LITTLE MEERA AND THE PARAM VIR CHAKRA
Dr. N. R. DEOBHANKAR
It
is a winter morning and a pleasant Sun is pouring into the drawing room through
windows that open on a lovely garden. On the carpeted floor Capt. Shinde is crawling on all fours, and his daughter Meera is swaying astride his back, and urging her mount to
gallop. She is a pretty child of four or five, very lively and imaginative, and
is letting out weird shrieks meant to simulate the pandemonium of a
battle-field. These are punctuated with shouts of “Bang !
Bang !” as gun-fire. “Ah, how they
run,–the cowards! Har-Har-Mahadev!” she
exclaims, and claps her hands in triumph.
“What’s
all this uproar?” asks Sumitra, Meera’s
young mother, who enters on hearing the yells, and stands smiling at the spectacle.
“Bang!….Bang!….Inquilab Zindabad!” shouts Meera again for the mother’s benefit.
“Be
careful, Sumitra!” warns the husdand,
forgetting for the moment his role as horse. “This is one of Meera’s desperate skirmishes.”
“How
you pamper her! At this rate she will soon turn into a proper hoyden. And what
is that doll doing on your shoulder, Meera?”
“Not
a doll, Mummy. It’s my Baby and he will be the Rajah when I die fighting. I’ve
strapped him to my back, because he is too little and can’t ride. Didn’t you
tell me….about the Rani of Jhansi?
Har-Har-Mahadev! I’m the Rani
of Jhansi! Jai Hind!” After divulging this secret,
she dismounts from her steed, and rounds off the scene with more war-cries.
Capt.
Shinde, in the mean time, stretches himself erect,
dusts his palms and trousers, chafes his cramped limbs in mock fatigue, and
lets out a dramatic groan, unknown to any breed of Cavalry horses.
“See
how you’ve tired your Daddy, Meera, and bedraggled
his uniform!” accuses the mother, rumpling Meera’s hair,
as the girl clings to her.
Just
then is heard the Rat-tat-tat Rat-tat-tat of the
Monkey man’s damaru, and Meera frees herself from the mother’s embrace. “A Monkey
dance!–a Monkey dance!” she calls out gleefully. “May I go, Mummy, before the
showman moves on to the next bungalow? The Monkey puts on real pants, you know,
Mummy, and his wife wears a real skirt!”
“And
he carries a real stick to beat her with!” adds the mother.
“He
is nasty, I know,–not at all like Hanuman who rescued Sita
from the Demon. But it’s such a funny dance, Mummy,–a scream to watch them
hopping round and round.” Here she gives a droll imitation of the performing
Simians. The mimicry tickles the parents to hearty laughter.
“Well,
don’t stay out long. Take the Dai with you and keep to the veranda” says the
mother yielding, and Meera
scampers away without hearing her through.
Capt.
Shinde becomes grave now. “You’ll find her a handful
to manage when I’m away,” he says with an involuntary sigh. “The day has come,”
he announces.
“Are
the orders out, then?”
“We
march in two days.”
“So soon?”
“That
sword hangs perpetually over a soldier’s head.”
“Yet
his wife can’t help a cold shiver running spine when the moment comes.”
“I
know, my dear. I also know you’ll be brave and carry on in spite of the first
shock. I’ve straightened out our business affairs, and find that
there’s a fair margin of security. Our Lawyer will explain the position to you
this evening.”
“Oh,
I’m not worried about all that. But...but I do feel….panicky about you.”
“Keep
your mind off that dangerous track, my dear. Try. That’s my own cure when I
tremble for Meera and you. I try to bypass the dread
and to dream happy dreams. I dream about the holiday I’ve planned. One day you
and Meera and I will be roaming care-free, seeing the
wonderful sights of our beloved country. Perhaps a Brother-officer may join us
with his wife and kids for this Bharat-darshan.”
“Oh,
if only you’re spared for such happy days!”
“They
are wise, of course, who look with disfavour upon
flights of fancy, and counsel us to plant our feet firmly on earth. But it
seems to me that those others are wiser still who encourage fond hopes and
sweet dreams, and exhort us to turn them true. Never brood over possible
disasters, my dear. If a blow does fall, don’t be
stampeded into jettisoning your cherished ideals for false safety.”
“When
the will to exist weakens, it must be burdensome to guard ideals,” murmurs Sumitra. “And nothing weakens that will so thoroughly as
sorrow.”
“That’s
true enough, Sumitra. Still I hold that true love
need not make a fetish of grief, nor a ritual of
bereavement. You are young and have your own particular gifts. Make the best of
your remaining life,–in my company, if still possible,–or without it, if so destined.
Teach our kid to shun affectation. Guard her from false values and snobbery.
She has a wealth of affection and understanding far beyond her years. What
better riches can one possess?...Ah, talk of the
angel, and here she comes. How she glows with happiness! Let us not damp her
joy. Away with long faces!”
It
is nearly twelve months since Capt. Shinde led his
Company to the battle-field. Little Meera had said
good-bye to him on that fateful day,–not knowing it would be for ever! Standing
at the road-side, as he march past with his men, she
had frantically waved her tiny tricolour to catch his
eye. He had noticed her and answered with a grim salute, which thrilled her as
nothing else had ever done. During these months many of that regiment had earned
glory while pushing back the treacherous foe. Today the nation was paying
homage to their deeds and their memory.
The
stadium of the metropolis is a vast sea of humanity. The Prime Minister is
presenting awards to the heroes. The citation for Capt. Shinde’s
Param-Vir-Chakra posthumous is being read out:
“...overpowered
by heavy odds...worked a machine-gun single-handed...foiled the enemy’s attempt
to cut off vital supplies...defended a strategic outpost at great
peril...though badly wounded himself, rescued his next in command who lay
disabled by enemy fire...laid down his life for his comrades and his
country...earned immortal glory for his outstanding valour...”
As
the citation ends, a spontaneous cheer bursts out and shouts of “Capt. Shinde Zindabad!” rise from
countless throats!
“Who
receives the medal on his behalf?” asks the Prime Minister in an aside. “His
wife and little daughter are present, sir,” replies the officer. “Here they
come.” And Sumitra comes up, dressed in spotless
white, and leading Meera in her Rani-of-Jhansi
uniform. Slowly they move on to the presentation dais over which flutters the
flag of Free India. The P. M. bows gravely and lifts the medal, as the hero’s
wife takes her position. “Pin it to my daughter, if you please!” says she in a
low voice choked with tears.
Here
little Meera comes to attention. The P. M. smiles
reassuringly, and bending down, fixes the decoration with great ceremony. Meera responds with a smart salute worthy of a war veteran.
A tremendous ovation goes up from the multitude. Men and women cheer wildly,
stopping only to wipe their tears.
“Has
my daddy sent this for me, Chachaji?” asks Meera of the P. M. touching the new ornament dangling from
her chest. For a moment Panditji is too moved to find
words, but recovering himself, says in a husky voice: “Yes my dear. It’s….it’s
your gallant father who has won it for you.”
“When
will he come home? Are the mountains very, very far away? My Mummy says you’ve
lots and lots of flying ships. Won’t you give me one to go to my daddy?”
Again
the P. M. is taken slightly aback. “We’ll all join him sooner or later, my
child,” he manages to say in an unsteady voice. “Meanwhile, we must stick to
our duties, mustn’t we?” He turns his face away for a moment and wipes his
eyes. Facing the little girl again, he notices the doll clinging to her
shoulder. “Is that your pet doll, my dear?” he asks, wishing to ease the
tension.
“Doll?–No, Chachaji.
It’s my Baby who will rule
“So
you are, of course! How dull of me not to notice!”
“We
must move on, Baby” whispers the mother, coming to the P. M.’s rescue, “Let’s
make room for others, my dear.”
“Best
of luck, darling!” says the P. M. caressing the child.
“Jai
Hind!” answers Meera.
“Jai
Hind!” responds the P. M. Turning to the mother he
adds: “Bring her to me again. We must talk about her future.”
The
mother and daughter move across the dais, the Param-Vir-Chakra
scintillating on the latter’s chest. A tremendous applause engulfs them again.
The young widow wipes her eyes. The P. M. clears his throat. Even the ever
buoyant Meera senses an eerie hush and a dismal void,
as she picks her way through the cheering crowd.
In
the garden nearby, the red poppies droop, and the
fragrant parijat sighs with the wind…..