دانلود کتاب BIPIN – مرد پشت یونیفرم

In August 2019, when the nation was commemorating the twentieth anniversary of Operation Vijay, popularly known as the Kargil war, I went to the South Block, Central Secretariat, at Raisina Hill in Delhi, to gift the then Chief of Army Staff, General Bipin Rawat, a copy of my book Kargil. Accompanied by my editor Gurveen Chadha and son, Saransh, I stood in the meeting room, with all the twenty-five previous Chiefs of the Indian Army looking down at me— stately and dignified, each one of them capable of making authors nervous with their gaze, even if it only came from a portrait on the wall. Two beautiful paintings—marking India’s two historic war victories, 1971 and Kargil— adorned facing walls. We were still looking around when the General walked in, perfectly on time, looking distinguished in his olive-green uniform. Casual and smiling, he reached out to shake hands with me, with Gurveen and with Saransh, who was then a rebellious teenager and had absolutely refused to get his long hair cut for this meeting, despite repeated calls from his Army officer dad to do so. Manoj was posted in Allahabad those days and was horrified by the thought of his son going to meet his Chief with untidy hair. I apologized to Gen. Rawat for Saransh’s hair, but he just looked at Saransh and inquired, ‘Do you want to join the Army, young man?” ‘No, sir. I want to be a commercial pilot.’ This from a boy who belongs to a family that has given generations of soldiers. I cringed. But Gen. Rawat’s smile stayed as warm. ‘That is perfectly fine. Not everybody needs to join the Army or keep their hair short. All the best to you,’ he said, winning over a teenage fan right away. We had been told that the Chief was following avery tight schedule and could give us just ten minutes, which should be enough for a quick photo shoot, where he would accept a copy of the book from me. Not only did he do that, but he also helpfully suggested that we stand under the painting of soldiers hoisting the national flag on a captured peak in Kargil; and he sat down next to me, looking relaxed and unhurried as he asked questions about the book and the people I had interviewed. Since he appeared so approachable, I asked him to verify a story I had heard about him: about how he had recently been stopped by a young soldier on guard duty in the cantonment (when he had been driving his own car) and asked to show his ID card. He laughed and assured me it was true, and added, ‘He was just doing his job. And doing it well.’ He then told us about a helicopter crash he had survived in Dimapur: the helicopter he was travelling in as Corps Commander had developed a snag and crashed soon after lifting off. He said that all he had suffered were a few cuts and bruises. All those present in the room that day marvelled at the story of his miraculous escape. ‘It was the grace of god,’ he said, and, waiting courteously for me to finish my tea, wished me luck and left.