In each one of us lies a patriot, waiting for the opportune moment to literally charge out of the trenches, take the battle to the enemy, and eke glory from amongst the gore. As early as a dimple-cheeked child, knocking imaginary enemy jets out of the summer sky, to an eager youth when Defence Entrance exams symbolised a coming-of-age ritual. Essentially, our early life is spotted with grand fantasies of battles wherein we would fight, kill and earn a gallantry award, most preferably non-posthumous.
But as adolescence turns to youth, and the truth begins to dawn that one would never fly a MiG outside PS2, or command a division other than Regional Sales, we make our own compromises. No, we don't settle for the Coast Guard, but Infosys would do just fine, thank you. In fact, that is pretty much the story of our lives. Small compromises. As life goes on, we don't dream much of charging out of the trenches as before. Though, not as much as scalping a rail ticket from , what else, the defence quota. Or a Chivas from the canteen. Maybe we would watch our kids make the season-finale cameo at the NDA exam. Rousing. Boys would be boys. Worrying all the same that your kid might actually make it.
Finally, when somebody else's son who chose to wear green fails to make it home, you say a silent prayer; as much for the departed as your own offspring.
It is not that personal loss makes one a greater patriot, or that love for a nation should be confined to the ones shouldering arms. Yet our earliest memories of loving one's own nation is colored by stories of valour, honor and lives lost for the same. With perspective and age we may question such a singular approach, yet deep inside we are all soldiers. Plodding at our lives, inconsequential as they might be. For we don't love this land any less.
We are only glad that they fight on our behalf, and relieved that they are taking our place.
How would soldiers die, for aren't they reborn in each one of us?
No comments:
Post a Comment