Balkar, the Water-man, was at his usual spot at this time of the day, I
always wondered how did he synchronise his arrival with such precision; which always got
him here immediately after we finished our lunch on the portico in the mess overlooking the very picturesque Shamshabari Ranges. A neat yellow turban tied more like the Kashmiri headgear, trimmed beard, a disarming playful smile,
upright posture and short quick steps were his characteristic attributes. He carried his spanner as though it was his personal weapon, a rifle, the most prized possession of a soldier.
Yes a soldier he had been in another era perhaps, but he will always a
remain a soldier come what may, his retirement cannot take away his right. It was evident from the deferential treatment
he gave to his spanner. He oiled it and
cleaned it on Saturdays, the maintenance day, opening all the nuts and
bolts, ensuring it was serviceable in a manner which would have made any soldier proud of his weapon.
He had become a part and parcel of this place, the saplings
he had planted and guarded had become gigantic trees. The water point which he looked after, was the
same, the water tank was the same and so was the source, the stream he had come to
love as though his own mother. He did
not remember when did he come here, nor could he remember his exact age but
that did not bother him. He remembered
that in another era, he had been to the Middle East and also to Europe, a
soldier, one amongst the many unsung ones.
He considered himself very fortunate as he had participated in the world war as we called it; for him it was just another war, but also that
he was one of the first soldiers to have landed in Kashmir to thwart the Pakistani
raiders. An injured right shoulder saw him get invalided out of the army but the only bitterness he felt was that he missed the chance to be part of action
ever again.
Balkar was born in Jammu district and could hardly recall
his childhood, for him the life began when he joined the Army as a raw
recruit. He did not have a home he could
call his own, he was the sole survivors of the floods that ravaged his
village. Not knowing what exactly to do,
he wandered into Jammu and joined a queue
which he later realised was for recruitment.
He never regretted it, in fact he got involved in the Army life so much
so that he managed to erase the memories of that flood and its aftermath. His company commander a British officer once
asked him why didn’t he ever go on leave, to which he replied by counter
questioning ‘Saab! Where do you go on leave?’ Not used to such a response, he
however managed to mutter ‘home obviously’.
‘This unit is my home Saab’, where do I go Saab. The officer was nonplussed.
After having seen and observed him for couple of months, I
called him over, ‘Sat Sri Akal
Saab’, yellow turbaned, spanner in hand Balkar was in front of me. I was curious, that he could see, he warmed
up and got talking. I asked him as to
how did he come to this god forsaken place, obviously he did not belong
here. He confided in me with a twinkle
in his cataracted eyes and the wrinkles almost disappeared as he blushed,
crimson all over, he had fallen in love here. A lass had got him hooked, the
only time he did get involved in his life.
Obviously he wasn’t lucky but nevertheless, on his discharge, he knew
this is the place where he would spend the rest of his life. Spanner in hand, he once again saluted me and
off he went to the water point, with the refrain \”Saabji Time Ho Gaya’ Pani Chhodne Ka”.