Insomnia Read online

  RACHNA BISHT RAWAT

  INSOMNIA

  Army Stories

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Preface

  Courage

  Saathi

  Insomnia

  13 Para Goes to South Glacier

  The New Para Probationer

  Déjà Vu

  Face Off

  A Macabre Tale

  The Siachen Rescue

  The Delusion

  Subedar Major Negi Lays an Ambush

  Home Alone

  Munni Mausi

  Guruji

  Hearts and Minds

  The Secret

  The Colonel Goes to Bangkok

  Footnote

  Munni Mausi

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  EBURY PRESS

  INSOMNIA

  Rachna Bisht Rawat is the author of five books by Penguin Random House India, including the bestsellers The Brave and Kargil. She lives in New Delhi with Saransh, the wise teen; Hukum, the bushy-tailed golden retriever; an eclectic collection of books and music; and Manoj, the man in olive green who met her twenty-eight years back, when he was a Gentleman Cadet at the Indian Military Academy, and offered to be her comrade for life. She can be reached at www.rachnabisht.com and [email protected]. Her Instagram handle is @rachna_bishtrawat.

  Advance Praise for Insomnia

  ‘A perfect collection of stories about the lives of soldiers in war and peace. Rachna Bisht Rawat has the incredible ability to project how a soldier thinks, talks and acts in diverse situations. A must-read for every citizen of India, especially in these times of tension on our borders’—Major General Ian Cardozo, AVSM, SM

  ‘The settings of Rachna’s stories—locales ranging from Siachen, Kashmir, Garhwal to Arunachal—are picture-perfect. Her language, descriptions and similes are masterly. She brings alive her characters and the details of their lives and relationships in the army. Every soldier and his/her spouse will be able to relate closely with each story. This bouquet of stories comprises pathos, tragedy, valour, humour, even wickedness. In one story she writes, “Stories are born in the heart—from seeds quietly sown by people who once walked in and out of it—and can be written only when they start to choke you with their weight.” These are stories from the depths of her heart, which could only be written by someone closely related to the army’—General V.P. Malik, PVSM, AVSM, former Chief of Army Staff

  ‘The author’s style of writing is easy, lucid and engaging. The bond between two “enemy” soldiers at the army posts on either side of the border, in the story “Saathi”, speaks about the vanity of war. The author’s affiliation to and affinity for the army comes through with flair in these tales’—Bala Chauhan, The New Indian Express

  ‘In these stories laced with humour and pathos, Rachna Bisht Rawat steps away from the heroism of battlefields, as she has been doing in her previous books, to give us a sense of the bittersweet incidents that unfold inside hedge-lined cantonments across the country. A moving portrayal of the lives of soldiers, their families and their brotherhood. Rachna sprinkles her stories with an equal measure of hope and horror, and her lucid prose tells it as it is. This collection should be read by anyone keen to know what lies beneath the olive green’

  —Deepa Alexander, The Hindu

  For my beautiful mom, Sushila Bisht,

  who wanted me to write stories

  Preface

  Insomnia is a compilation of stories, many of which I wrote nearly ten years back, in sleepy Ferozepur, the last town of Punjab on the India–Pakistan border. I would drag a chair into the bamboo thicket at the end of our garden and sit there with my laptop, the breeze carrying to me strains of the Gurbani from across the yellow mustard fields.

  Though the stories were not getting published anywhere, they added so much meaning to my life. A portion of the book I wrote more recently, in the lonely months of the lockdown, cut away from the world by the pandemic that suddenly changed everything. I would work on it leaning back on the sofa in my Delhi flat, with a steaming mug of tea by my side and a bored Hukum—our handsome golden retriever—dozing off at my feet, his long silken ears brushing the floor. These stories helped take away some of the stifling sadness that had seeped into my heart as I constantly lived and breathed episodes of tragic human loss while writing Kargil, my previous book.

  This mixed bag of tales will show you a world of olive green that is inhabited not just by heroes but also by characters cut out from the same fabric of society that defines most of us: some strong, some weak, some seeped in moral courage, others twisted and evil. Isn’t that how it is in the real world?

  The stories I particularly enjoyed writing are the ones about the escapades of a happy-go-lucky major in the Indian Army who is loosely based on a young paratrooper I know. You will find him and his company of badass soldiers navigating their Kashmir and Siachen postings with a devil-may-care attitude. Their (mis)adventures give you a glimpse of how life actually is in the army, where young boys, straight out of college, are ready to risk everything in the line of duty, with a song on their lips and a wicked prank in their heads.

  While many of the incidents you will read in this book are based on true events and many of the characters are drawn from people I know, much of what you will read comes with what we, in the writing world, called creative licence. Which means that it is all a product of the writer’s imagination and may or may not be true.

  Many of these stories were written at a time when I had no contacts in publishing. So I wrote these promising myself that one day, maybe a hundred years later, I would compile them into a book. It seemed like an impossible dream back then, but I guess a hundred years sometimes pass by in the blink of an eye. And dreams do come true. That’s what I would like you to take back from this book. So, happy dreaming! And, I hope, some happy reading too!

  Courage

  Dusk had fallen. The crickets were calling. A translucent moon hung between the trees, climbing slowly into the sky like a scared kid reluctantly stepping into a dark room, not sure of where the light switch was. The evening was still and soaked with post-monsoon moisture. Bisht rubbed a habitual hand along the side of his neck only to find it clammy with sweat. ‘Dammit!’ He grimaced, wiping his hand along the side of his pants. There had been no time to change. No inclination, actually. He hadn’t gone home at all. For a moment, he couldn’t even remember if he had had any lunch. He had gone to the mess, he recollected. He had sat alone at the long dining table meant for eighteen people where a plate had been laid out for him; spoon on the right, fork on the left, dessert spoon up front. The hovering mess waiter had quickly served the meal. White porcelain bowls with the blue Para Regiment logo placed size-wise in perfect military precision. Rice. Dal. Sabzi. Chicken curry. Salad. He didn’t need to look up. He knew the Wednesday menu by heart.

  The mess waiter was walking in with a hot chapati when Bisht had suddenly got up, pushing his chair back, its legs scraping the wood-panelled floor. ‘Manohar, mujhe khana nahi khana. Plate hata de,’ he had said and, picking up his beret and car keys from the side table, walked out. So that explained the faint rumble in his stomach.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Rajnish Bisht, Sena Medal—short, stocky with a smashed boxer’s nose and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude that automatically made youngsters treat him with respect—squared his shoulders and entered the old building. It used to be a school in British times but was now serving the Indian Army’s need for a base hospital. Its grey stone facade had acquired an orange sheen in the setting sun. The first time he had seen the building—its red roof, the sweeping arches and the stark white bougainvillea climbing over the faded stones—it had taken h
is breath away. Today, he didn’t even notice it. Stepping briskly up the steps, he walked down the long, deserted corridor with its dangling light bulbs encased in green tin shades that looked like Chinese fisherman hats and were spilling pools of yellow on his uniform, making the brass lion and stars on his shoulders shine.

  His feet found their way to the intensive care unit, taking a complicated series of turns by muscle memory alone. For more than a fortnight, he had been coming here twice every day; thrice if he could find some more time between office hours. He stopped at the sign outside the ICU that said ‘No visitors beyond this point’, craning his neck to look through the rectangular glass panel in the door. His brain knew what sight awaited him. It was as if a movie had been paused at a moment in time, fifteen days back. On a sanitized white bed lay his company second-in-command, Major Abhay Singh Rathore, Shaurya Chakra, Sena Medal, still and almost lifeless. He was on a ventilator. Bisht watched him quietly, just as he had been doing every day. The lump in his throat felt heavier.

  * * *

  The doctor had been frank with him. Rathore’s condition had worsened considerably. The chances of him making it through the next twelve hours were very slim. ‘Be with his parents. They will need you,’ the doctor had told Bisht.

  It was going to be a long night. Bisht continued to look in through the glass, taking in every detail of Rathore’s angular face, drained of all colour, the cheekbones more prominent than ever before, the lips pale and bloodless. His eyes were shut, his head was swathed in white bandage and transparent tubes had been inserted into his nose and mouth. The rest of his tall, lanky frame was covered with white sheets looping and falling over the contours of his body. The bugger had never been this still in his life. ‘If you could see yourself now, you’d be ashamed. Get up, bastard. We need you alive,’ Bisht thought aloud, his eyes clouding with tears.

  On either side of the bed sat Rathore’s parents—thin, grey-haired retired Brigadier G.S. Rathore, Sena Medal, Vishisht Seva Medal, on one side and a tired-looking, dishevelled Mrs Vimla Rathore on the other. Each had grasped one of Abhay’s hands tightly, as if trying to help him hold on to the life that the surgeon said could ebb out of him anytime. For a moment, Bisht considered going in but then decided against it, granting the old couple the privacy to grieve alone in what could be the last hours of their only son’s life.

  * * *

  Running a hand over his tired eyes, he sat down to wait on the wooden bench outside the ICU, crossed arms resting loosely on his chest. He could sense a migraine attack coming and leant his head back, feeling the hard wood pressing into the nape of his neck, where his crew cut ended and the shirt collar started. He had hardly slept in the past few days. Each time he shut his eyes, a dozen different images of Rathore assaulted his senses, driving sleep away. Initially he had tried to distract himself but since that didn’t seem to help, he had given up. Now he would just watch his thoughts come and go, observing them like a man in meditation. The only difference was that each time they came, they seemed to cut his soul with a knife, adding to the searing, almost physical pain he was suffering from.

  This time he saw Rathore in Kashmir—an untidy stubble on his chin, face streaked with grime, gaunt from days spent climbing craggy mountains on tinned rations, scraping gunpowder off fallen snow and sucking on it when the mouth got dry. Unkempt but still looking gorgeous. ‘Abey model bann na tha tujhe, saale, fauj mein kyun aa gaya marne,’ Bisht thought aloud, a sad smile on his lips. Rathore was standing against a rock face, grinning wickedly, his dark eyes shining. ‘Jalte ho, sir, meri good looks se. Mujhe maaloom hai.’

  And then, the memory that flashed before his eyes every single day. Rathore bending over to tie a shoelace and saying, ‘I’m not afraid of enemy bullets, sir.’ Then standing up with a divine smile, distributing gyan. ‘There can only be one bullet with my name written on it. Why fear the others. Buzdil sau bar marte hain, bahadur bas ek baar.’ Bisht rolling his eyes. ‘Aisa Papa kehte hain, sir. He fought in the 1965 war, then again in ’71. Came back home safe each time. Ek goli toh zarur hogi jis pe mera naam likha hoga, par baaki se main nahi darta.’

  Bisht felt the bile rise in his throat and stifled an urge to vomit. The migraine had hit him quick and hard, catching his unawares, like a good boxer. He raised his hands to his forehead and pressed so hard with his fingers that he felt they might just slice into his brain.

  * * *

  At his lonely vigils outside the ICU over the past days, Bisht’s mind presented before his eyes almost every single memory he had of Rathore. Some had surprised him, because they had been lying buried so deep in the cobwebs of time that he had forgotten they existed.

  Rathore joining the unit as a lieutenant eight years back—slim, good-looking and with that familiar swagger of immortality that all young officers who have not seen action come with. Rathore during the unit’s Northeast deployment—interrogating militants, leading cordon-and-search operations, fierce, unafraid, taking risks that an experienced soldier never would. Rathore during the Kargil war, insolent and reckless, enjoying the thrill of putting his life at risk for his country. Sitting in a crevice, his rifle beside him, eating five-day-old dry puris, joking that they were better than his mom’s cooking. Volunteering for the most difficult operations, returning from one and then insisting that he accompany Bisht on another, to flush out intruders from Peak 5412—his eyes red from lack of sleep, face sunburnt, skin peeling off from being constantly whipped by the icy wind.

  ‘Bloody Rathore, you are tired. You are not coming with us. Stay back.’

  ‘Nahi thakaa, sir. I am not letting you do this alone.’

  That legendary daylight attack when they had managed to storm and take over an enemy-occupied post after killing four enemy soldiers and capturing one. They had brought back a stash of weapons and rations, with zero casualties on their own side, earning the regiment a battle honour and getting both of them a Sena Medal each.

  And finally, Rathore back from the war, celebrating his own invincibility—in the bar at Dum Pukht, the classiest five-star restaurant in the city, coaxing a voluptuous Russian girl to dance with him, cheerfully egged on by the other bachelors.

  Rathore had built up a formidable reputation over these few years. He had always led from the front, had stood by his men, and he had proven himself both in peace and in war. During Kargil, he had carried on his back a soldier, who had his leg blown off by a landmine, down to safety. In Agra, he had withdrawn money from his Defence Services Officers Provident Fund and handed it over, with a magnanimous ‘Jab honge, lauta dena’, to his man Friday, whose sister was getting married.

  As captain of the football team, he had brought the Inter Regimental Football Cup home every tournament, including once when he had fractured his arm during practice but had stood in the audience with his arm in plaster and screamed his head off, cheering his team to victory.

  He featured frequently in the langar gup. When he cracked jokes with soldiers much older than him and addressed them with crass expletives, they were flattered by the sense of familiarity he evoked in them. At the Regimental Bara Khana, they would hold out their plates for him, coaxing him to pick up the best morsels of meat. They would load his glass with one large rum after another and ensure that he returned to his room drunk and whistling. The men doted on him and did mental calculations about whether they would be lucky enough to serve with him when he took over the command of the unit.

  When he left the unit on posting, promising to be back in two years, the Charlie Company’s Junior Commissioned Officer had given a heartwarming speech, saying how every man in the company had ‘ek aankh mein sukh ka aansu, ek aankh mein dukh ka aansu, kyunki sa’ab promotion pe jaa raha hai, par hame chor ke jaa raha hai’. He also emphasized how Rathore had been an example to everyone, ‘Sa’ab ek namune ki tarah raha.’ A laughing Rathore had accepted it all and had promised them that he would be back soon.

  * * *

  In his eight years with the regi
ment, Rathore had done two terms in Kashmir and had two gallantry awards to show for those. When the regiment was being de-inducted from Kashmir for a well-deserved peacetime posting, word got around that the Brigade Commander was looking for an officer to act as a guide for the new unit coming to replace them. This man should know the area like the back of his hand and stay back to guide the new battalion for a month. No one was surprised when Rathore’s name came up. He had no complaints. ‘The girls will be heartbroken, sir. Do tell them I shall be there soon,’ he had quipped, bidding farewell to Bisht, who got into his Jonga to lead the convoy of happy soldiers to Srinagar, from where they would catch a flight back home.

  After a few days of moving around villages that were dens of militant activity and introducing the new unit to informers and vice versa, Rathore’s task was effectively over. He was just waiting for the time to pass and his date of leave to arrive when one morning, information came that a suspected militant was visiting a nearby village. A cordon-and-search operation was ordered. Since Rathore knew the area best, he offered to lead with two soldiers.

  Walking in single file, the three closed in on the suspected hut. Suddenly, a shot rang out and a bullet ripped right through Rathore’s neck. He clutched his throat, puzzled by the patch of red staining his hand, not realizing that he had been shot. Rifleman Laxman Das, just behind him, fell without a word. The bullet had gone right through Rathore and had lodged in Laxman’s heart. The third soldier was quick to react and shot the militant, who was visible at the window for a split second. Rathore turned around and mouthed ‘Shabaash!’ before sinking to the ground, the blood gushing from his throat staining the soil a dirty red.

  While Das died on the spot, the profusely bleeding Rathore was evacuated to Chandigarh. Doctors were amazed to find that the bullet had missed both his trachea and food pipe. Rathore survived and returned to the regiment a hero. He was received at the railway station with great fanfare. The unit band, which had made an exception and specially practised a song that was not in their repertoire, played ‘Piya Tu Ab Toh Aaja’ on the platform, much to the amusement of other passengers. The soldiers loaded a grinning Rathore with marigold garlands, whose weight made his neck bend. He was lifted out of his railway coach by the young officers of the unit, carried on their shoulders to the Commanding Officer’s ‘Number 1’ Gypsy waiting outside. He had marched into the office of his Company Commander, making him look up from his files with a stomp of his boot and a crisp salute. ‘Jai Hind, sir! Major Rathore reporting back to the unit, sir!’ Bisht had looked up to find him grinning from ear to ear . . .