Unknown are my deeds to history, unseen it remains and will remain forever. Impossible it is on anybody’s part to print it in pen and paper, except a miracle within the unspecified limits of the magic wand of a thaumaturgist. Those smiling tear laden faces, aspirations of being the parents of a martyr. My fiancée’s wriggling fingers in an attempt to ministrate and manifest a change in love line. My mother’s eyelids filled with tears of pride of bearing me in her womb. That respect given to me in my ultimate journey, which I do not deserve.

Sorry, I have become an emotional soldier, what to do? The creation of a thaumaturgist. I was, Subedar Kirpal Singh of Rajputana Regiment trained in the prestigious defence academy at Khadakvasala. After 5 years the time for my test had come, an open invitation to Kargil, to smash the fury of Pakistani heavy machine gun. I had gone but with hesitation, with no alternative except being court marshaled. I had no courage left, so from Dras I started fleeing under the influence of my coward legs, tired after running non-stop at the pace of my peak fear of about 25 kilometers, I found that I could run no more. Co-incidentally my eyes traced the mutilated blood drenched body of a fellow Indian soldier, who fell in the way to martyrdom. My mind immediately intercepting and I changed my clothes with him and then started running, expecting pity from the enemy and thinking that seeing my condition, nobody at first site would think that I was fleeing. I started to flee, walking with my tired legs. Suddenly my legs hit something, my toe off the ground, then a fall and everything then became black, perhaps I fainted.

The rescue team might have spotted me with my forged clothes. From my clothes there was no need any further confirmation of my death. Moreover, people in my district were pressing upon the authorities to dispatch the dead body at the earliest, to pay respect to their proud son (i.e. me).

That was the reason; I think It was dispatched prior medical examination. They had placed my in a spacious coffin, garlanded me with flowers and then the plane was ready for flight to Chandigadh.

Something magical happened; a faint voice was heard “The passengers are requested to tie their seat belt, as the place is going to land in Chandigadh Airport.” Oh! I found out that I was carried out in a coffin, thinking that death has kissed me with the leaps of martyrdom; they had put me in the coffin which was awaiting a warm reception at Chandigadh.

A jerk was felt, perhaps the plane had stopped. The door was opened and the ladder was attached. Gradually the coffin moved. It seemed as if the soldiers were carrying me on my way to my ultimate glory. As they descended the stairs, from the hinge of the coffin, I spotted my father surrounded by press reporters, ready with their pens and writing pads.   My father replying them with a gush of proud tears, as if a cascade, waving its way to smithereens, into the vanishing glory in martyrdom. My mother though grieved for losing her son, but their was a different glaze in her eyes, the glaze of a proud mother. My unemployed younger brother seen standing, this time the assurance of a job can sway his miseries away. The proud speech delivered by Major K. Samuel on my bravery and how I was drenched in blood.

My mind was confused.  Two questions, two alternatives, and two aspirations raising their heads. If I come out of the coffin and wipe out the tears of my parents, my grief will be over; my fiancée’s face will be glorified. But sometimes other side became heavy. How ashamed will my parents feel? The aspiration of the proud parents will be doomed. Moreover how the Indian soldiers in Kargil will fight and snatch away the land from the Pakistanis after this cowardice activity of mine is disclosed? What about the glory of the supreme sacrifice? I thought the decision must be perfect following the universal law, “the lower motive being sacrificed towards the attainment of a higher motive”. 

I remembered about my childhood days, when my mother used to tell me stories of Indian bravery. Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru, for a minute there faces floated in my mind, their hands folded in request to retain the glory of supreme sacrifice.

The clock stopped tickling as a minute silence was observed. I thought this is the ultimate minute of decision. Quickly I slipped my hands down my pant pocket that is usually found in military trousers. It usually contains a razor to tear away stubborn grenades. My hands touched the historic razor, ready to snap treachery to revive a new glory.

It pained me, I screamed, the blood draining inside the coffin in soft murmurs. The screams of mine were lost amidst the lofty echoes of ‘Vande Mataram’ which the crowd shouted in my glory. Slowly my voice began to maim. Once again I saw my father, my mother and my fiancée. Gradually my vision became thinner and fainter. The echoes were growing  louder. My voice faded like a little water drop mingling into the vastness of the stream of nationalism. Before I stop, the question which remains masked is “Was I a coward in the strictest sense of the term?” Dear imaginary reader the creation of a magician, just thinks of my sacrifice to glorify supreme sacrifice. In what respect  is it feebler than supreme sacrifice if not at par with it?