As another Kargil Vijay Diwas approaches, my heart grows heavy – not with memories from the battlefield, but from the living rooms across India that stood in anxious silence during those fateful days of 1999.
Kargil was not just a war fought on icy heights. It was a conflict that entered every Indian home through black-and-white newspaper headlines, breathless radio bulletins, and television screens. We watched young men in olive green, eyes bright with courage, speaking casually about dangers that could strike them down the next moment.
Every evening, I would wait for the news on TV. Its crackling voice brought updates from faraway Kargil. Beside me, my father – an old Army man – sat quietly, his eyes narrowing at each lost post, his fists tightening at every mention of a fallen soldier.
I remember mothers lighting lamps in prayer, schoolchildren tying rakhis to letters addressed to soldiers they had never met, and neighbours huddled around tiny televisions, holding their breath with each update. We were far from the Line of Control, yet each bulletin became a shared pulse, reminding us that our sons, brothers, and fathers were inching forward – reclaiming what was ours.
Who can forget the faces of captains, majors, and jawans barely in their twenties, climbing those jagged peaks knowing the enemy waited above with the advantage? Many never returned – except draped in the Tricolour. Their smiling photographs, printed in the papers, seemed too alive to belong to martyrs.
Years have passed. Kargil is now a chapter in textbooks. Our lives have moved on with cricket scores, cinema gossip, election debates. But for the families who lost their loved ones, Kargil never ended. Every July 26th, they stand before framed photographs in their living rooms, garlands slightly faded but memories as sharp as ever.
For the rest of us, this day must be more than ritual hashtags or ceremonial salutes. It is a moment to reflect on the true cost of our peaceful lives – a time to honour the silent tears of mothers who sent their sons off with trembling smiles, and to salute the spirit of young men who climbed into near-certain death so that we could sleep in peace.
Kargil was not just a war on distant peaks. It is a wound and a pride stitched together in every Indian heart. When the guns fell silent, we lit lamps in our courtyards – small flames fluttering against the darkness. We weren’t at the border, we didn’t carry guns, but in our own way, we fought too. With prayers. With waiting. With hope.
Decades later, Kargil remains a testament to courage beyond comprehension. Today, as we bow our heads in homage, may we also lift our hearts in gratitude – for those who never returned, and for those who did, carrying scars we cannot see.
Their heroism is not just history – it is the living breath of our nation’s pride.
Poignant reminder that NOBODY WINS IN A WAR. I lost my father under similar circumstances when I was two years old decades ago. We may write all that we want, but it is depressing that with all the advancement in human thinking and the devastation of the two world wars, we continue to inflict absolutely senseless destruction – call it genocide on what is happening in Ukraine, Palestine and beyond?!
War is business for a few people that purportedly control the world. Not even a fraction is spent by the same people on Environment Issues, Climate Change and for that matter on fellow less fortunate human beings. It’s time to press the RESET button. We are on the brink of a third world war.
Great article Mamatha Subbaiah. it took us to the memories of those days. 🙏🏻🙏🏻
Thank you Mamatha for this lovely and heartfelt article. The best thing we can do is to never forget the sacrifices of the brave men of laid down their lives for the Nation..