For some, it is a page of history. For some, it is a lived experience. While another section sees it as an unspoken pain and a memory imprinted in folded flags. Twenty-six years after the Kargil War, also known as Operation Vijay, the memories continue to linger — in conversations, ceremonies, and in the glass frames where medals rest beside photographs.
The Indian army, with a mission to win over the peaks occupied by the cross-border army, also battled altitude and distance from family. This duty to the nation came above every personal task and relationship. The only thread that connected them to their homes was the fragments of paper bearing good wishes, and the promises of returning safely made to the families — they clung to it.
In Chennai, far from the border, the tremors were felt in news bulletins, prayer meetings, and protest marches. Communities came together to donate and support the army. (Retd) Major Madhan Kumar shares, “When Atal ji started the Defence Personnel Fund, Tamil Nadu was the highest contributor. Karunanidhi, then Chief Minister, conducted a music festival at the Nehru Indoor Stadium. A lot of donation was collected, which were eventually routed to the Fund.” He adds that most of the autorickshaws in the city and state carried posters of Major M Saravanan and Vikram Batra. “A lot of people volunteered, and many were willing to go fight for the Indian Army,” he notes.
While the instances of the entire nation coming together bring back emotional memories, soldiers and their families bear the invisible scars of the war, even 26 years since it ended. As civilians share posts on social media today for the jawans, Kargil Diwas is more than just a date on the calendar for those who were in the scene; it’s a constant reminder of bravery, loss, and resilience.
(Retd) Col Sada S Peter and his wife Maria Anita from Chennai
Anita recalls the days before the Kargil War began: I had just delivered my second baby in November and was about to join my husband after a break from his field post in Sikkim. In May 1999, he was about to take me and the babies to his regiment in Delhi. Then suddenly, I fell sick, so I could not go with him right away.
After 10 days, I got a call from him saying, “You won’t be able to join me. I have been assigned to something bigger. I can’t tell you over the phone. Right now, you look after the baby and continue the [elder] child’s education. We will talk about it.”
Then, a month later, he called me, and his voice was feeble, and the call got disconnected soon. Later, through the media, we got to know the situation he was in. It was not what we were expecting. After that, every fortnight, he tried to call me. In those calls, I could sounds of bomb shellings.
In the meantime, I used to write letters. I used to write what all happened throughout the day, about the children’s activities. It’s not like he got the letters frequently.
Col Sada says, “I used to get 7-8 letters in bulk. I used to sit on the bonnet of my jeep and read them. Each letter was about 2-3 pages long, which also had some drawings by my son. I used to keep them in my pockets.”
In September, he came home. He just came for a couple of weeks, and he went back again. He came back in the last week of December and took us back to the regiment. He was a little troubled then. I could sense that through his disturbed sleep. I could see something was amiss because it was too much for him...that trauma.
“I started having bizarre dreams. Something black was coming from the tap. Warriors were standing in front of me. Then one day, I saw two small boys walking with my boots on and trampling all over the house. The whole house was full of marks. I would get up shaken, sweating, and in pain,” says Col Sada.
It took him almost two years to come out of it. “She handled all my eccentricities, irritation, low threshold to accepting an issue, and my anger bursts. After a lot of hand-holding from her side, introspection, and prayers, I became better,” concludes Col Sada.
(Retd) Lt Col Murugesan C from Tirunelveli
I was the reinforcement officer at the time placed in Sonamarg, J&K. Suddenly, in the night, at around eleven, I got a call to move with my troops to Tololing. The moonlight was beaming over the roads. There was snow everywhere, and the road was slippery.
At that time, the government did not allow the army to cross the LoC. Our role was to cross the Line of Control in the nighttime, after 11 o’clock, observe the enemy’s movement over there, and come back before first light, that is before 5 o’ clock. We were getting trained for the war, and the strategies were being built at that time.
On one of these days, my commanding officer (CO) met us at 8.30 am. He supplied drinks to everyone, gave us a letter to write, and said, “Write a letter as if this is the final letter to your parents and family. Write whatever you want.”
I was confused; whom to write to and what to write? I was thinking of writing to my father, mother, sister...and my aunt in my village. She was my caretaker when I was working there.
My letter read, “When this letter reaches you, and when you are reading this, it means I’m not here. Take care of the family and everything.” I posted the letter and forgot.
Meanwhile, when the letter reached home, my sister told everybody ‘Murugesan is dead’ and the villagers started crying. My sister came to the Dakshin Bharat area in Chennai and inquired about me. The letter had details about my regiment in Akhnoor. My sister gave a call to Akhnoor. And from Akhnoor, the call was connected to my unit, and my CO answered and said, “Murugesan is here only”. The call with my CO went something like this: “You bloody. Are you alive?”
My team and I went on the operation, we succeeded, and we came back. We were alive. Then a year later, I went back home, and the villagers greeted me saying, “a ghost has come”. This is the most memorable moment.
In 2019, I was posted in Kargil. This time, I was the camp commandant in 56 Mountain Brigade. The twentieth Kargil Diwas was celebrated, and I was in charge of receiving the war veterans and the guests. A team came from Jalandhar. I took them to a particular point in Tololing. From there, we went to another place, from where we could see Tiger Hill.
I briefed them about what happened — how Pak infiltrators were sitting on the top, and our people [army officers] climbed on the hill, opened fire, and everything that followed. Life came full circle.
Shakthivelu R, Liaison Officer’s Car Driver (Retd) from Madurai
WHEN the war broke out, Saurabh Kalia and five of his gallant soldiers were held captive by the Pakistani army. They tortured them. There was evidence of ear drums pierced with hot rods, broken teeth and bones, punctured eyes and nails, cut lips, chipped noses, and more in the post-mortem report. These bodies were brought to Leh airfield, where it was received by Chief of Army, Ved Prakash Malik, and the Defence Minister, George Fernandes.
There were restrictions on flight take-off timings because of weather conditions, and natural light to land at Leh. So, around 3.30 pm, I, among others, shifted the covered and unrecognised bodies to the aircraft. After that, I was in Chandigarh. I served there for two years, and throughout the time, bodies were being recovered from the peaks. As the snow melted, bodies were found.
The government allocated the N Area — referring to the headquarters ‘N’ Area Office Aerodrome — for the bodies to be brought and honouring the officers with a 21-gun salute. This was the place that was used by the army to transport ammunition, food and others.
Kargil was one of the riskiest wars fought by the country. Every army officer who climbed the peak knew that they may or may not return alive, yet they went ahead. Such is the grit of the army officers. And the Indian army, in particular, has a lot of willpower and resilience. They also got equal support from their families and citizens of the nation.