet wall of a first floor house caught my eye. 'Acharyas', it said in bold brass letters and I could see a plethora of plants around the entire terrace area. I was impressed, as my Dad had an ordinary wooden name plate and we were yet to buy a single plant, having very reluctantly parted from the beautiful garden of our colonial style army bungalow in Pune. Gradually we got to know Acharya Aunty, as we called her and found her to be a lovely, genuine lady who was the Principal of the little Air Force Primary school. Her then eighteen year old son, Padmapani or Babloo 'Bhaiya' (older brother) as we called him, was away at college and came home only for vacations. He was great friends with the daughters of our immediate neighbours who were in college themselves (I was in middle school then!) and that was how we used to often see him in our block....By late 1987, the Acharyas had got posted out and as luck would have it, we were allotted their house! Gone were those lush green plants, gone was that eye catching name plate, we had well and truly moved in...The Armed Forces are perpetually short of housing,so an officer doesn't usually get a house accorded to his rank until it is almost time to move out of that particular city...
Twelve years sped by, we all grew up and then the Kargil war started. Captain Vikram Batra, (he has a twin too), Captain.Saurabh Kalia and many others, both officers and soldiers, gave up their all to defend our nation and became house hold names. And then, I read in the newspaper, early one morning, that Major Padmapani Acharya, son of Wing Commander J Acharya, had been martyred too at Kargil, leaving behind a pregnant wife...This, I told my husband, HAS to be the tall, lanky, Babloo Bhaiya we knew. I was awed that I actually knew a Kargil martyr and that my sister and I had moved into the bedroom that had once been his, all those years ago... As the mother of a then one year old daughter, my heart went out to Babloo's wife, Charulata, who I had read then, delivered a baby girl, Aparajita, (the undefeated one) three months after her husband had breathed his last. Internet searches in later years revealed a family pitching in to bring up the little girl, just as her father had instructed in his last letter home...
Thanks to Mrs. Meghna Girish, I got to know that Aparajita Acharya is today in her second year of law college, plans to follow her late father's and grand father's footsteps in the Armed Forces and has just penned a coffee table book about the father she never knew, titled, 'Our Babloo, The Hero Of Drass.' It was released on what would have been his 50th birthday, had he but lived...
And so, more than seventy years after independence, India keeps losing her men in uniform. To many of us, it is a face on television, it might bring a quick tear to the eye and then, as we get on with our lives, all is forgotten...What about the shattered families and dreams they leave behind? Many organizations are working to help the families and educate the children, just as their fathers would have wished.. It's not always about money but about showing you care, in your own small way. Reach out if you can, the internet will show you the way, and do read Mrs. Girish's words to feel just a fraction of their pain...We salute our martyrs, they who died, saluting our flag and kept it flying...
https://findingnewmeaning.blog
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