07-27-2006, 09:52 PM
<b>A Call To Honour </b>
<i>by Jaswant Singh</i>
Your Price : $ 11.00
A Call to Honour: In Service of Emergent India is an evocative account about a crucial period in India's hstory. After the passing of the Nehruvian era of conservative socialism and non-alignment in internatonal relations, India went on to redefine its character and goals in accordance with the demands of a post Cold War world. ISBN: 812910976x
Pages : 426
<!--QuoteBegin-->QUOTE<!--QuoteEBegin-->Jaswant Singh on his Kandahar experience. An excerpt from his book â A Call to Honour
<b>THE FINAL WEEK OF 1999</b>
What are some of the landmarks that my diary notes miss out but which I feel are necessary to recount? The very first is, of course, the great torment I went through. On the afternoon of 24 December was born the first girl child in the family, to Chitra and Manvendra, my daughter-in-law and son .We have a custom (largely in Rajasthan) of the mother and father choosing someone to give the newborn baby the first drop of consecrated water from the Ganga, with possibly a small portion of honey and jaggery. Harshini, until then not so named but now a bouncingly beauteous creature who stuns all into submission through sheer charm, was but a weakly, rather mutedly mewing baby. She waited for her first feed until that ritual of the 'first drop' had not been completed. Even her mother could not feed her. It could just not be done, for they had decided that I should be the one to give that first drop. The theory and belief is that whoever gives that first drop, his or her attributes (misattributes) transfer to the new born. I don't know why it was felt that I should do it. But that was the position. This was conveyed to me, on telephone, around 4 pm, when I was at work in the Ministry of External Affairs. Filled with joy, I promised I would soon be at the hospital.
Fate had decided otherwise. Very soon thereafter news came of the hijack. As my diary records, even then I felt a very strange disquiet. It did not sound, if I can use such a phrase, a 'normal hijack'. I was planning to leave because the hijack was not directly the charge of the Ministry Of External Affairs. I wanted to go home, have a quick wash and dash to the hospital, then go to the Prime Minister's residence. Telephones had by then begun to ring with greater frequency, and lesser and lesser patience. Some came from family members whose obvious joy at a baby's arrival was marred, in their minds and hearts, by my insensitivity in keeping her waiting and wailing. I could not share with them, or anyone else at that time, that moment, that a hijack had taken place. And so it went tortuously on. I was finally able to visit the hospital only between 7.30 and 7.45 pm.
But before that, just after I had reached home from the ministry, information reached me that the hijacked IC 814 had landed at Amritsar. <b>I almost yelled into the telephone, forgetting all diplomatic decorum, the army resurfacing and in a language that brooks no misunderstanding: 'Get your bloody fingers out now. For heaven's sake, do anything, don't let the fâ¦..g aircraft leave Amritsar!'</b>
Some accounts have already been written of the terrible agony of those who were kept confined in that aircraft from 24 December till almost 9.30 pm on 31 December - eight days and seven nights. The aircraft being in Kandahar, had thereafter become the responsibility of the Ministry of External Affairs.
We had no diplomatic representation in Taliban-held Afghanistan, obviously therefore, we had no representative in Kandahar either. It was clear to us from the beginning that, very deliberately, the aircraft had been maneuvered to land at Kandahar, so that the entire effort could thereafter be managed by forces inimical to India, specifically the ISI -- which became so obvious and visible as events began to further unfurl.
Deliberations on options were agonized, prolonged and extremely testing. What weighed with us were the pulls and counter pulls of options. The threat was real, it could not be brushed off, what if the aeroplane is blown up? I could not, in any sense accept the responsibility of letting 166 innocent men and women and one child, some of whom were not even Indian, blown apart on the midnight of 31 December as the millennium changed, for that was the intelligence that had firmly and convincingly come our way, 'that if there was no resolution, the hijackers would do just that - preferably in a suicide mission, with the aircraft in the air.'
THAT JOURNEY INTO A DARK NIGHT
It was not easy to decide to go to Kandahar. But somebody had to go. I asked Vivek Katju (we had by then established a satellite phone facility) to talk to Muttavakil and enquire if I could meet Mullah Omar. Within minutes Muttavakil's reaction came. 'Yes, why not? I am going to make contact.' And soon enough his response came: 'Sorry, you cannot, don't fly to Kandahar.' Muttavakil's minders in the ISI must have upbraided him for even this little relenting.
The airport at Kandahar was rudimentary and littered with the debris of war. Our aircraft was asked to go to one end of the airport and not proceed any further.
As soon as the three men went down the steps they were warmly embraced and there were joyous shouts. I don't have to explain who greeted them. Meanwhile, this issue of 'identification' of released TADA detenues was another giveaway of the ISI hand. The friends/relatives of the detenues to be exchanged were brought to Kandahar by them from Pakistan and they confirmed the 'correctness' of the released person.
Of the return flight, what memories do I carry? There was relief, because so much accumulated pain and agony burst open, like a long throbbing carbuncle. My officers and I had a place in the first row but I didn't even want to sit. So many of the released passengers were so visibly traumatized - there was no way I could do anything other than meet them individually, to welcome them and do the best that I could absorb and to assuage, at least in part , their pain. There was, I recollect, a young Frenchman who cried and cried and continued to do so endlessly. I knew, of course, what the cause of his breakdown was, but why only him? For his girlfriend, also French, who sat next to him said: 'This had become his state in the aircraft itself after the fourth day of captivity.' And then that Swiss gentleman, a picture of dignity and reserve. I knew he worked for the international community of finance. He would be returning safely to his country along with his girlfriend. It is he who had subsequently said that he marveled at the stoic reserve and courage of the Indians, for had it been a plane full of Italians what a chaos that would have been! <b>Then that rather overwrought young mother, still trembling with anger and suppressed fear-she came up to me in the aircraft and with her tiny hands, grimy because they had been so confined for eight days, had clutched at my throat and yelled as loudly as she could, 'Why have you come so late? Where were you all this time? You have betrayed all of us. Where are my children? Where is my family?' And she banged her head against my chest angrily and finally broke down, crying bitterly. I stood there in the aisle and just held her and Vivek Katju stood next to me and we watched</b>.
â¢Â It was clear to us from the beginning that, very deliberately, the aircraft had been maneuvered to land at Kandahar, so that the entire effort could thereafter be managed by forces inimical to India, specifically the ISI
<!--QuoteEnd--><!--QuoteEEnd-->
<i>by Jaswant Singh</i>
Your Price : $ 11.00
A Call to Honour: In Service of Emergent India is an evocative account about a crucial period in India's hstory. After the passing of the Nehruvian era of conservative socialism and non-alignment in internatonal relations, India went on to redefine its character and goals in accordance with the demands of a post Cold War world. ISBN: 812910976x
Pages : 426
<!--QuoteBegin-->QUOTE<!--QuoteEBegin-->Jaswant Singh on his Kandahar experience. An excerpt from his book â A Call to Honour
<b>THE FINAL WEEK OF 1999</b>
What are some of the landmarks that my diary notes miss out but which I feel are necessary to recount? The very first is, of course, the great torment I went through. On the afternoon of 24 December was born the first girl child in the family, to Chitra and Manvendra, my daughter-in-law and son .We have a custom (largely in Rajasthan) of the mother and father choosing someone to give the newborn baby the first drop of consecrated water from the Ganga, with possibly a small portion of honey and jaggery. Harshini, until then not so named but now a bouncingly beauteous creature who stuns all into submission through sheer charm, was but a weakly, rather mutedly mewing baby. She waited for her first feed until that ritual of the 'first drop' had not been completed. Even her mother could not feed her. It could just not be done, for they had decided that I should be the one to give that first drop. The theory and belief is that whoever gives that first drop, his or her attributes (misattributes) transfer to the new born. I don't know why it was felt that I should do it. But that was the position. This was conveyed to me, on telephone, around 4 pm, when I was at work in the Ministry of External Affairs. Filled with joy, I promised I would soon be at the hospital.
Fate had decided otherwise. Very soon thereafter news came of the hijack. As my diary records, even then I felt a very strange disquiet. It did not sound, if I can use such a phrase, a 'normal hijack'. I was planning to leave because the hijack was not directly the charge of the Ministry Of External Affairs. I wanted to go home, have a quick wash and dash to the hospital, then go to the Prime Minister's residence. Telephones had by then begun to ring with greater frequency, and lesser and lesser patience. Some came from family members whose obvious joy at a baby's arrival was marred, in their minds and hearts, by my insensitivity in keeping her waiting and wailing. I could not share with them, or anyone else at that time, that moment, that a hijack had taken place. And so it went tortuously on. I was finally able to visit the hospital only between 7.30 and 7.45 pm.
But before that, just after I had reached home from the ministry, information reached me that the hijacked IC 814 had landed at Amritsar. <b>I almost yelled into the telephone, forgetting all diplomatic decorum, the army resurfacing and in a language that brooks no misunderstanding: 'Get your bloody fingers out now. For heaven's sake, do anything, don't let the fâ¦..g aircraft leave Amritsar!'</b>
Some accounts have already been written of the terrible agony of those who were kept confined in that aircraft from 24 December till almost 9.30 pm on 31 December - eight days and seven nights. The aircraft being in Kandahar, had thereafter become the responsibility of the Ministry of External Affairs.
We had no diplomatic representation in Taliban-held Afghanistan, obviously therefore, we had no representative in Kandahar either. It was clear to us from the beginning that, very deliberately, the aircraft had been maneuvered to land at Kandahar, so that the entire effort could thereafter be managed by forces inimical to India, specifically the ISI -- which became so obvious and visible as events began to further unfurl.
Deliberations on options were agonized, prolonged and extremely testing. What weighed with us were the pulls and counter pulls of options. The threat was real, it could not be brushed off, what if the aeroplane is blown up? I could not, in any sense accept the responsibility of letting 166 innocent men and women and one child, some of whom were not even Indian, blown apart on the midnight of 31 December as the millennium changed, for that was the intelligence that had firmly and convincingly come our way, 'that if there was no resolution, the hijackers would do just that - preferably in a suicide mission, with the aircraft in the air.'
THAT JOURNEY INTO A DARK NIGHT
It was not easy to decide to go to Kandahar. But somebody had to go. I asked Vivek Katju (we had by then established a satellite phone facility) to talk to Muttavakil and enquire if I could meet Mullah Omar. Within minutes Muttavakil's reaction came. 'Yes, why not? I am going to make contact.' And soon enough his response came: 'Sorry, you cannot, don't fly to Kandahar.' Muttavakil's minders in the ISI must have upbraided him for even this little relenting.
The airport at Kandahar was rudimentary and littered with the debris of war. Our aircraft was asked to go to one end of the airport and not proceed any further.
As soon as the three men went down the steps they were warmly embraced and there were joyous shouts. I don't have to explain who greeted them. Meanwhile, this issue of 'identification' of released TADA detenues was another giveaway of the ISI hand. The friends/relatives of the detenues to be exchanged were brought to Kandahar by them from Pakistan and they confirmed the 'correctness' of the released person.
Of the return flight, what memories do I carry? There was relief, because so much accumulated pain and agony burst open, like a long throbbing carbuncle. My officers and I had a place in the first row but I didn't even want to sit. So many of the released passengers were so visibly traumatized - there was no way I could do anything other than meet them individually, to welcome them and do the best that I could absorb and to assuage, at least in part , their pain. There was, I recollect, a young Frenchman who cried and cried and continued to do so endlessly. I knew, of course, what the cause of his breakdown was, but why only him? For his girlfriend, also French, who sat next to him said: 'This had become his state in the aircraft itself after the fourth day of captivity.' And then that Swiss gentleman, a picture of dignity and reserve. I knew he worked for the international community of finance. He would be returning safely to his country along with his girlfriend. It is he who had subsequently said that he marveled at the stoic reserve and courage of the Indians, for had it been a plane full of Italians what a chaos that would have been! <b>Then that rather overwrought young mother, still trembling with anger and suppressed fear-she came up to me in the aircraft and with her tiny hands, grimy because they had been so confined for eight days, had clutched at my throat and yelled as loudly as she could, 'Why have you come so late? Where were you all this time? You have betrayed all of us. Where are my children? Where is my family?' And she banged her head against my chest angrily and finally broke down, crying bitterly. I stood there in the aisle and just held her and Vivek Katju stood next to me and we watched</b>.
â¢Â It was clear to us from the beginning that, very deliberately, the aircraft had been maneuvered to land at Kandahar, so that the entire effort could thereafter be managed by forces inimical to India, specifically the ISI
<!--QuoteEnd--><!--QuoteEEnd-->