Capture and Contain.

Set 14,140 ft. above sea level, the winter frost loomed over a feeble sun above Nathula pass. It was a winter that held a promise to warm my heart despite the bitter cold.

At 4°C, I felt the cold pierce through the layers of my warm fleeces as they vanished into thin air. No, the imported brandy didn’t help either.

We drove through ribbons of dense foliage that gave way to the rusty terrain of the mountains. Streams of water traversed through like blood from veins cut open. The red, yellow and blue Buddhist prayer flags hung suspended in the air, trying to keep up a fight against the robust wind to protect their holy land.

Two hours evaporated into moments and the car halted. Gusts of dust cleared away to reveal a band of barbed wire. Rugged soldiers armed with rifles, stood at the Line Of Control. Beyond the wire was the Chinese army guarding the land of Tibet.

A few steps away from the Indo-China border, I saw a red-bricked wall that framed a black marbled mantle. It had a few names and words engraved in gold;

“When you go home, tell them of us and say;
For your tomorrow, we gave our today.”

I stood still as a swarm of clouds crept over me, remindful of the enormity of every soldier’s sacrifice. In that fleeting moment, my sense of self was reduced to nothing. Yet, I expanded with pride.

Jawan Prakash stood there guarding the memorial, with the wind growling against his chest. I wondered; did he miss the aromas of sweet basil from his mother's kitchen? Did he long for the touch of his lover? I couldn’t guess.

His lips were dry and flaky. The layers he wore seemed inadequate. I looked into his eyes, as if to ask, “Aren’t you cold?” His big brown eyes conveyed the answer; “I wear a layer of devotion for my people. I need no more.”

The dark clouds began to descend. For the last time, I peered at our Indian flag, slow dancing in the wind. Further,I found the Chinese flag fluttering too. I sensed the futility of boundaries as the same wind swept across both the lands.The firewood had been lit in the camp but I felt a different fire simmer within me. I hoped, in my next visit, Jawan Prakash would be a face with moist supple lips and not another name engraved in the memorial slab.

On a chilly winter's night back home in Mumbai, my mother brought in a thick blanket and asked me "Aren't you cold?"

His memory came flooding back;torn lips, fire in his eyes. I had found my shield of warmth.

I smiled and told her I didn't need it. Not any more.