SHAHEED

Rifleman Yogendra Singh

Yogendra's body is received with due honours at Delhi airport on a sultry Thursday, June 10. After the solemn shok shastra ceremony at the Parade Ground we accompany the van carrying his body to Johragaon. En route a drip drunk villager who we stop to seek directions from gratuitously picks up a fight, showers abuse, even fisticuffs, on the hapless Joginder, even as villagers scurry to break up the fight. "These are the people for whom we risk our lives," says a sardonic Joginder. "How could I retaliate on an occasion like this?" Dust swirls on the kutcha road that winds 20-odd km into this village, home to 80 families. There's no electricity. Through the pitch black we hear an eerie howling. The primal sound of community mourning. As the van grinds to a halt, grieving relatives claw at its door, craving a look at the coffin which accompanying jawans offload. Yogendra's father Niranjan Singh, a tall, gaunt man with eyes like a desert passes out at the sight of the coffin. Three sisters weep hysterically while half-crazed mother Moorti clutches the coffin's wooden edge repeating, "Beta, tu to baraat la raha tha. Yeh teri baraat hai?" (Son, is this the wedding party you promised to bring here?)

Morning blazes down on the sorry plains. It's a poor village. The ground is unyielding, crops meagre. Niranjan, the sickly father, tends his 20-odd bighas somehow. Yogendra's salary was the family's sole support. The lifeline to a better future for the soldier's teenage brother Kishen. Two years into his tenure in the army it's all over for Yogendra and his family. As the 1,000-strong crowd from here and neighbouring villages await the arrival of the army detachment from Mathura that will offer the final salute, the body is taken out of the casket. The mother's anguished screams rend the air; brother Kishen literally writhes in pain at the sight of the broken, swollen body of his once handsome brother. The village sarpanch admonishes the inconsolable Moorti: "Quiet. Stop weeping. Don't you know sons are born to Kshatranis only so they can be sacrificed in war?"

In the field where he'll be cremated Yogendra is lain on the ground. His frail grandfather totters up, squats next to him, strokes his hair and moans: "Arrey mera bahadur baccha." Tears flow down grizzled cheeks. Gently, he's led away. The soldiers offer shok shastra salute, guns fire thrice in the air. The funeral is over. Not Moorti and Niranjan's despair.