Indian Defence Review

It was by some strange coincidence that I met her, the lady in the green silk saree. I recognised her immediately. In fact we both recognised each other simultaneously. She waved to me from the Diplomatic Enclosure. We arranged to meet after the function.

I met her first in Attari and later in Wagah one December morning in 1973. She was one of the many hundreds of Prisoners of War and Civil Internees being repatriated to Pakistan. I had noticed her because of her son.

I sat a few rows behind her, impatient to talk to her. I do not remember what the speakers said, nor who they were, her presence sent me back to December’ 73.

‘India repatriated 839 Prisoners of War and Civil Interenees at the Wagah check-post near Amritsar, this morning. The repatriation was completed in a record twenty minutes.’

For the past seven and a half months this news item over AIR had been so regular as to have become monotonous. But my monotony was to the Army a back-breaking, thankless job, and to the prisoners, moments of tense emotion. I had heard that the Army ‘ban do bast’ and efficiency at handling this operation was unparalleled. It normally took them thirty minutes to send back 800 odd Prisoners of War, but twenty minutes was really cutting it fine and was something ‘fantastic, as a member of the ICRC, International Committee of the Red Cross exclaimed. So I approached the appropriate authorities for permission to witness the repatriation.

After a long-winded series of security checks, my bonafides established, I was cleared to witness the repatriation. Officers and men manning the numerous posts were informed of my coming… a necessary precaution, I discovered, as these men were armed and were well within their rights to shoot intruders.

At 5 a.m. on a wet December morning, with the mercury at minus one degree Celsius, I was at Attari, the railhead for Wagah. And while I waited for Teja Singh, that being the name given by the locals to the train that brought in the PWs, I collected some facts.

On board, Teja Singh would have the POW Camp Commandant, his adjutant, a team of medics and a member of the ICRC, whose job it was to ensure that no rules of the Geneva Convention vis-a-vis the paws were violated. He also carried with him red, blue and yellow cards. These cards bore the particulars of the POW… age, name, sex, physical condition, where taken prisoner, and the camp from which they were being released. The red cards were for army personnel, blue for para-military forces and yellow for civil internees. The nominal roll of the paws was on board the train with the camp commandant. No one really knew who would go home that day. All anyone knew was the camp the paws came from. And I thought of those across the line waiting to receive their dear ones. For some, the patient, uncertain wait would end, for others it would be just another cold, foggy, frustratingly inconsequential day.

The POWs would disembark in groups of twenty five according to the nominal rolls and would be repatriated likewise.

At Wagah, that is four Kilometres from Attari, there were four lanes culminating in four check points. At each point, besides the Pakistani Officials taking over the paws, there was a member of the ICRC. The camp commandant would hand over the nominal ro\! to the member of the ICRC and the ICRC representative accompanying the train would hand out the card lanewise, to his counterpart.

The PWs luggage, already listed, sealed and neatly labelled was put in the charge of selected paws, each representing a group of twenty five. These paws were responsible for the luggage till claimed by the rightful owners. The luggage would be loaded into lorries and sent under escort to an entirely separate lane earmarked for luggage. There the luggage alongwith its list would be handed over to members of the ICRe. The paws escorting it would also cross over and their homecoming would be telephoned to the four check points where their names would be struck off the list.

Teja Singh arrived, tooting loudly, doors locked, windows barred and adequately guarded. The Indian Army officers and men braced themselves to carry out yet another repatriation. It was 5.30 a.m. cold and wet.

The First to get off the train were the stretcher cases and sick paws who were removed to the ambulances. Door after door was opened to let out the able-bodied. POWs who got off silently not daring to believe they’d soon be home Anything could happen! They shivered as the Punjab cold pierced their clothing. A row fell down. Jawans surrounded him and he was rushed to an ambulance car. He died of a heart attack! Here was drama, intense, fierce and charged with emotion. The paws were led to shamianas where large hot ‘sigris’ greeted them and they were served morning tea. They then washed, dressed and breakfasted.

During breakfast an internee in a green silk sari went under escort to look for her son. She found the child near Teja Singh, arguing with a jawan. The child was trying to get back into the train and wasn’t being permitted to. On seeing his mother, he waved his arms, stamped his feet and screamed in protest. He wanted to get back into the ‘chook chook’. Tactfully a jawan led him off to the parked vehicles and soon the child was thrilled, with sitting behind the steering wheel, driving his ‘gari’ off to nowhere in particular.

Breakfast over, the women and children boarded the lorries that took them to the border. Carrying hand-bags, with Korans around their necks, the men lined up four abreast, according to the lanes they would use to cross over. Everyone moved as if it were a well-rehearsed drill. The army and paramilitary personnel wore Khaki dangarees marked with large black crosses and POW written across them in bold black letters. The paws then started their walk to Wagah. I studied their faces and it was hard to tell what they thought. It was a great day in their lives but their faces gave nothing away. At Wagah the male paws sat on benches that lined the four lanes. The women and children collected in Shamianas and hot tea was served to all.

I saw the lady in the green silk sari talking to her son who evidently was being stubborn about something. I walked towards them. On seeing me, the lady, close to tears, spoke in faultless English. ‘He was two years old when we moved into the POW camp. There he never saw a lorry. Today he’s so taken up by them that he refuses to move away from here!’

She pointed out the border to him, with its buntings and flowers. She explained that there would be cars, trucks and trains there too. But he believed none of it, and’ climbed into the lorry again. He was gently removed from the lorry by a member of the ICRC who, amidst screams, carried the child to the border. There he showed him the Pakistan TV cameras that would cover the proceedings, the gaily dressed shamianas, the pretty ladies who would welcome them home with showers of petals, and the Pakistan Army brass band that would strike up as soon as the repatriation got started. But none of this was good enough for the child. He still wanted the lorry that brought him to Attari. The world of trains and trucks was new, strange and exciting and he wanted more of it. The protesting child was returned to his mother. Her undisguised joy at the prospects of going home was clouded by the child’s persistent pleas to return to the lorry. My presence only embarrassed her and I walked down the lane.

Fear of the unknown was writ large on the faces of the poor… a motley lot, with a fairly large sprinkling of Bihari Muslims. For most of them it would be their first step into West Pakistan. For generations they had adopted the life style of the ‘East Pakistani’, spoken their language, imbibed their culture, and now they were being sent home to their ‘motherland’… a land strange and alien to them. The two years in POW camps had offered security they had not experienced before nor were likely to know again.

For the affluent few, it was clearly a day of rejoicing, for they were returning to their well-settled lives and steady bank balances.

At a quarter past eight, I was ushered into the visitors’ enclosure that overlooked the barrier and I could comfortably look into Pakistan. I saw General Abdul Hamid, his wife and daughters. General Omar Ali Khan and Brigadier Anjuman, who was conducting the repatriation. Soon his Indian counterpart arrived, trim, turbaned, six feet two inches tall, dwarfing all on this and that side of the border! On the dot of eight thirty the repatriation got underway.

The stretcher cases were followed by officers and soldiers. As each man reached the gate he shook hands with the camp commandant and his Adjutant, said something and was handed over to the member of the ICRC, who after checking the particulars against his name, handed him over to the Pakistani authorities. They put a tick against his name and the man was home! him gently across and the man was home.

Cameras clicked and petals showered down on him as he was taken to a Shamiana to change out of the POW dangaree; he was then led away to be tead and toasted. On and on it went.

At Gate Number One, ticking off the names against the list was a Pak Army Officer, who himself had been a POW! He had been taken prisoner in the Western Sector and had gone home earlier. I thought I saw him sneer at the returning paws from the East and wondered why he had been put at the gate.

A five-year old boy dashed across three lanes and smartly saluted the camp commandant who returned the salute and escorted the child to his lane. The camp commandant had barely returned to his place when the child dashed across again. This time the child was returned to his lane by a member of the ICRC who stayed with the child till he crossed over.

Another lad of seven, warmly clad in a smashing red pullover, soon had the pullover pulled off him by his father who flung it down saying, ‘My son refuses to wear anything Indian.’ He’d rather wear this Khaki Jersey. I have taken from one of our soldiers.’ The bewildered ‘child wore the not-too-clean jersey that reached down to his knees. Newsmen converged on them, with cameras clicking, making the most of the incident, as only newspaper men know how. Why, I asked myself, hadn’t the child worn that ill-fitting jersey all morning. An Indian soldier picked up the red jersey and put it away.

I heard a loud sniff and saw the lady in the green silk sari dragging her reluctant son behind her. They were the last to go. I coughed to draw her attention, she looked up and smiled, braving the tears that threatened to tumble down.

‘Look how difficult he’s being,’ she said. I nodded, understanding the fears that nagged this four-year old…

Will there be cars and trains where we are going?

‘Say bye-bye to that lady there,’ his mother said, and the child turned his tear-stained face to me. I waved to him. ‘Bye-bye Beta, Khuda Hafiz,’ I said. His mother pulled him gently across and they were home.

And here she was today, smiling at me uncertainly, hesitantly, as she had done that December morning. I didn’t know her, I didn’t even know her name but hers was one of the nine hundred faces that returned to me again and again. And I wondered if she’d ever thought of me. I knew now she had. I talked t)f her son. ‘He must be a big boy now. Tell me, is he still fond of cars and chook – chooks? I remember that morning how. . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. . . .’ What had I done? Why was she so upset? Should I not have talked of that December morning?

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‘No,’ she said heavily, collecting herself, ‘How are you to know. Soon after we crossed over, Salim saw so many cars and trucks parked over there. He was thrilled with their colours and shapes. He was wild with excitement and he dashed from car to car and before I knew it, he was crushed under a speeding car. . . .’ She was far away. I couldn’t believe it. She returned to me. ‘Do you remember how I dragged him across?’ I heard absently.’ You couldn’t do much else could you?’ I heard myself say. And as I looked at her, I knew my lady in the green silk sari would always be a prisoner of December’ 73.

Explanatory Notes

Shamianas : Marquee.

Sigris: Braziers.

Gari : Vehicle.

Beta : Son.

Khuda Hafiz : God be with you.