sample copy. not for distribution.duty in this land, the unseen hand of the guarding ghost slaps him...

Sample Copy. Not For Distribution.

i

Sela Nura


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Printed in India


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Sela Nura

Mohit Badoni

EDUCREATION PUBLISHING (Since 2011)

www.educreation.in


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How Can a Man Die Better

Than Facing Fearful Odds

For Ashes of His Father

And Temple of His God

"Horatius" by Lord Thomas B. Macaulay

W


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For the Martyrs of Nuranang


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FACTS

The Sino–Indian war of 1962, in the battle of Nuranang,

Rifleman Jaswant Singh was awarded Maha Vir Chakra

(MVC) posthumously. The Commanding Officer Lt Col

B. M. Bhattacharjea was also awarded MVC. The other

gallantry awards were :-

2 Lt S N Tandon Vir Chakra

2 Lt V K Goswami Vir Chakra

Rifleman Gopal Singh Vir Charka

L/Nk Trilok Singh Vir Chakra

Rifleman Madan Singh Vir Chakra

The Fourth Battalion Garhwal Rifles was bestowed with

battle honour 'Nuranang'. The only battle honour

awarded to any unit in the Sino – Indian war of 1962 in

the NEFA sector.

A war memorial stands where the battle of

Nuranang was fought. The place is named after the

martyr. Jaswant Garh is located between Sela pass and

Tawang in Arunachal Pradesh. Locals and soldiers

posted in this region believe that the spirit of Jaswant

Singh still protects the frontiers. If a soldier sleeps on

duty in this land, the unseen hand of the guarding ghost

slaps him awake.


Sela Nura

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“It is easy to fall in love,” Ronnie's Grandfather told

him, “yet difficult to understand.” He didn't say any

more, nor Ronnie understood what he meant, until the

day he came to this land. It took him exactly six years,

ten months and twelve days to return to these mountains.

A grave beatitude possessed him from top to toe as he

kept smiling to himself looking at the landscape from his

car. The leaves were alive, but turning into shades of

yellow and brown, preparing to drop from the lackluster

branches. These mountains had a wild promise of all the

mystery and beauty concealed in its belly. Frost lay on

trees and roofs, the empty streets preparing itself lazily

for another day.

He was reminded of something – an elusive

melody, fragrance of words, that he had heard long time

ago. To break a promise is to displease God. These

words he has been turning over in his mind, over and

over like a mantra he cannot forget, and that he would go

to any limit to keep his promise. He also knew he was

helpless, we all are in God's hands, and we must agree

that His ways are not as per our wish and desire. His

ways are mysterious ways.

Time had faded a lot of things, yet he had a strong

sense of deja vu as he walked with faded memories, and

the memories that remained with him were all memories

that were embedded deep in his soul. It was a sly

mnemonic which lit up a host of dim memories and

where all forgotten things reappear, a feeling within his

heart, something inexplicable which made him cross all

boundaries, a longing deep within some untrodden

corner of his heart, which yearned to do something one

may never expect. Memories - like seeds, that had been

buried deep in the soil long ago, and now, stirred to life

with the melting of snow. Memories - becoming living

experience once again. Ronnie looked above trying to


Mohit Badoni

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find some clue. Pack of clouds floating on air, through

the gorges and silent chasms were symbolic of some

mystery still trying to reveal itself.

A lot of stories die an unknown death, because there

is no one to tell them. They are known only by the land

and trees that bore witness. Such was the resonant fable

of Sela and Nura and Ronnie's own story, which was

nothing less than a great fairytale – a story which began

six years ten months ago.

W


Sela Nura

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One : Ronnie

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In April was a boy born so dear,

and they named him Run Bear.

He fell in love when six plus June,

to break his heart a bit too soon.

He's plum as pumpkin and sweet as honey,

No tongue twisters - we'll call him Ronnie.

- A Yankee Rhyme.


Mohit Badoni

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Everything that I would need for my tour was displayed

neatly on the bed. The items went one by one in the big

black rucksack. Shaving kit, couple of pullovers, a

hooded jacket, a few pair of undergarments and socks, a

pair of jeans, four T-shirts, a couple of snickers, track-

suit, cargo pant, sleeping-bag and slippers. The

important stuff was carefully arranged into my backpack

– a copper jar containing my Grandfather's ashes was the

first to go in, then was my laptop and phone charger

followed by wallet, headphone and a baseball cap. Last

to go in were two bottles of vodka in the rucksack and a

few miniature bottles in the backpack saved for the flight

from the hotel room.

I never accepted the fact, but the truth is that I am

dipsomaniac, if not an absolute one, then surely on the

path of becoming one. Mornings were always hopeful,

clear and bright, but the dark dreary nights were

dreadful, worrisome which made me restless. Every

morning would begin with a promise to abstain myself

from alcohol and every evening would end breaking it.

My life is a barren and lonely one, and only alcohol

seems to give me the companionship and strength to

cope up with my solitude particularly in the hours of

darkness. Of late, my life had been so full of agony and

despair which had grown with my advancing days –

what was left with me was nothing except the loneliness

of my life.

The remaining stuff was dumped aside, they had no

part during the course of my visit, and my parents were

instructed to carry the rest of my belongings to the U.S.

with them. As I tied the knot on the rucksack, my Ray-

ban aviator and my kinetic Rado watch caught my eye.

They were a gift from my girlfriend Alicia. A gift to

remind me of her, a token of remembrance, a gift of

love! It was beyond doubt that I was deeply enamored of

this beautiful creature who once upon a time loved me.


Sela Nura

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I never had a watch, never bought one, since I never

had faith in watches. Undoubtedly an incorrigible

misleading instrument! To elaborate this point, I must

explain that I have believed, and will always believe in

the three invisible forces that I presume to exist amongst

all non existent things. Everything in this world is a lie, a

myth which fades away sooner or later. So, the first

force is the ultimate truth – Death. Death conquers all,

rich and the poor; pope and the pauper. The second force

is – Love. It has the power to cross every hurdle of life,

and at times can even embrace upon death. A Love story

– told again and again. Romeo's bleeding for their

Juliet's since time immemorial, the faces change, time

change, but love remains unmoved. The last of them is –

Time. Time can make you, and time can break you.

There is a time for everything in life. There is a time to

live, there is a time to die. A time to love and a time to

hate. Therefore, I have the liberty to say that a watch is

nothing more than a misleading instrument. Watches

never change your time, it only reminds you of the futile

passing moments, this counterfeit instrument vouches to

tell you time, but it will never tell your time.

I don't even wear sunglasses. They are just

fashionable accessories to hide your eyes. Eyes are the

window of your soul which reflects the truth in you. I

believe, those who have something to hide wear shades.

Even though when I had never worn these gifted

accessories, they were priceless for me. Strange are the

ways of love, even the things lacking emotions are

precarious to stir some string of passion in you.

Alicia, oh! What a girl she was! The sensible and

reasonable girl who had moved on from our relationship,

but this innate frivolous heart was still stuck on her. You

know it, heart attacks are known to be rarer among

women than men. I still love you Alicia, I said to myself

as I packed the watch and Ray-ban in my backpack. I


Mohit Badoni

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was searching for the answer to the question: How

should I live without Alicia. Alcohol could be a

temporary substitute but how long? I have tried to

convince myself not to regret all that has been left

behind, for I surely have a ray of light within me that I

am destined to a better fate, only if I learn to cope up

with my failures as lessons than defeat. Even though

when my heart knew the answer very well, yet it was a

matter of moment when I would accept it. Yes! I was

waiting for the time to come.

O

At the Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi, I

was held back at the security check. The security

personnel had discovered three miniature vodka bottles

in my backpack. I knew this was to happen and rather I

was prepared for it, yet I took my chances hoping that I

would sail through the security check.

“Sir you are not allowed to carry liquor inside the

aircraft, consumption of liquor in domestic flights is

prohibited.” Instructed the dusky aviation security man

in a husky voice.

“Never mind.” I said taking the bottles from him,

and without thinking too much I opened them one by

one and gulped it in one go. The man looked at me

amazed. Carrying liquor in bottles may be prohibited,

but carrying them inside my belly was permitted. I

always preferred vodka, it was cheap, colourless, easy to

camouflage while drinking, and gave a kick in minutes.

Vodka brought some solace to my tensed senses. The

confinement of aircraft's cabin always made me restless.

Having gone through all the rigmarole of airport

security, I had some time at my disposal at the waiting

lounge of the airport, so I tried to figure out the best

route to Jaswant Garh. I find Arunachal Pradesh to be a


Sela Nura

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state in the lap of Himalayas in extreme North East

region of India bordering China, Bhutan and Myanmar.

This flight would take me to Guwahati, from where I

would travel by road to Tezpur - Tenga valley – Bomdila

- Senge and Sela pass. Although I was unable to light on

to exact location of Jaswant Garh, but I could make out

that somewhere between Sela pass and Tawang was

Jaswant Garh.

“Good Morning Passengers. This is boarding

announcenent for Air India flight AI 890 to Guwahati.

All passengers are requested to proceed to gate number

19 for boarding and keep their boarding pass and

identification ready. Thank you.”

The announcement was an indication to queue up.

Gathering my belongings, I checked my boarding pass

and passport and headed towards the gate, ready to board

the flight.

Travellers are always an enthusiastic lot, full of

energy, bright smiling faces and fashionable outfits. It is

always a delight to watch travellers. But in India they are

a bit different, they are gastronomes. They don't mind

any inconvenience as long as they have something to eat.

I too don't mind what people ate or drank, but the plump

dark man in my neighbouring seat was of concern, he

was continuously munching like a cow, and his

ruminating voice was so infectious that it made me

hungry without an appetite. Perforce I had to order a

meal for which I paid twice the amount I would have

paid at the airport. It was a three hour flight to

Guwahati, so after a quick bite, I nudged my seat back

closing my eyes on the man who was still ruminating on

his cud ecstatically.

I began to think about Grandpa and the days I had

spent with him. Those were magical days, days of my

childhood and boyhood. Days without an iota of worry,

my carefree days spent in Mussoorie. I don't have any


Mohit Badoni

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distinct memories of my Grandmother. She died when I

was four, so all my childhood memories are associated

with Grandpa. His cottage was our usual picnic spot for

annual vacations. Long summer Indian vacations where

we would spend our days trekking across the Garhwal

hills, rafting in the Ganges and para-gliding in the Doon

valley. „Come on son! Your veins have a soldier's blood

in them, and soldiers are never tired,‟ Grandpa would

say to encourage me. He would carry me on his back

across the steep slopes, teaching me the art of survival

and techniques to live off the land. He had served in the

army for thirty-two years, and all his ways and his

stories were sprinkled with tales of valiant soldiers.

Since childhood I was a careless diffident boy, or at

least this was how my mother always puts it across to all

her relatives and associates. Born and brought up in Los

Angeles, USA, I am neither fully Indian, nor American –

a paradoxical grandchild of an Indian soldier who had a

delusion, that one day he would see me in the olive

green uniform. Part of the lore about my grandfather had

to do with how much he'd wanted me to join the Indian

Army. This passion seeped into his mind when my father

refused to join the army, and he made a choice to study

engineering. My father completed his engineering from a

reputed institute in India, got a job in the U.S., he

applied for green card and settled there permanently. My

mother is a typical Yankee from New England who was

my father's colleague. They had a perfect love story -

they met, fell in love, and suffered social martyrdom to

suit connubial existence. In simple terms, they married

and lived together happily ever after.

I was born and reared in the U.S., so even if I

wanted to keep my grandfather's legacy alive, I could

not, because I am a citizen of the U.S. The only

association I have with India was my visit once in a few

years with my parents during vacations. Having lived in


Sela Nura

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the U.S. all my life, I understand USA more than India. I

don't know much about Mahatma Gandhi, but I can

definitely tell you a thing or two about Kennedy and

Lincoln. I don't comprehend stories of India‟s freedom

struggle, but I do understand stories of the Vietnam war,

or the era of great depression, a major economic collapse

from 1929 to 1940. I do not feel the patriotism my

grandfather felt, I don't even know how India looks, just

some faded memories of my childhood.

My grandfather was the one who gave me my name

– Ranbir. It was not just another Indianised name, but it

was a warrior‟s name; if only my maternal grandparents

knew what it meant, or how to pronounce it. Run beer,

Run bear, Rum bear, everyone used different versions of

my name, Run was acceptable but beer and bear were

intolerable. For my Latino friends, I was Romero.

Finally, we all agreed on Ronnie. Easy to spell and

pronounce, it suited everyone, especially the Yankee's.

That's how my name Ronnie held its place, and was to

continue to hold its place forever.

I am a twenty-five year old writer, or rather a

struggling writer with only one published work which

barely survived at the stands, and three rejected

manuscripts. I was constantly advised to write for the

love of writing, and not to make money. People always

had propensity for lengthy discussion about authors who

pay to publish and then work at coffee shops to pay their

rent. I was one of them, but above reproach. I know one

fine day people will love my stories.

It is always beautiful to be in love. The sweetest

story ever told - and the tritest. I always wanted to be in

love, and love someone the way my parents love each

other. Every time I fell for someone, they would

abandon me for one thing or the other, else destiny

would separate our ways. Anyway you look at it, my


Mohit Badoni

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heart was made to be broken, but the girls who broke my

heart were really special, at least a few of them!

The first girl in my life was Nikita Kornikiva, she

was the girl next door, her skin, white as milk and eyes

blue as the oceans. I was in class five, a bit early in life

to fall in love, but I stumbled. The only affair we had

was exchange of a smile, waving of hands and sharing a

piece of chocolate whenever we met. Then one day I saw

her moving out of her house in a yellow Volkswagen

beetle, a large truck with furniture and household goods

followed the yellow car. That was the last time I saw

her, I was told that they have gone back to Moscow.

After Nikita left I had decided, ineptly, that everything

was over for me, if ever in my life I had a void made in

my heart, I had one made that day. First time I was sad,

very sad.

Life dragged on between school and home until I

reached high school where I saw Maria Lopez. I was

smitten by that Latin angel's black hair and an alluring

body, the low neckline of her bodice emphasised her

plump, voluptuous figure. She was too charming and all

to be snotty, a wild beauty who could easily evoke

sexual vice in a man with her slender waist and weighty

breasts. I tried to inspire the poet in me to describe her,

but all that came out was aphrodisia. I always believed

without a reason to believe, that she loved me until the

bitter truth dazed me that she was never interested in me.

It was not the end, and there were other girls too with

whom I had faint affairs, and as obscurely as they had

begun, the affairs were over. All these girls were a little

vain and prosy about me like my stories, I too, fail to

remember those girls, probably they were bad enough to

be forgotten.

Finally came Alicia, my true love, queen of my dreams

and we had a steady relationship for two years. Time

and again my flimsy heart would shatter for any


Sela Nura

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