War is won in the mind

 Lt Gen Raj Kadyan (Retd)

I had developed a sore eye during the course of the war. After the ceasefire, I decided to consult a doctor. Since our medical facilities hadn’t yet been set up, I went to the Pakistani military hospital in Dacca on December 18, 1971.

The Registrar, a Punjabi Major, was genial and friendly. As I was waiting for the ophthalmologist to be free, he ordered tea and we engaged in general conversation. On learning that I too hailed from erstwhile Punjab (now Haryana), and that my father had a gallantry award land grant in Montgomery, Pakistan, he seemed to warm up even more. Our conversation covered the usual military topics: accommodation, schooling, salaries, etc. Conspicuously, there was no talk of the war. Assuming that he wanted to avoid the embarrassment of the vanquished, and conscious of the universal admiration the victorious Indian Army had since acquired, I too kept away from the subject.

When the ophthalmologist got free, the Registrar gave me a ‘see you later’ handshake and sent a staff member to guide me to the department. He had already told the doctor on telephone that he was sending a special case.

The eye specialist was more serious. He was also a thorough professional. After peeping into my eye with a pencil beam and having made me read wall charts through different lens combinations, he luckily found nothing more serious than an infection. Handing me a bottle of eye drops, he said reassuringly that my eye would be perfectly fine. Just to lighten the atmosphere, I jokingly said, “Thank you doctor, whenever we fight next, I will be able to shoot better.” But the humour failed to elicit any change in his somewhat wooden demeanour.

The telephone connection to India had reportedly been established. On return to the Registrar’s office, I asked him to book a call to Delhi, which he promptly did. I waited and further conversation followed, now also covering a larger canvas about our respective countries. Still there was no talk of war.

Soon it was time for lunch. Their officers’ mess had closed and the food was to come from the ‘langar’ — the soldiers’ cook house. All other doctors also assembled in his office and the Registrar made introductions. They customarily thanked me for accepting their invitation to join them for lunch. The menu comprised large and thin roomali rotis and some delicious dal. The conversation flow was easy, with the Registrar being the lead talker.

It was now past 2:30 pm. There seemed no chance of the call materialising. The Registrar had enquired from the operator in the interim to learn that the call was still in queue. I thanked my hosts and got up to leave. It was then that the Registrar first spoke of war. There was no bitterness or rancour and the words seemed to come deep down from his heart.

“Major Sahib,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner without being squeamish, “we are doctors and none of us fought at the front. We, therefore, do not know who won and who lost.” He looked around at others, who nodded in agreement. “But seeing the behaviour of the Indian Army, I have no doubt that we have lost the war.”

He gave me a warm parting hug.

I was reminded of the truism — while battles are won or lost fighting through minefields and barbed wire entanglements, a war is won in the mind.