A Friend and Rum

Vivan Kamath

For my book, I made a handwritten diary loosely based on two stories I had heard casually from a family friend of ours. The story revolves around life in the Indian army and what some of the responsibilities you're given and the choices you make. I hand wrote the diary as if the main character was narrating and also put in dialogue in Hindi. The diary came in  sort of holdall that is issued to all people in the army which includes medicines, sewing kits, pens and pencils and other objects. The diary, apart from the text, comes with a picture of the two characters in the story, a picture of the main character's family and a picture of the main character's god (which I found out all officers usually carry with them). 

I don't know too much about the army life so it was difficult at first to get into the tone that I would use but I spoke to some people I knew in the army who helped create that scene in my head for me. 

As an officer in the military, you learn how to put aside your own opinion and unquestioningly follow orders. You figure out how to filter out the superfluous and learn to prioritize. Your sense of morality and the ‘greater good’ goes for a spin the day you put on your uniform and in time, you can’t tell when you got which scar. All this may sound terrible, as if I’ve destroyed my soul but I still believe in the purity of my principles. And I can say that with no shuddering of conscience.

The tone of voice in my writing may suggest a lack of emotion and you may presume that even that’s been filtered out. But, like I said, there’s filtering and there’s prioritising. Being an officer doesn't mean you become a slave to the government. You’re just a government employee with a difficult job. And like at most work places, you do make comrades and friends. You need to create your own system of understanding even with the civilians in the region.

At times of crisis, people want to grab onto those closest to them; part of this job is to contrive to be the closest and get the masses at your polar end. A number of strategies and tools are used to achieve this relationship; a key one being rum. As cold as it is up here in the mountains, rum is a big favourite with civilians and officers alike. And over a drink or two, you sometimes make friends with informers willing to share what they know for certain compensation.

I had called my ‘friend’ to the dhaba where we usually meet. The fire was lit, on the table stood two glasses and a bottle of rum. The food was still being cooked.

The cook was an ex-jawaan who had been injured and couldn’t serve anymore; he’s taken up this position to stay as close to the action as he could. He knew what the conversations we conducted were about but always kept them to himself. He knew where his loyalties lay.

My friend arrived a little while after me and greeted me warmly as he always did; more so than my own brother does. We sat and I poured him a drink to bring him some warmth in the blistering cold. He asked, “भाई  साहिब , आज  कोई  खास  बात  है  क्या ? जनमदिन  या  कुछ ? में  तो  आपको  परसों  खबर  लेकर  मिल्ने  वाला  था.” 

“नहीं , नहीं  यार ,” I replied, “आज  बस  मिल्ने  का  मन  किया  तो  बुल्ला  लिया . काम  की  बात  हमेशा  होती  है.” The cook brought out some chicken, still steaming.

I began to tell my companion my favourite story. I hadn’t told it to anyone before and I didn’t know a better person for the first hearing. It was a story from a very long time ago; before I had the first white in my hair or the belly pickled by years of rum and chicken.

It was when I first joined the Army. We had been tipped off by someone that there were three terrorists hiding in a small house in the market place. I was picked as part of the team to bring them in. Geared up and racing through all the training tactics in my head, we arrived at the market place right in front of the house. We burst in with guns pointing in every direction, but there was no one in the house. All we got was the glimpse of a foot escaping through the window. It was them, they were running.

Split up, I was ordered, and pointed in the direction of one. He knew the marketplace much better than I did and managed to duck into every galli possible, darting over every wall he could find. His exit had been planned and he knew that it would be extremely difficult for anyone else to keep up. He largely kept to the crowded areas so as to not allow me to take a shot at him. No one stopped him but I didn’t really expect them to.

“उस  कुत्ते  ने  मुझे  इतना  भगाया , इतना  भगाया ! और  तब , मुझे  मौका  मिल  गया .” He turned into a path with no one about and I took my shot. It hit him just as he took another of his turns; the bullet missed his back but went hard into his shoulder. I could see him fall to the ground around the bend. I moved forward slowly, ready for any surprises and stuck to the wall. I turned the corner and pointed my gun straight at him. He was bleeding profusely and didn’t seem to be armed. He didn't try to escape; he knew he didn’t have it in him anymore.

I took out the cuffs and approached him cautiously to arrest him when he shrugged me off and asked, “गोली  पहले  किसने  चलाई ?” “मैंने ” I said. “ तो आप  मुझे  मIरने  ही  वाले  थे . अगर  आप  मुझे  वापिस  लेजाओगे  तो  या  तो  aap  लोग  मेरी   आधी  जान lekar  हमेशा  के  लिए  कब्ज़ा करके रखोगे  या  फिर  मेरे  लोग  मुझे  मार  देंगे . अगर  आप  मुझे  पहले  गोली  चलाकर  मारने  ही वाले  थे,  तो  ab  भी  मार  सकते  हो.” And so I shot him dead. That was the first person I ever killed. Till then I had wondered if I would be able to handle it; to be able to kill another person. And I realised after that, killing them is what should be done, for us and for them.

“और  आज  आप  मुझे  मIरने  वाले  हो.” My informer said as he finished his drink. He didn’t ask, he said.

There was an incident earlier today where some of my men had died. Good men. And it was because of my friend, the informer. He had been double crossing me; getting me to kill their people whom they needed sent away. But like the man I killed that first day, I didn’t want my friend to be tortured like I know he would be. I wanted a respectable death for him even if he hadn’t led the most respectable life. And that’s when I shot him.