....continuation of prev. post (our soldiers..) LIFE OF HIS PARENTS AND RELATIVES- Daddy, I've captured.' G L Batra can never forget that phone call that June morning. Vikram's voice was cracking through the satellite phone. He was talking too fast and wasn't clear at all. For a moment, he thought his son was captured. But the school principal knew it was preposterous to think that he would be allowed to call his parents if he were a prisoner of war. Yet he was frightened and asked Vikram to speak clearly. 'Oh Daddy, I've captured the enemy's post. I'm OK, I'm OK.' 'Bete [son], I'm proud of you,' replied Mr Batra, 'may God bless you to carry on your task there.' It was the happiest moment of his life. He had named his son 'Vikram' because the name spelled character and strength and he had lived up to it. The capture of 5140 would finally lead to the decisive fall of Tiger Hill, and to India's eventual victory. Nine days later, Vikram called from base camp. He was leaving for another crucial operation. He never called again. G L Batra and his wife Kamal saw glimpses of their son on television. He looked different with his beard and camouflaged jacket. Like always, he was brimming with confidence and his spirit was soaring. Like always, that smile never left his face. Mrs Batra's heart had lurched when Vikram called to tell her that his unit was being sent to the Kargil front. The last war India had fought was in 1971, three years before Vikram and his twin, Vishal, were born. He was just 24, had served in the Indian Army for only 18 months -- what if… She quickly pushed that thought out of her mind. If all mothers were to think that their children shouldn't join the army, who would protect this vast nation? When she heard that he had captured his first peak it was as if she had won. She had lived most of her life in the lap of the Dhauladhar mountains in Palampur. She saw the mountains each day and knew them as invincible. Now her son was telling her that he had captured a perilous peak like the Dhauladhar, maybe even higher. She felt proud like only a mother could be. ( AN EMOTIONAL CONVERSATION...) Vikram you are going for another crucial operation, what are your thoughts at this moment?' Mr Batra watched his son on the evening news when the television reporter questioned him at the base camp. Over the past few days, the school principal had tried to catch a glimpse of his son after he came home every day. But that day something about Vikram left him uneasy. 'I wish the families of the deceased soldiers are looked after well by the government and society,' Vikram replied and turned his face from the camera. Sitting in his home, hundreds of miles away, Mr Batra read the facial expressions of his son and instantly knew what was going on in his mind. Vikram doubted his return, Mr Batra thought. This time, the father turned away from the television screen and broke down. His wife asked him why he had suddenly become so sad. He did not have the courage to tell her what he felt. At that moment he knew their son wasn't coming back. The last time Vikram was home with his family in Palampur was during the Holi festival in 1999. He had got leave for a few days and his mother pampered him with the goodies he liked best -- pakodas, home made potato chips and mango pickle. Like the ritual he followed on each visit, he went to the Neugal Café, a Palampur eatery by the Neugal river, for a coffee and met an acquaintance who spoke about the war. 'The war has begun, who knows when you will be asked to go, you better be careful.' 'Don't worry, Vikram told him,' remembers Mr Batra, 'I'll either come back after raising the Indian flag in victory or return wrapped in it.' Before Mr and Mrs Batra knew, Vikram's holiday was over and they were at the bus stop seeing him off. The mango pickle and potato chips were packed in his bag for him and his friends in Sopore. His unit had received orders to move to Shahjahanpur in Uttar Pradesh but the war altered their deployment and Vikram was deputed to report for duty in Kargil on June 1, 1999. He informed his parents, asked them not to worry and called them at least once in ten days. He made his last phone call on June 29. He asked about everyone in the family. His elder sisters Neetudidi and Seemadidi. His twin, whom he fondly called 'Kushli.' She was relieved to hear Vikram say: 'Mommy, ek dum fit hoon, fikar mat karna [I'm absolutely fine. Don't you worry.] That was the last time he spoke to her. Vikram's parents received the news of his death the same day. No one was at home when two officers arrived at their doorstep that afternoon. When Mrs Batra, a schoolteacher, came home and her neighbours told her about the visitors -- she screamed. Army officers would only come home if there was bad news, she thought, and prayed fervently before dialling her husband's number. When Mr Batra reached home and saw the officers, he doubted Vikram was alive. He told the two colonels to wait, went inside and bowed his head in the pooja room first. When he came out, one officer stepped out, held his hand and said: 'Batrasaab, Vikram Batra is no more.' Mr Batra collapsed. The next day, his son's body received a hero's welcome and was cremated with full military honors. In their sorrow, the family drew strength from Lord Rama, whose twins Luv and Kush were the inspiration for the pet names of the Batra boys. "Our child had captured three peaks, he had taken the nation by storm and suddenly he was no more," says Kamal Batra, rivulets of tears flowing down her cheek. "But when God gives you a mortal blow, he gives you the strength to cope with the grief. Guru Gobind Singh sacrificed four sons for the country. Maybe there was some reason why God gave me twins -- one he had marked for the country and one for me. Captain Vikram Batra's funeral was attended by a host of dignitaries and citizens. The Chief of Army Staff visited Vikram's home and commended the young officer's courage. 'Had this kid returned from Kargil, he would be sitting at my post in 15 years,' General Malik told Mr Batra. His father laughs heartily. The first time in the four hours we have spent talking about his son. Vishal, Vikram's brother, had hoped his brother would be a brigadier one day. His friends would be so impressed, he thought, when he walked by Vikram's side. Captain Vikram Batra never lived here( BORDER), but this is his home. His parents moved here after his death. They know it is a home Vikram would have liked. A board at the top of the lane points towards the house. Eight of his framed pictures adorn the walls inside; at the centre of the room hangs a framed citation that makes the hair stand on end. The Param Vir Chakra -- India's highest award for gallantry in battle. The award offered some consolation for Vikram's sacrifice, feels his father. It was reassuring to know that the country appreciated his son's exemplary valour. When the officers handed the flag that had wrapped Captain's Batra's body and his cap to Mrs Batra, she packed them neatly in a transparent plastic sheet so that it did not get soiled. She kept it on a table in front of his picture. Every morning when she bows her head to god, she takes a look at Vikram too. Today a statue of her son adorns the town centre. 'I will fight to the last man and the last round,' Major Sharma said before he laid down his life evicting Pakistani raiders from Srinagar airport in 1947. He couldn't have found a worthier successor than Captain Vikram Batra to share his space with. (to be continued in next post)..
