“2 Bucks"

Inspired by a true event and written with inputs from Col. Ramesh Sharma

Sarojini is just one year old. The last time I left from home, she would lovingly call me Dada. Her melodious voice that broke into a gibberish were the most beautiful moments i got back from home along with the warm kakras wrapped in a towel for the train journey. I would not have known that these moments would have been the last ones when i spent with them. Every time I came back home it would be scene of celebrations at home and every departure to the ‘front’ would be like a mourning. 

I remember the first time i had met my wife. She was young, hiding her shyness behind the bright yellow ghunghat. But her smile shone through her ghunghat into my heart. Soon we got married, and her shyness had disappeared like a fragrance in the wind. She would keep talking till her jaws ached and I would listen to her talks till my eyes fell asleep. We became best of friends but before we realised, time had disappeared like the fine sand between the tender fingers of life and it was time to part. Her silence on that day was the most unbearable. I could have borne a thousand bullets on my body, but this pan was of a different kind. Her tears were unstoppable. I knew then that my biggest strength was now my biggest weakness. During the train journey, I could not sleep a wink. Her smile would linger like an illusion in my eyes and if my eyes drooped into slight drifts of sleep, her mindless laughter would wake me up with a jolt. But my Country was to be guarded and protected, the enemy to be kept at bay, so that the vast land of hardworking people could make us the best nation in the world. It was my pledge to die for the country, my country men, die for the  honor of my regiment and its "izzat". 

Another bullet hit the glass window hard throwing it into splinters. Sandwiched between the wall and the truck, I had hardly any space to move. The terrorists had occupied the mosque and had held innocent people hostages. The encounter was long and bloody. I was out of ammunition. There was continuous firing from the upper tiers of the minaret. The entire nation was being divided. The war that was supposed to be kept at the borders had seeped into the country like cancer. The war now had to be fought from within. In every part of India, we are seen with hatred. Human rights activists clamor at our door step making noise of deaths during ambush as inhuman. I often wonder in agony, are our lives worth nothing? It is so easy for activists to stay behind closed doors in the security of their homes and point fingers at us calling our actions inhuman. Would they stand in front of these firing terrorists and get the hostages their freedom? A hand grenade blasted a little distance away from me and I was shaken from my thoughts. I saw Major Ahmed running towards me from behind a broken wall. The dust gave him cover. He took cover next to me. He was grinning from ear to ear.

 'I am out of ammunition, Ahmed.' I tell him. 'Give me some'

 Ahmed fires above the wall, still grinning like a jackass. 'Why should I give it to you?' he asks me.

 'Why not?' I ask him. 

'You haven't bothered to return me the 2 bucks you owe me from the teen pati  card game you lost a week ago!' 

'I will return it as soon as we get back' i promised him. 

'No I need it now. What if you get killed today? Then you will never give me back my 2 bucks!'

I search my pockets. Ahmed falls next to me. A bullet has pierced the skull on the upper eyebrow. Blood is gushing out. I hold him in my arms. His eyes mock me. I pick up his gun. I have to avenge his death…the death of a brave soldier, the death of my fallen brethren. I keep firing, the hostages must be rescued and the mosque has to be returned to its sanctity, for Ahmed, for Ahmed's wife, for Ahmed's children. He died in battle, a proud death. He gave his today for our tomorrow. It's now my turn to either victory or death. In war there is no second place. Win or die.