Bukhari: The saga of Glacier war

By Shyamal Bhattacharya

‘ Bukhari’ (The Hearth) ‘ written by SHYAMAL BHATTACHARYA, translated by SUBHRASANKAR DAS, is a fiction based on the lives of the Indian soldiers who were performing their duties in the untried icy and treacherous heights of Siachen, where not even a blade of grass grows. The novel subtly reveals the smoldering volcanoes that each soldier carries within himself in the unforgiving icy surroundings. The latent desires, dreams, restlessness and helplessness of the characters find an adroit expression in this novel.
More than 25 blustery, shivering years, the Indian and Pakistani armies have been fighting a "No-Win" battle on the 20,000-foot-high Siachen Glacier, the world's highest war-ground. On average, one Pakistani soldier is killed every fourth day, while one Indian soldier is killed every other day. Over 1,300 Pakistani soldiers have died on Siachen between 1984 and 1999. According to Indian estimates, this operation had cost India over Rs. 50 billion and almost 2,000 personnel casualties till 1997. Almost all of the casualties on both sides have been due to extreme weather conditions. In spite of this,
The word `Siachen` ironically means the place of wild roses. Arduous to live in, the Siachen area is beautiful to look at from the cockpit. Some of the world's tallest mountains fill the landscape, their snowy tops giving way to rivulets of white that glitter against the black and purple rock. It is a moonscape of mesmerizing pinnacles and ridges and drops. Ice formations rise a mile high. Clouds seem at arm's reach. During storms, the heavy snowfall seems as thick as long, white drapery. The wind does pinwheels, and the basic of a hard life gets that much harder.
The roots of the conflict over Siachen lie in the non-demarcations on the western side on the map beyond NJ9842. Prior to 1984 neither India nor Pakistan had any permanent presence in the area. Today, Siachen is more important as a test of diplomacy than of high-altitude battle skills. Over the years, Siachen itself has been the subject of seven major rounds of talks under various Governments ruled by various parties, negotiators have agreed that the conflict is futile -- and some have even called it lunatic. But one side or the other has always been too afr. Presently India holds two-thirds of the glacier and controls a few of the top-most heights aid of a double-cross to complete a deal.
But what is the guarantee that in future Pakistani general/president will not re-occupy Siachen with ‘freedom fighters’? And in future Indian government will not ask the armed forces to take back the Soltoro ridge? USA and few western weapon manufacturing countries are only interested in selling more and more Fighter Aircrafts, Canons, other weapons and war machines to both the country. Hence, for their business shake the show must go on. If indeed we wanted to hold on to the heights, then why are we talking with each other for the last two decades to demilitarise the area? What of the four thousand soldiers who have been disabled? The cost is not only what is paid out to them in terms of disability pensions. . What of the suffering of thousands of soldiers who spend several long months at altitudes where basic survival is at stake? And finally, what about the effect on the environment?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Sep 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9783748756934

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Title page

BUKHARI..the hearth

The saga of glacier war

Shyamal Bhattacharya

Translated by

SUBHRASANKAR DAS

Book details

BUKHARI

A novel by Shyamal Bhattacharya

Translated by Subhrasankar Das

Edited by Promila Arora

Cover Design : Subhrasankar Das

Picture of boy : Stock photos

( No part of this book should be reproduced or copied in any way without the written permission of the publisher/ writer/ translator )

First Edition: August 2020

Publisher: SHADOWKRAFT,

Tripura, India, m-9774554435

[e-mail]

© Subhrasankar Das️

Price : 299 Rupees

FOREWORD

I met Mr Shyamal Bhattacharya at the International writers meet organized by the Kafla in Udaipur, Rajasthan. That was in October 2016. Shyamal impressed me as a pleasant and active young man, not wasting even a minute. I observed him scribbling something always, whenever he found any free time. His fluency in many languages amazed me, especially when he showed his acquaintance with my mother tongue, Tamil. Later I learnt that he had been to my native place, Jaffna, Sri Lanka, as well, while he was on active service. He was a member of the IAF he told. What I found inside that sturdy appearance was the loving heart of a child, always mirrored by his full, innocent smile.

The next time was in January 2019. I had the privilege to visit various cities in India, as a part of the esteemed Premchand Fellowship I was offered, by the Sahitya Akademi of India. Shyamal made sure, beforehand if I would be visiting Kolkata, and if not, for any reason, he was making arrangements to come and meet me in Delhi. Kolkata was surely unavoidable, and he made precise plans to fill any free slot in the Akademi schedule, with some good programmes, including a cordial lunch at his house. Practically he spent the whole week, leaving aside all his businesses, with me.

By this time, I was well aware of his stature as an acknowledged writer cum translator. His collection of stories, ‘Paisley,’ already impressed me a lot.

No doubt, Shyamal is lucky enough to have got nourished by the great literary wealth and tradition of Bangla. Also, he was fortunate to have what most other writers cannot even imagine. His experiences in the battlefields and his fluency in several languages are two main advantages that no other person can easily boast about, and above all, he had the eyes and heart of a writer within him.

When I started looking forward to reading his other works in English, I came across his award-winning novel, Bukhari, a story based on his experiences in the Siachen Glaciers, known as the highest battlefield in the world, during the early 1990s.

There are several works of literature in the world languages written by those who had been to the battlefields. Erich Maria Remarque, Ernest Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Wilfred Owen and Mikhail Sholokhov are only a few among the masters in that long list. In the Indian context, there too were several writers who have written in English and also in National languages. Thi.Sa. Raju wrote in Tamil. I came across a few other stories written by some young Tamil writers out of their first-hand experience in the recent Eelam war of Sri Lanka.

The stories dealing with war have a two-fold task. While portraying the ordeals of the war, they cannot easily overlook the feelings of the human beings involved in it. Bukhari succeeds immensely in both. The novel makes a civilian reader understand the military life and thus recognize the hardships the soldiers undergo and salute the services they render.

Though the characters are from various parts of India, they remain universal by nature. Another notable aspect of the stories is the keenest portrayal of the settings. The author does not miss even any minor detail. It will not be untrue to say, at many a time, his descriptions of the locale turn out to be poetic. The reader is getting acquainted with the flora and the fauna of the region. Apart from being descriptive, the novel reflects the authors concern towards the environment.

Bukhari could easily be called Shyamals masterpiece.

The talented translator of the novel, Subhrasankar Das, deserves a big compliment. He makes us wonder if the work is indeed written originally in English. As a non- Bengal reader, I must thank him for making this work accessible to readers all over the world.

Ayathurai Santhan ( Sahithya Rathna )

Premchand Fellow of the Sahitya Akademi of India

Sri Lanka.

17th August, 2020.

Translator's Note

‘ Bukhari’ (The Hearth) ‘ is a fiction based on the lives of the Indian soldiers who were performing their duties in the untried icy and treacherous heights of Siachen, where not even a blade of grass grows. The novel subtly reveals the smoldering volcanoes that each soldier carries within himself in the unforgiving icy surroundings. The latent desires, dreams, restlessness and helplessness of the characters find an adroit expression in this novel.

More than 25 blustery, shivering years, the Indian and Pakistani armies have been fighting a No-Win battle on the 20,000-foot-high Siachen Glacier, the world's highest war-ground. On average, one Pakistani soldier is killed every fourth day, while one Indian soldier is killed every other day. Over 1,300 Pakistani soldiers have died on Siachen between 1984 and 1999. According to Indian estimates, this operation had cost India over Rs. 50 billion and almost 2,000 personnel casualties till 1997. Almost all of the casualties on both sides have been due to extreme weather conditions. In spite of this, The word `Siachen` ironically means the place of wild roses. Arduous to live in, the Siachen area is beautiful to look at from the cockpit. Some of the world's tallest mountains fill the landscape, their snowy tops giving way to rivulets of white that glitter against the black and purple rock. It is a moonscape of mesmerizing pinnacles and ridges and drops. Ice formations rise a mile high. Clouds seem at arm's reach. During storms, the heavy snowfall seems as thick as long, white drapery. The wind does pinwheels, and the basic of a hard life gets that much harder.

The roots of the conflict over Siachen lie in the non-demarcations on the western side on the map beyond NJ9842. Prior to 1984 neither India nor Pakistan had any permanent presence in the area. Today, Siachen is more important as a test of diplomacy than of high-altitude battle skills. Over the years, Siachen itself has been the subject of seven major rounds of talks under various Governments ruled by various parties, negotiators have agreed that the conflict is futile -- and some have even called it lunatic. But one side or the other has always been too afr. Presently India holds two-thirds of the glacier and controls a few of the top-most heights aid of a double-cross to complete a deal.

But what is the guarantee that in future Pakistani general/president will not re-occupy Siachen with ‘freedom fighters’? And in future Indian government will not ask the armed forces to take back the Soltoro ridge? USA and few western weapon manufacturing countries are only interested in selling more and more Fighter Aircrafts, Canons, other weapons and war machines to both the country. Hence, for their business shake the show must go on. If indeed we wanted to hold on to the heights, then why are we talking with each other for the last two decades to demilitarise the area? What of the four thousand soldiers who have been disabled? The cost is not only what is paid out to them in terms of disability pensions. . What of the suffering of thousands of soldiers who spend several long months at altitudes where basic survival is at stake? And finally, what about the effect on the environment?

‘Bukhari’ comprises of a series of events in a soldier’s life. His pain, passion, boredom and depression, his fantasy, hunger, nightmare, his fear, adventure, love, disgust and thirst-- all are distinctly crafted with the mixture of subjective and objective narration.

‘Bukhari’ seems the diary of the protagonist Alok, and the people he comes across get the focus accordingly. Their stream of consciousness and their encounters with their multilayered selves and surroundings very often control the cycle of the novel & take various dimensions.

The main protagonist of the story is the bukhari itself. It is not the name of a particular thing. It’s an icon, a symbol of warmth, love, shelter, hope & peace. Any source of warmth can be a bukhari to anyone.

Don’t we delve deep into the heart of hearts to hug our own, very own bukhari?

—Subhrasankar Das

Editor's Note

Knowing all the aspects of Shyamal Bhattacharya's personality and literary works is like scaling the heights of sky. He has written 9 story collections, 129 stories, 3 selected essay collections , 2 children books, 7 translated titles from different languages, 7edited books 5 novels complete and 6th one is in progress named Maha Satyer Biporite (Other side of great Truth ) on Tibetan exodus and diaspora .He is translator of Prime Minister on Press Information Bureu and DDBangla and active in numerous organizations . His books have been translated in many languages and are being taught in few universities in the world. He has travelled a lot in country and abroad to attend different seminars and literary congregations. It is really arduous to sum up such a multifaceted person and a unique author in a few words.

few days back he invited me to attend the webinar by Kolkata Translators Forum and then on my request sent me a few specimens of his literary works in Pdf in English translation. While going through these literary works I couldn't help appreciating his writing skill to enliven images and situations to make reader visualize those happening before him.

award winning novel Bukhari is a classic in itself. Many years before I read a Russian novel Story about a Real Man by Boris Polevoy .This novel left indelible marks on my mind for the description of struggle of a pilot to rise up again with his number legs to fulfil his passion for flying . But Bukhari opened a new horizon of soldiers' lives who live strenuous and hard life to struggle for their own life to defend the people of our nation living on Siachen Glacier .

While reading the details in the novel I found as described by the author Bukhari is not the name of a thing. Bukhari is an icon, a symbol of warmth, love and shelter for them . The soldiers share their feelings, emotions , inner heart by talking and even in silence getting warmth to survive sitting around Bukhari .

The author has proved his writing skill in picturing the ambience of distant unseen land in a letter by Alok to his wife to make the readers acquainted with the unimaginable land where the theme of the novel unfolds itself. He writes,

Sweet-heart, I never knew that such swathe of land could ever exist on earth where a noiseless void sits perpetually except for nature's occasional twitters. Measureless amount of snow besides hard rocks and snow wrapped sand stretches itself as far as the eyes behold. The solitary trees stand in the cold like equidistant dead pillars .Their plumes are falling off one by one .The dry fallen foliage of memory stays afloat all alone .Not even a single bird lives here .At least I am yet to witness one .Neither could I hear a tweet .

What a marvellous poetic expression to draw a word picture of Siachen and the nostalgia of forlorn heart of a soldier away from family witnessing all this first time .

This novel doesn't deal with the story of courage and bravery of soldiers in war but deals with their lives and struggle to survive on the war front .The struggle is not only for existence , they have to overcome the inner conflict of nostalgic memories and worries about their families .The author has penetrated the layers of inner hearts of Alok and his companions who accompanied him at different levels like Jayant, Chandrabhan, Hemant ,Bablu Balmiki, Ravishankar, Surindar Ram swaroop,Upender Parsad, Tarsem ,Kalita etc.

The author has perfectly explored the human relationship and the role of friendship where everybody is in the jaws of death. How Alok carries his wife Antara and daughter Toda with him all the time it seems they are carrying the plot of the fiction with them .The wait and craze for letters in the lives of soldiers is mentioned vividly .

A very appropriate gesture has been made about the apathy of politicians to recognize the silent sacrifice of soldiers who die there struggling for survival .Only those are honoured who die in the battlefield. Sometimes they are shown aggravated to ask the politicians to experience such life.

I must say this novel brings out a different world of life of soldiers. The plot is well knitted and intertwined to throw light on international relations and minutest details of soldiers' life living under the shadow of death from the climatic conditions as well as the shelling across the borders .While reading one feels visualising all that. It is beauty of the writing .

I must mention Mr. Subhrasankar Das whose translation of the novel I have gone through. He has done commendable effort to transcribe the original writing to bring out the feelings and expressions of the author .He deserves appreciation and best wishes for that.

Shyamal Bhattacharya is equally well versed in writing other streams of literature besides writing novels .His stories for children carry the same flavour as fiction for grown-ups .

Promila Arora

82 , Golden Avenue

Kapurthala (Punjab)

OF WHAT EARTH ART THOU MADE

A roaring Gajraj soared steadily up into the sky. It accelerated effortlessly, spreading its silvery wings sideways. A dense mass of white low-cast clouds hovered over the mountain ranges of Simla. The giant metallic albatross grandly carried a hundred and eighty sturdy soldiers inside its womb.

The morning light brightened as it rose past Simla. The darting sunbeams rendered a lovely crimson hue to the eastern horizon. Leaving all these playful rainbow clouds below, the bird dipped its wings into the magical golden sky higher above. Beneath, the sky of Kullu Mannali stretched itself. The Himalayan ranges held their heads up like giant waves emerging out of a sea of clouds.The aerial cruise continued to happen for the next half an hour.

Slowly but steadily, the giant bird nosedived towards the ground. An even whiteness spread itself all around. In between the tall peaks of the Ladakh and the Zanskar ranges stood a grayish valley. A piece of idyllic landscape with a couple of dwarf houses, winding narrow streets and the blue-bodied Indus beckoned surreptitiously. A few tiny vehicles like toy cars were plying along the narrow asphalt roads below.

Suddenly out of the bird’s belly, emerged ten pairs of giant wheels. He, right then, witnessed the world’s highest airbase out of the window. A hoarse voice announced the outside temperature to be at chilling -7.9 degree Celsius. He plucked abalaclava out of his pocket to brace himself against the cold. Zipping his jacket up to his neck, he quickly put his gloves on.

With a sudden jerk, the plane kissed the runway. The intensity of noise gradually subsided. On reaching the tarmac, two engines of the machine bird IL76 came to a halt, while the rest two made a deafening noise as the back shaft opened up. These two, too, would stop shortly.

He and the other soldiers slowly disembarked. A three-tonner military vehicle stood on the tarmac. He shivered as his shoes stomped through the gathered up snow along the edges of the runway. Layers of woollens wrapped his body. His nose and cheeks, uncovered, experienced an unprecedented cold.

A shortness of breath gripped Alok as he grabbed a seat for himself after stuffing his luggage in the back end of the transport. He kept huffing and puffing all the way. Alok, growing despondent by degrees, was on the edge. It seemed as if he knew no one, as if a miserable void rested on all sides. He was in a whirl for sure. Something in the shape of a black bayonet enwombed in a large whitish bubble kept penetrating inside his skull. It continued to go uninterrupted. What should he be doing now? He was at his wit’s end.

Unable to raise an alarming cry, to lift his hands upwards in agony like a drowning man, allthat he could feel was a caring hand massaging his chest. Another hand, he felt, was rubbing down his back. Someone poured out a glassful of lukewarm water for him to drink. However, the piercing bayonet kept entering the white sphere again as soon as he shut his eyelids. Even the sphere itself was vanishing as if it were a mere bubble. Finally, he realized, after opening his eyes, that he was saved from severe high altitude suffocation and swooning.

As the vehicle started to move forward, he clearly felt that three people were holding him tight. While the muscles of his hands and legs trembled, he got to know his co-passengers. On his right side would sit one, called Saroj Kumar Jha and the one who stood right behind him was Vinod Kumar. Sergeant Nand Singh kept massaging his chest until then sitting on his left side. All of them were returning from an official leave. Alok looked out of the window. Rows of army barracks stretched on the right side of the road. The smoke-belching chimneys, emerging out of the roofs of those barracks, rendered the scene to feel much like the factory locales shown in some foreign films. Except for the engine’s whirring, no other sound could be heard.

The transport vehicle departed immediately after dropping them off at the entry of the billet. Two Ladakhi teenage boys, at that time, were laboriously carrying two kerosene barrels down the stairs. The inmates of the billet eagerly greeted them. Their luggage reached its destination as the inmates lent a hand in moving them in. Afterwards all of them snuggled up on the chairs that were laid around a conical pot.

It was indeed a warm place. A long thin cylinder from the pot ran upwards and penetrated the ceiling. Black smoke smouldered above the roof. Alok must have caught sight of that smoke on his way. It was the bukhari, the oven, the prime source of fire, warmth for life. A rubber pipe, coming out of a Jericane, tied to the iron grid of a window, steadily maintained fuel supply to that central source of fire. It seemed like an ailing patient on a saline or blood drip. They warmed their hands over it. One of them served tea in mugs. The tea warmed and cheered them up all. They sprang up with life back again.

Right then the machine bird took off with a robust jar making the floor and the glass windows of the billet shudder. Apparently, the flight prepared to return to Chandigarh with the army backload. Alok felt somewhat uneasy. Wasn’t it the similar uneasiness he had experienced on the day he, left behind his near and dear ones to head for the training centre at Belgaum? At times one might be lonesome even in the middle of a bustling crowd.

All on a sudden, he noticed a grinning man eyeing him up from the opposite seat. Only a little while ago he shook hands with him. He looked familiar. Was he an old acquaintance? He must have seen him before, somewhere. And now his smiling face threw the windows of his memory open. Was he not Jayant? Alok’s eyes glinted with recognition.

Jayant, too, smilingly nodded. Only a man of intense passion and infinite joys would nod so gleefully while talking, Alok thought.

-Saala! Took so