Mirages

 

Occasional Jottings

 

 

Mirages

Dr. C. V. Ananda Bose

 

Sekharettan was among the press brigade that accompanied the Prime Minister to the Kargil warfront. As one who has been witness to many historic moments it was nothing new for Sekharettan. How many wars, their devastations, transformations. And how many more to be seen.

The air force copter is moving  ahead, dropping shadow upon the Himalayan mounts. Below, eternal hermits laden with the geriatric shades of snow.  Bald hillocks, abandoned stone pillars lying here and there in the valleys. Military trucks crawling along the bottom, bereft of life. A few fighter planes flashing across gave the feel that the war is yet to finish. A pall of gloom fell inside the copter.

The copter was taking a bird’s eye view of the battallic regions of Kargil and Drass where the battle was over. Old main roads destroyed in bombing. Houses and buildings that turned to sandhills. Communication and electric systems have all gone down in the soil. Demise of bridges have made roads and rivers hand in glove. Little hamlets remain as remnants of devastation. Not a throb of human life anywhere. Even in this eerie serenity, some unknown birds fly around, oblivious of the disturbing reality.

War means destruction. No doubt. As the eye slips past each of its mischief there it is—a mind-wetting sight. An ancient Buddha vihara. The remainder of a glorious past of exquisite sculpture and architecture. War has let off that Buddhist monastery alone. Astonishing. Is there a place for virtue in war as well? A place for compassion and wisdom?

There still remains some good in man. Sekharettan thought. Amidst the poignant urge to destroy, he is aware of that which should not be destroyed as well.  So much so good.

Has this awareness been there in all wars? In World War II, both camps tried how hard to save the historic Benedictine Abbey? The Allied Forces and the Axis Powers were in fact leaving out this historic memorial deliberately. Still, it eventually collapsed due to a simple misconception.

‘’Sekharji, now you’ve in mind that William Sambrot story, The Man who Hated. Right?” the PM asked.

Sekharettan never expected such a question from the PM at this moment. Parthasarathy, the charioteer of Arjun, advising the Geetha from the battle ground of Kurukshetra came to mind. Here, the question has been thrown in by the charioteer of this war.

Yes, The Man who Hated. Top gun in the world of war fiction.

‘We reached the city of Cassino along with Col. Jack Dumphrey who fought on the side of Allied Forces. Into the Italian battlefield that witnessed a scintillating fight in 1944. The Battle of Monte Cassino.

Crossing River Rapido that bisects the city, it is a tall mountain. At its zenith, breaking the sky, a great monument.

The historic Benedictine Abbey.

It stood tall without bothering anyone for fourteen centuries.  Collapsed one night in the spring of 1944. Over a mere error of judgment.

The German army camping at the mountain top came down crossing the Rapido River and killed the American forces as well as the British soldiers in the valley. Quite easily. View form Benedictine Abbey is such. You can know the enemy’s movements by the palm. The Allies concluded that the Germans made use of Benedictine Abbey as a key observational post and excellent defensive cover.

As the genocide continued, Antony Page, an American lieutenant got enraged. Now, to hell with the Abbey. That the German declaration to the effect that the abbey won’t be made a war camp is not believed anymore.  They have violated their word. So destroy the abbey to take revenge.

“But before that, it has to be ascertained that it has been made a war camp.”

Antony Page agreed to the commander’s opinion.  “A great monument should not be destroyed out of apprehension.  Let a secret investigation be conducted. I’ll undertake it personally. I will enter the abbey in the guise of a farmer. If German soldiers are camped inside, a red signal will be given. Start bombing immediately. No German presence and the signal will be green. And I will return.’’

Antony ventured out to the mountain the next dawn. In the guise of a farmer.

Just a couple of miles to the Benedictine Abbey. But each step is difficult and dangerous. One mistake and you are in a deep crevice. Or splintered off in some mine blast. A moment’s distraction and German bullets will pierce you. Or you can encash brutal torture as a POW. Antony Page was not perturbed by any of these threats. A fighter in the warfront has no such botheration of consequences. Hundreds of his buddies who sank in the Rapido River like rats never thought of consequences.

Antony Page walked through the bushes in the fire-roaring hill ridges. Day and night alike. Sun and rain alike. Terrific depths and upside steeps alike.

Twenty feet near to the abbey and a horrific sound. A mine exploded just a hand away. A big bruise on the left hand. Blood gushes out. Don’t succumb. The mind said. The moments ahead are crucial.

Surveyed the abbey closely. The apprehension was not out of place. It is indeed a military camp. Some German soldiers are going in. Some others coming out. How accurate was my doubt. Cheaters. Heinous fellows who cheated the world. They have turned the sacred place into the devil’s citadel. He wished to destroy it in one instant. But the body is weakening. No delay anymore. Took out the pistol to show the red signal and fired skywards. The  mission accomplished. Now I can die bravely. A mist like slumber engulfs the eyes. Then, nothing but a long sleep.

When awake, it was in a new world. Motionless bodies. A candle burns. In the faint light, beautiful walls and talcum floor could be seen. A priest gestures the cross in front of motionless bodies. Groans  and moans could be heard from various corners of the room. Sometimes long wails too.

Antony Page tried to get up in vain. The left hand is tied close to the body. The shoes and the watch are gone. And the pistol too. Is this Nazi prison camp? Panic caught the nerves.

An array of coffins is set near to the wall. One of them for me?

In this citadel of death too, there she is, an angel. A girl with a depressed smile. Twelve or thirteen years of age.  She said, putting her palm on his forehead, ‘’you’ve no fever. Lucky man.’’

She helped him to sit up.

‘’What is this, where am I?’’

“You are in the Benedictine Abbey. See them, they are shivering with fever. Those near to them are dying. Some dead are also in the huddle.’’

Who is this girl with the message of compassion in the prison of death? How did she get trapped in the camp of the barbarous Germans?

‘’My name is Marina. One among the refugees who came here early this month.’’

 Antony Page looked at her closely.  Familiar face. She smiles like the moonlight in the night rain. Is she Mona Lisa?

A revered old priest came for her. ‘’This is chief priest Augustino.” She introduced.

Priest!  Brute who opened the place of worship to the Nazi military. He is not at all a priest. But the quisling of priesthood.

‘’His fever is down, Father. Now, this Englishman won’t die.’’

Page was shocked.

‘’How come you know that I’m  English?’’

The priest patted Page on his shoulders. ‘’while under the influence of fever, you spoke a lot. In English. Then your shoes. No farmer has such shoes. And also the pistol.’’

‘’Where are those things, the Germans should not see them.’’

‘’They are all kept safely. And there are no Germans in here.’’

But then, those I have seen?

They were bringing some pictures from Rome. They have gone, won’t come back.

Blatant lie. This priest is a bigger traitor than Judas. Why does he do pimping for the Germans? Alas! What he knows of the sanctity of priesthood?

When everyone slipped to sleep, Page slowly got up. What’s up in the abbey’s interiors, it must be known.  On the walls, top class pictures, engravings. A real paradise of paintings and sculpture. Sad bawls  which disturb that magnificent visual panorama. Refugees who fight with death and the unfortunate ones wreathing in pain. No one knows their nation, lingo, religion, caste. Here, there are only humans. Who came for a solace before death, for the last sacrament. Father Augustino and the girl Marina  wander among them with the message of heaven.

What I had guessed were all untrue. Not a single German here. Just a Godly priest.  I couldn’t perceive even the greatness of a sacred place of worship.

He was exhausted with repentance. A terrible panic set in as well. It is raining outside. When the rain is over bombings would begin over the abbey. Before that, the green signal has to be raised. There is still time to clear the air. But the pistol for green signal is missing.

Page told everything to the priest. Confessed. ‘’give me that pistol. Let me show the green signal. Come on, quick.’’

This is the feverish mumbo jumbo of an indisposed soldier. The priest thought. This fellow has fever still. The priest took him to the bed again. Despite Page opening out his heart to him, the priest did not have any change of mind.

As expected, bombing began before  dawn. Marina came gasping. With the indication of a great tragedy. ‘’Come on, let’s escape.’’

‘’To escape, give me that pistol. Let me show the green signal. Where is the priest?”

Banking on her shoulders Page searched for him throughout the interiors. Most of the injured soldiers are asleep, unaware of the happenings around. Outside, it’s bombing like death rain. On reaching the abbey’s entry gate, they saw a lifeless body. Someone lays dead in a mine blast.

Marina rushed to that body, had a look at its face and began to cry aloud. It was Fr. Augustino. Marina’s last bond too has departed the scene. Taking his hand she bent upon to Page’s shoulders.

‘’God, are you dead?’’

Big bombs are falling upon the abbey. The great structure began to crumble from one end. The beautiful walls collapsed. Invaluable oil paintings fell under soil heaps. The fighters who fought with death merged with the soil.

In the dance of destruction, let Marina at least escape…Page held her up. Within moments the last wall too collapsed. With that Marina’s life too.

As the clock turned a full circle, in place of Benedictine Abbey, there remained  heaps of sand and stone. And the taciturnity of a cemetery. Is God dead?

Years passed by. We went to the shattered abbey. There stood a beautiful structure.

‘’This is the reconstructed abbey.” Sekharettan said.

Not an iota different from the old one. Same walls. Same edifices. And same paintings on the walls.

Curiosity bubbled up in us seeing the magic of the abbey. ’’How was it possible to reconstruct this?’’

Sekharettan pointed afar.

Ask him.

In a deserted corner of the interiors, an old priest. Inattentive to anything around. Pensive.

“He is Brother Antony. The re-creator of Benedictine  Abbey.” Sekharettan said.

We went up to him and prostrated before the graceful  being. The master craftsman who created the great structure from nothingness.

‘’How was it made possible?’’

‘’These are not anyone’s skill. Creation after destruction. That’s nature’s law.’’

We did not feel like asking any further. And he had turned away his face as well. May be he was catching up with some broken thought.

Coming out of the abbey, a deep feeling of loss. As if something was lost.

Our car moved ahead circumventing the mountain ranges of Monte Cassino where epic snoozes.

‘’Who is Br. Antony? Some old priest of the abbey?’’

‘’Na.” Sekharettan said.

‘’Try to rewind. You’ll get at.’’

Tried hard but in vain.

‘’Antony Page.’’

We stood shell-shocked. The one responsible for destruction has done the re-creation as well. The distance between lieutenant and priest is that between destruction and creation?

As the copter landed on the helipad in Kargil there was a big military assemblage. In the distance, the buzz of fighter planes and the roar of Bofors.

Accompanying the PM on a walk to the injured soldiers, Sekharettan’s mind had that Buddhist monastery alone. The ancient memorial left alone by the war.

* * *