In 1945, when the entire world was a pushed into WW-II, India too could not stay away from it for long. The Indian Troops in the British Army participated in various fronts of the War, all over the globe. Three decades hence, when I donned the uniform after passing out from the Officer’s Training Academy in 2006, I had these conversations with my grandfather. Little did I know that my life will weave through the same patterns of time as it did for him.
About My Grandfather
From the archives – My grandfather Sub Maj Subodh Chakraborty after return from Burma
My grandfather, Sub Maj Subodh Chakraborty, served in uniform in the British Army when there used to be ICO Commission (Indian Commissioned Officer). This was later converted to JCO (Junior Commissioned Officer) a prestigious rank for the soldiers to acquire over their soldiering career.
He was from Agartala, and left home to join the forces when he didn’t even complete his Higher Secondary School. His journey took him to several places around the country as well as beyond the borders. He participated in almost all wars up to 1970, the year he retired and finally called it a peace.
Three decades hence, I decided to follow his path. Until then, I knew very little about his journey. When I called my grandfather from the Allahabad Railway Station to inform him that I have cleared the ‘Services Selection Board’, and will be joining soon, I could feel the proud blur in his voice on the other side when he congratulated me for it.
When I returned home after getting commissioned, my grandfather shared his experiences of the Burmese war. How, he and his mates made it back from Meiktila, a province deep within the Burmese territory, through piles of smoke, fire, dust and mayhem is something I wanted to know without much wait.
The Close Escape from the Burmese Front
On one of those several days of non-stop shelling, 25 men boarded a ferry ship to cross over the Irrawaddy River and enter into the Meiktila region, at the heart of erstwhile Burma. Fierce bombings continued as the campaign was on its fag end.
While on their return along the same river from a different exit route, only 15 from his team remained. If all went well, it would take them a day to cross over the river and then on foot for another 7 days to reach the Indo-Burmese border, if they could make it alive, that is.
While crossing the river, an enemy artillery shell pierced through the ferry boat and instantly sank it. The blast instantly took the entire crew, including my grandfather, but he along with the two others escaped with narrow scratches. But escaping from a shelling in the middle of water wasn’t going to do much good.
They had to grab some jackets and put them on to swim across if they had to live. So, what would otherwise would take them a day stretched to two, to cross over to the other side. Retreating to the home bank would have been suicidal. So, he kept swimming with the other tow survivors, without food, in the middle of the waters for the next two days.
A Journey To The Homeland
Back home, everyone had given up their hopes. There was no news about him. No letters, no announcements on radio, no telegrams. Only occasional blackouts and the whistling Hawker Hurricanes and Tempests sweeping past over the Indian counterparts in a bid to find spots for carpet bombings.
Meanwhile, my grandfather had made it to the other side of the river, with the other two survivors. But the battle was not over yet. There was miles of Burmese territory ahead to walk and escape from.
Jungles, rivers, humidity, leeches, rainfall, smoke, deafening sounds and fire – this is the symphony of war..
After a treacherous walk of 30 days through the unforgiving jungles, they managed to report back to their units, all shattered. It took them more than a month to recover from their physical injuries, but the scars in their minds would remain forever.
The Never Ending Wait
At home, another month went by and it was sure that my grandfather is not coming back. That afternoon, a telegram surprised my grandmother. These telegrams mostly shook the families in fear, most wouldn’t open them even if there was a ‘good news’ inside, in fear of a ‘bad news’ instead.
But that was not my grandmas day for a bad news. My grandfather was finally coming back. For more than three decades, my grandfather never shared these stories with anyone, even in the family, and not even with my grandmother. I now know the reason why!
There are some journeys that could only pass on from one soldier to another! It is not meant for all to hear and experience!
There was an appropriate time for me to hear this, or this would remain untold forever! A soldier only relies on another soldier, because, they both can step into each other’s shoes perfectly.
I guess, that’s the thrill of serving in uniform, of course with the flip side of living through a war. Ask any soldier though, and he would proudly say that they would never hesitate going back to another one. At the verge of time where the self-proclaimed normal citizens shun the responsibility of their citizenship, when asked in exchange of their lives, the soldier stands upright without second thoughts.
What moulds their mental frame of mind? Training? No, you train and tame animals, so that they follow without thinking. It is when an entire group moves through the same adversities, and survive through it. Only that breed of human beings will live, against any adverse conditions. Rest will perish – because they can’t think beyond themselves.
When my grandfather finally made it back home, he went into a recluse about the whole thing. A journey that remained in silence for more than three decades. A journey that would unfold only after my first encounter in uniform with my grandfather.
My parents at my Pass Out Parade in OTA Chennai
When I had joined the Officer’s Training Academy, our first day was about sending us to our training companies. I was chosen in the Meiktila Company. But, I never had the remotest clue of its connections with my life. I never knew Meiktila meant something in my life until I would face my grandfather after my training.
Incidentally, after I got commissioned into Bombay Sappers and joined my unit, I browsed through the unit history and realized that my unit 105 Engr Regt too had its roots in the Meiktila Campaign.
This is called life taking a “Full Circle”.
In all these years, this story has stayed with me. I now know that time must have swept away those memories. Everything fades with time. But memories stay. Someday, through the roads of Myanmar, I want to view those places where the warriors met and fought. They rejoiced the sounds of the battle and fought for their countries in honour.
In the end, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses the war! Someone from either side of the line doesn’t make it back home. Those who do change permanently. And that remains the unchangeable truth of war!
The post My Unspoken Connections With Myanmar appeared first on Pack-Ur-Bags.
