The Pipes of Bakloh

The Pipes of Bakloh (Printed in The Tribune Sept 1, 1999).

                                                                                                        Dinesh K Kapila

Most people would not have heard of Bakloh, it’s a small hill station, essentially a cantonment, on the road from Pathankot to Dalhousie. Just off Tatapani, a narrow steeply winding road takes one to Bakloh. Not very high, a quaint little cantonment, with the old British era churches still intact and the houses and bungalows giving off that period feel.

Here, far away from the metros and cities, one feels the nation is secure. The disciplined drill and firing practice, the spit and polish and the well maintained civic infrastructure and a carefully preserved ecosystem speaks well of the army. The vast canopy of trees all over the station ensures a feeling of quietude and peacefulness, as also privacy.    

A relative was kind to allow me a short stay at Bakloh some time back. As the evening gradually descended, the sun painted the hills in a lovely orangish glow and the villages and terraced farms took on a lovely ethereal look.  It was a pleasure just to sit, watch and feel lazily the beauty of the moment.

And then suddenly the bagpipers were heard from a distance, loud and clear, the drums were joining in and a chorus of young firm voices sang out Netajis favourite “kadam, kadam badaye ja…’. The effect was mesmerising, it just stirred one’s soul.

The thick pine trees hid from view the singers and musicians and as the skirl of pipes took on  louder  tones and the voices and the drums took up the momentum, it was as though emotions were high that evening.

It was the emotion of the unrelenting spirit and grim determination of the Indian Soldier. The pipes and the drums along with the chorus beautifully captured and echoed the spirit of men for whom the romance of life was soldiering with a passion for adventure and a calm acceptance of its attendant dangers.  The sheer purity of the music and the chorus reverberating in the hills brought forth a surge of emotions in one’s heart, the feeling of being secure, of well being and pride in the men.

I quietly climbed towards the spot from where the pipes could be heard and as I neared the spot, the feeling of a flutter in my heart in my chest only increased. I chose not to intrude upon the men, young Garhwhalis practising with sincerity for a competition. Instead, I opted to sit upon a rock at a distance and just let the music overwhelm me.

The battalion the men belonged to was moving to the valley shortly for anti terrorist operations, and here the men sang out their feelings, the skirl of pipes representing a hundred years history of steadfastness and courage. I prayed silently for their safe tenure and success in their endeavours.

The next day I moved out from Bakloh, the pipes still wailing in my ears and heart. A few weeks later I read about the death of a young officer and jawan from a Garhwhal battalion in the valley in an anti insurgency operation. I did not know them, did not know if they were from the unit I saw at Bakloh, but my heart stopped still. For while I earned my bread safely at Chandigarh, these young men had just sacrificed their all for the nation. Silently, I paid my homage, the pipes still reverberating in my mind.

The years may come and go, the pipes of Bakloh shall play forever in my heart. The only prayer I have for the Good  Lord is to keep safe the young men the pipes play for and if their time shall come, then let them have a blissful tenure in the Valhalla of warriors.

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