The Judgment

11:46 PM, 12th Feb, 2007

Lt Col. R. K. Rathore, the judge for the case of Captain Vijayendra Singh, was in a serious dilemma. He had handled many cases in his career with severe complexities. But this one was different. Not complex, but just different.

How does one court marshal a soldier who deserves a Vir Charka? What if I make a wrong decision? It has the power to kill the faith this soldier would have in judicial system if he is ‘not guilty but punished’ or spoil the culture of military if he is ‘guilty but not punished’. And moreover it is not the case of right versus wrong; but right against more right. In such case, how does one evaluates and decrees the right degree of punishment?


01:14 AM, 21st Aug, 2006

It was raining heavily in the upper range of Himalayas in Arunanchal Pradesh, near the China (Tibet)-India border. In such opaque rains, it is not expected from both parties to infiltrate, but the greed of power is such that it breaches any such expectations.

Captain Vijayendra Singh was walking in the dense, dark and damp forest with his troupe of three soldiers; all drenched in the rains. After a few rounds of patrolling, they mutually decided that all was pretty okay and they could rest for a while. They sat down, opened the beer bottles and took a sip each. The weather was frigid and the rains had made it worse. They all sensed hunger, almost at the same time. None was carrying anything to eat, except Vijayendra. He smiled and pulled a small packet out. Everyone looked at everyone else, though no one could actually see anyone. The packet contained Cocaine; raw and real. He placed the powder in everyone’s hand and asked them to take a piece of paper, roll it and suck it in. “It will help you beat your appetite and keep you awake,” he said. The troupe followed its captain directive and closed their eyes after the processing was over. They didn’t realize whether it was just a moment or a lifetime that had passed before they opened their eyes after hearing the sound of bullet. They immediately ran to hide behind a safe place and once settled, indentified the direction of the fire. It was north. And it appeared that the enemy was approaching nearer. The troupe looked at Vijayendra, who was trying to connect to the base through wireless, for command. No connection. He looked at his team with a straight face. “Do or die! Farewell, soldiers,” he told them and then directed all in different directions, taking the front position himself. It appeared there were more than fifteen from the enemy troupe. He told himself, “Wo pandrah, hum char? Bahut naainsaafi hai!! (They fifteen, we only four? Not fair!)” and smiled to his untimely and poor sense of humor. After that what followed was firing, and more firing; deaths, and more deaths.

It was the time of dawn in the land of dawn-lit mountains (that is the meaning of ‘Arunachal Pradesh’ in Sanskrit) that Vijayendra realized the firing had stopped. He tried his wireless again and was successful in being connected this time. He briefed his base team about the happenings of the last night, put the wireless off and closed his eyes. He could feel nine bullets in different parts of his body. Suddenly the absence of his troupe struck him. No one was seen around. He tried getting up, but couldn’t. In around two hour’s time, the base team arrived and captured the area. He was taken to army hospital where he was told that his entire troupe, except him, was martyred on the battlefield, killing a total of 23 soldiers and 3 half dead. A proud smiled appeared on his half-woken face.

The next day, newspapers had carried the story of Indian soldiers’ gallantry and had informed that Captain Vijayendra Singh may be honored with Vir Chakra.


03:35 PM, 25th Oct, 2006

The doctor entered in Captain Vijayendra Singh’s room, closed the door behind, and asked him to sign on a few discharge formalities. While Vijayendra was signing the papers, doctor asked, “Did you intake any drug that night?”

Vijayendra looked up and stared at the doctor’s face for a minute, without any response and without any remorse. Sometimes to lie or not to lie becomes a huge decision in itself. But he took his decision and nodded in a “yes”.

“Your reports show that. And so does the postmortem for the other three,” informed the doc.


10:00 AM, 4th Dec, 2006

While the nomination of Captain Singh was in consideration, one of the regiments filed a case of his “drug abuse on duty” in the court marshal. Since then Vijayendra was made inaccessible to public and media, who were informed that the captain had to be admitted again and yet unrecovered.


01:00 AM, 13th Feb, 2007

What is more right? To save one’s country or to not use (or abuse) any drug on duty? The court can offer only legal judgment, but who can deliver a moral judgment on this? In courts, we deal with events and their evidences. They are the only logical blocks to reach a conclusion. How often we consider a ‘circumstance’? He took Cocaine on duty; that’s, for sure, is a crime. But was he not forced into it by the circumstance he was sent into, by the same entity, called duty? Did he do it for the pleasure this drug offered or in response to the immediacy that circumstances created? Who knows? And by the logic of law, possessing the drug by itself is a crime and the person who does, becomes an integral part of illegal drug trafficking. Charges are many, arguments are many and so are counter arguments. The question remains is, whether he was eligible for Vir Charka as he and his troupe of three had killed, with élan, twenty three enemies and got arrested three. The argument is whether he was the veer (brave) who killed the enemies or it was his inflated sense which was stimulated by the drug usage? In a film, for a drunken scene, if an actor takes in a peg and acts, who would know the beauty of the scene is by the efforts of the actor or the drink?

Lt Col. Rathore thought of the last time Vijayendra had looked at him in the courtroom. It was the look which said, “I wish to live a life or die a death; but not to live a death, please!” He knew exactly what a court marshal meant.

On his bed, Lt Col Rathore closed his eyes and pulled the sheet up over his face and told himself, “Tomorrow… I need to take a decision. I don’t know what it would be, but God… please help me to take the most right one.”


10:00 AM 14th Feb, 2007

Lt Col. R. K. Rathore walked into a packed courtroom. While the media outside still awaited the announcement of Vir Chakra to Captain Vijayendra Singh, from the whispers around and previous discussions with his counterparts, Lt Col. Rathore knew that the armed forces had already declared Vijayendra guilty. “Which stream of thoughts am I going to flow with today?” He wouldn’t know.

Sitting in the judge’s chair, he listened to last few arguments for and against the case with a stone face for approximately forty five minutes. Then there was a silence for a minute and few minutes of whispers before he announced, “GUILTY!”

“Captain Vijayendra Singh has breached all codes of conduct for Indian Army and has set a horrendous example to our fellow soldiers by abusing drugs on duty. Not only that, he has been found forcing it to his troupe and misusing the power of his captainship. This has brought utter shame to all of us. Not only that, he has, in fact, brutally murdered the dignity that armed forces withhold in the public eye. And for this extreme crime, he is to be hanged, till death.”

There was an air of shock in that room. Everyone knew, and wished, Vijayendra to be pronounced as guilty. But a death sentence? That did not figure in wildest of anyone’s dreams.
“Captain Singh, do you have to say anything?” asked the judge.

“No, sir,” said Vijayendra and tried his best to smile. This was the first time that he had uttered something during the entire trial. Only two people in the courtroom knew this was the best possible judgment; to die a death.


08:00 AM 15th Feb, 2007

The morning newspapers read, “Captain Vijayendra Singh, who had fought bravely on field was declared a martyr after he could not recover from his ruptured body, yesterday. Captain Singh and his troupe of three soldiers had killed 23 enemy soldiers in a battle on 21st Aug, 2006 and had got arrested 3 of them. The Armed forces has declared to honor his gallantry with Param Vir Chakra, the highest military decoration awarded for the highest degree of valour or self-sacrifice in the presence of the enemy.”

Survival of the fittest?

In a summer afternoon, when their mothers and elder sisters were taking a nap and their fathers and elder brothers were out for work, seven children from the neighborhood came out of their homes and gathered around the sand heap collected to make a building nearby. They were all in the age range of six to nine and would generally get together to spend their afternoon in the summer vacations.

Uday, the eight years old and the fattest amongst all said, “listen! Today, let’s make a house out of the sand.”

Everyone agreed and took their positions. Uday ran to push Rishabh who was standing near the area where the sand was a little moist and could hold for longer. “Hey move some place else,” he called out. Rishabh looked at him and slowly moved away to scout for another location.

They all put their one foot into the sand and started piling up on it. With each repetition, they would settle the sand with their both hands. Once they would be sure that it was set and they could move their foot out, they would slowly drag it out. For some it would stand, for others it would fall. For those it fell they would start all over again.

Subodh, the six years old kid with a thin face and even thinner body was sitting in an extreme corner. Every other kid thought that would be the most inappropriate place to work. He tried several times but the sand was so dry that it would fall every time. He looked around to find some water to moisten the sand but there was none. He scratched his head and wiped the sweat with his neatly folded handkerchief. With a repeat of this activity, his hanky was pretty much wet. An idea suddenly stuck him. He drenched his hanky to pour down his sweat into the sand. Only two-three drops came out. Then with his thumb, he wiped his forehead to get some more drops. From this another idea erupted. He spitted in the sand. And that was it. He mixed his saliva properly in the sand he wished to use. Then he placed his foot again and started piling up the moistened sand. He was sure it would hold now. Then he constructed small pillars out of the remained moist sand and placed them carefully on the sides of his foot that would make the opening for the gate. Then carefully, he took his foot out. Woila! The foot cave stood still. He then took some dry sand on his palm and gently patted on the roof and walls of the cave from inside. Then he made some designs on the roof with dry sand available around. Finally he spitted some more to make walls around his cave. Then he picked up a waste piece of paper lying around and took out his small pencil to write on it. He wrote, “For my maa and papa. From your dear son, Subodh.” and placed on the gates of the cave near the pillars. When he got up, there was a satisfied look on his face.

Till then everyone was done, few successful and other unsuccessful and given up. They were all going around what others had made. Rocky, the seven years old with spiky hairs, ran to see what Subodh had made when he saw him standing. When he first looked at creation he gasped and shouted aloud, “Oh my god! This is so beautiful!!!” With this all other children ran towards him.

“Wow! This is really good yaar!”

“How could you make it on this side? It was so dry!!”

“Subodh is a genius!”

Uday pulled every one out to see the cave closely. Once studied properly, he said to all kids, “All right! This is good. And good things should belong to everyone. Hence Subodh can’t make it for his parents only. Our parents also deserve good caves.”

Rishabh started to speak, “But this is made by Subodh and…”

“Do you want me to break your head?” asked Uday, and then as if he was the king and others his subjects he addressed all, “See, I can prove it’s not Subodh’s property.” Then he turned to Subodh and asked, “Tell me Subodh, does the sand you used belong to you?”

Subodh nodded his head from left to right in a ‘no’.

“How did you moisten the sand?”

“With my saliva.”

Rishabh thought, “Now that is purely his.”

“Al right. Do you know how the saliva is formed?” asked Uday and paused for a while. On seeing that Rishabh was about to answer him he answered himself in a louder voice to stop him from speaking anything. “It is formed from the water that we drink. This water comes in our taps for free. So it belongs to no one. Hence the spit you used does not belong to you. And the labor? That too is a result of the energy that you get from the food you eat that is grown by farmers in the ground which belongs to on one.”

He was interrupted by Rishabh again, “but his parents must have paid for that food and hence it belongs…”

Uday once again cut Rishabh’s point and announced to all, “We are not to bring the matters of money ever. My mother says it’s the root of all evils. And only evil people talk about evil things. Hence Rishabh is an evil. And all evil must be destroyed.” And with this he ran towards Rishabh who had already started running to save himself. All other children were very confused on what was happening. To avoid any stress on their mind, they assumed following the runner and the chaser as the most apt thing to do.

After he had chased Rishabh away, Uday stopped, took a deep breath and turned back. He looked at all those who were following him and smiled, “it’s good when people follow you.” He then raised his hand as a signal to stop and said once again, “every good thing belongs to everyone no matter who built it. So let’s go and claim our right on that cave. When they all returned to the original place, they found no cave there. When they looked around, they could see Subodh, walking slowly, his feet full of sand, his hand carrying a piece of paper, his body language angry and confused, talking to himself, was going away.

The Storyteller

The afternoon was hot. The grasses on the field had gone yellow, offering a golden touch to the scene. Against the field, stood the majestic house of Zamindar Sunil Singh. Early morning the servants in the house would open all the doors and windows to let the sun come in, except those which belonged to the room on the second floor, left corner of the house. The room, if opened would open to a small balcony, the door to which usually opened at the onset of afternoon. And this was the time.

Vasundhara opened the door and came out. She leaned on the railing for a moment and looked out to the open field. She went in and opened the windows. The room was fully lit now. She walked to the bed where Priyambada was still sleeping. She woke her up, “Get up, sweetheart! See, sun uncle has arrived in your room. Say hello to him.”

“Didi… Let me sleep for five minutes more naa, pleaseeeeee!!”

“No Priya, it’s already very late. Get up fast. Your father must be coming in for lunch.”

Priyambada half opened her eyes and negotiated, “Okay, four minutes?”

“No baby, you need to get up now,” said Vasundhara and pulled her in her hap.

She dragged the wheel chair from behind the curtains and placed Priyambada on it carefully. Then resting her knees to the ground, she pulled up her face up and said, “Baby you are so beautiful. Let’s wash your face to give a wonderful glow. Okay?” Priyambada smiled in her reply.

Zamindar Sunil Singh was a rich man. He was married twice but currently lived life of a widower. His first marriage was against his parents will and since it was not performed in the social function but in a temple, no one really gave any sanction to that. Sunil lived with his wife in a small cottage in the outskirts of the village. His wife died in the first few months of their marriage without leaving any significant memories. After two years, surrendering to continuous pestering of his family, Sunil Singh married again to a beautiful woman. They were happily married and were expecting a baby when his second wife learnt about his infidelity. She had died soon after the delivery of her first child.

Lunch with Zamindar Sunil Singh was a custom. That was only time in a day when Priyambada would see her father. And as a practice they would never talk while eating. Each day after food, her father would ask, “How are you feeling today, darling?”

“I am good, father,” would be her short reply.

In rest of the waking hours Vasundhara was her only and dearly beloved companion. After the demise of his wife, Zamindar had appointed Vasundhara to take care of his polio-hit child. And it was not only polio which concerned Priyambada. She was also living with a great degree of weakness and reduced body mass. Doctors in and around the village found themselves incapable of helping her to recover. They could only reduce her pain to the extent that she could bear it in performing her daily routine tasks.

Vasundhara seated Priyambada on the wheel chair again and started moving to her room. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed that she was being watched. She assumed it was not her but his daughter on the chair, whom he was watching.

Her room was the only world Priyambada knew. Her balcony was the gateway from her world to the world of others, a journey that she traveled through the tales told by Vasundhara.

“Vasundhara didi, will we play the story game today?” asked Priyambada when she was carefully placed on her bed.

“Yes, my darling, today I will tell you a special tale. A tale of a princess.”

“Princess! Wow!”

“Yes, a little, cute princess, just like you.”

“Was she also handicap, just like me?”

To this Vasundhara couldn’t reply. She caressed her head through her hairs and said, “You are the sweetest girl in this world, my darling!”

Then she began the story.

“In the month of January, in extremely cold weather, was born a cute princess to Maharaja Ranbir Singh and Rani Phoolmati.”

“Didi, how is a child born?” asked Priyambada.

“Well, God puts the baby in mother’s womb. The baby lives there for some time and then comes out when she is ready.”

“But why does God put the baby only in mother’s womb and not father’s?”

“Hmmm… good question. May be your teacher, when you will go to school, can answer this.”

“But pitaji says I will not go to school. Then how will I learn?”

“No Priya, we will take you to the school.” And in an attempt to change the topic she asked, “Now shall I continue the story?”

“Yes, please,” she smiled.

“They named the little child as Saraswati. They wished their daughter to be the most learned person in the kingdom. When she grew up, they appointed a teacher for her. One day, her teacher brought along a young boy who was very intelligent and honest. Saraswati liked his company a lot. Two of them, had good time learning, playing and growing up together. But when Maharaja Ranbir Singh got to know about this, he threw the teacher and the boy out of his house.”

It was almost a routine game for them, in which Vasundhara would narrate a story to Priyambada, after which the little girl would extrapolate and present an extension of the story from her viewpoint. Priyambada loved this play. In the darkness of her existence, these were the only few moments that would infuse a light of creativity. There were times when Priyambada would beautifully twine her own little life experiences with fantasy.

When Vasundhara ended her story at the point where the princess finds her prince again and lives happily ever after, Priyambada gave her narration.

“The princess, one night wished to go to the bathroom. The night was dark and the prince was out on war. She tried locating the lantern, but couldn’t. She called for her servant, but no one arrived. She felt an urgency to run. On the way, she banged into the table, fell down and hurt herself. Neither could she move, nor hold on to the urgency to urinate. She peed lying on the floor. She cried, but no one heard. The next afternoon, when the prince arrived, he found her dear princess on the floor, all messy and stingy. He held her by his strong arms and lifted her up, took her to the washroom, cleaned her and changed her dress. All this while, the princess didn’t speak a word. Her eyes were swollen and were full of tears. When the prince placed her on the bed, looked in her eyes, and caressed her hairs, she closed her eyes and cried; cried aloud. But this cry was not filled with pain but joy. The teardrops flew down from the corner of her closed eyes.”

Priyambada looked at Vasundhara who was lost in the reiteration of past, but in way that it held the capacity of not appearing as being one.

“I think the compassion grows stronger when the relationship goes through the moments of pain,” said Priyambada.

“How in her age?” wondered Vasundhara.

The evening had arrived. They loved to watch the setting sun. In those hours, they would not talk to each other, but just stare in the sky. We spend our present either in our past or future. There are very few moments that contain the exactness of the present and those are the only moments in which we live. These two ladies would spend these long evenings in the exactitude of the present, watching sun’s minutest gesticulations.

Before she would leave for the day, Vasundhara would switch on the television and increase the volume to a little higher note than required. This was to ensure that loneliness in the house is beaten by the noise.

***

It was the month of July and was raining heavily. The problem with rainy season is, its not clear when the afternoon ends and evening starts or when evenings merge into night for it to envelop the earth.

After their lunch, Priyambada said, “Didi, I want to play the story game.”

“Yes, Priya. Let’s go to your room and we will play.”

“No I want to play here. I want to show our game to Pitaji.”

“No Priya, your father is busy. Let’s go.”

“Pitaji, would you not like to listen to our stories? Are you very busy?” she asked her father.

Mr. Singh looked at her in a way that at times we look at something with no intention of looking at it. He said, “Yes, sweetheart, why not? I would love to listen to your stories.”

“Now didi, you tell me one story and I will tell you one.”

Vasundhara was not sure. She felt a bit suffocated in the room. She wanted to run out as fast as she could. It was a feeling similar to what a c would have felt in the vicinity of a tiger, after being attacked by him once, not killed but hurt badly. Her mind raced like a wild horse, but she pretended to be calm and smiled at Priyambada.

“Okay, today I will tell you a story of a king.”

Priyambada heard the story in all her earnestness. She was not questioning as she usually did. Neither did she appear trying to find clues for her extrapolation. That’s how we behave when we have our say ready.

When Vasundhara finished her story, she looked at Priyambada. Her face was emotionless, her eyes distant. She looked like a grown up girl, jailed in the body of a child. She whispered, “Priya?”

“Yes didi, now my turn,” she paused for some moments, took a deep breath, “It goes like this,” she begun.

“It was the month of July and every day, it rained heavily. The queen had gone to her mother’s home for a month. She had left her ten years old son with his nurse. One night the son heard a cry. It was like a whisper, a deep painful whisper. But before he could locate its direction, it was gone. This repeated for quite some days before that one night.

The night was dark black, as your hairs, didi. The son got up to use the washroom. While peeing, he heard that whisper again. It was very clear and appeared to be very near. He tried looking around but the darkness didn’t allow him to see anything. He came to his room and opened his door. He walked up slowly and reached the stairs that led to the hall. Just at the start of the stairs, was the study room for the king. He stopped. He could hear the whispers more clearly now. It appeared that someone was moaning which was being obstructed forcefully. He recognized the voice. It was his nurse’s. After a while he sensed someone coming out of the room and walking down into the hall. In the light of the hall, he realized it was his father.

Next day, when the boy met his nurse, she was not at her usual. She was not even looking into his eyes. She wished to finish her work fast and go back home before evening. The boy didn’t ask much. He knew what she was going through and didn’t wish to shatter her. In evening when he met his father, he found him in his usual self. He walked up to him, slapped him tight, rushed to his room and cut his vein. He couldn’t live the shame of being a rapist’s son,” she paused for a while and then said, “The irony of a rape is that, usually, it makes the victim guiltier than rapist.”

She looked at Vasundhara. She was looking down at her feet, holding his right hand in the left, tightly closed. She then looked at his father. He was busy with his hookah.

Priyambada smiled and said, “The story ends here.”

“Okay. Go to your room now,” said her father.

Vasundhara took Priyambada to her room, placed her in bed, switched on the television, closed the doors and left for her home.

She knew who the story was about. The thought of last night generated a strong shiver. She was trying to figure out how did Priyambada got to know about it. She tried her best but couldn’t gather much. Sometimes, our pain, our sadness is so profound that we don’t care to think anything beyond that. And the pain of being raped is something that no one can empathize with, no one can share. It’s exclusive for the sufferer.

It was around eight past evening. Vasundhara was lying on her jute bed, still shivering. Outside, it was drizzling. She avoided closing her eyes because she didn’t wish to think of last night. But the eyes were not the culprits, she realized, as with eyes wide open too, she could only think of the last night. She thought of Priyambada and her story, “With what face will I go in front of her again? She knows it. She knows it in every detail. She was the prince of her story… She was the prince…” she was stiffened in her bed for a second. And in the next instant she almost jumped from the bed and ran towards the Zamindar’s house. She ran and ran and when arrived at the door, she banged on it restlessly. The old gatekeeper, a lantern in one hand, opened the door, “Vasundhara bitia, so late in night?”

She didn’t care to respond. She snatched the lantern from him and ran the stairs up to Priyambada’s room. She was not in her bed. She looked around. She was not seen. She rushed to the bathroom. She was not there too. Her wheelchair was not seen. Then a mild stroke of rainy wind opened and closed the balcony door. Vasundhara pulled the lantern up and cautiously walked up to the door. She pushed the door open. The wheel chair was lying next to the balcony railing. Priyambada was not seen. A thought appeared in Vasundhara’s mind which she shrugged off immediately. She closed her eyes. She didn’t wish to move; neither did she wish to see.

“What happened bitia?” asked the gatekeeper who had arrived there by then.

Vasundhara opened her eyes and looked at him. Then she walked to the railing, moved the lantern out and looked down.

The lantern crashed on the ground followed by the echo of pain and guilt through the drizzles of the night.

A battle for Peace

World War I. World War II. Nazi concentration camps. Russian Revolution. French Revolution. Taliban. Terrorist attacks. Iraq war. War on Afghanistan. Israel-Palestine war. And so on.

Closer to home, Battle of Panipat. Battle of Buxar. War of Independence. Naxalites. Terrorism in Kashmir and North Eastern States. Three different wars with Pakistan, one with China. And so on.

In search of an article on “Peace”, I realized what all I have learnt as part of History since childhood is a war or a battle; here, there, somewhere. Despite it being a buzz word of every generation and billions of dollars spent in a process to acquire it, peace still remains a nonexistent entity.

As a subject, History has been pretty boring to me (I would attribute it, mostly, to the content that includes too many dates to memorize, the way I have been taught which required me to memorize all those dates and my bad memory that failed me to that in every class) since childhood, except class X when some interest towards the subject was sparked in me (And this I will attribute to a great extent to Mr. Jose Joseph, my history teacher for that class and enigma around the concept of Non-violence used by Mr. Gandhi). But now when I think why war takes precedence over peace in human history, I find an interesting trait - the need of being excited.

Peace is boring, monotonous and offers no excitement. What a historian (I think they are great storytellers, fiction or non-fiction, I would not be able to comment!) will tell about “Peace”? That from this period to that period, people lived happily. Period. But when he/she writes about wars, he has a plot. Differences. Hatred. Lust. Betrayal. Dishonesty. Greed. The world of ‘Power’.

Mostly, a hero is the person who fights a war and wins it, not a person who is able to manage a peaceful situation without ‘war’. It sounds funny to me when someone says that he/she is fighting for peace. All one fights for is ‘Power’. This is one thing that defines one’s superiority over a host of other people. It gives a sense (or nonsense) of self-fulfillment. And in some or the other capacity, everyone wants it. Everyone fights for it; some with brains, some with sword, and still some with hearts.

The joke here is, we all realize the power of a battle won. But not many envisage the power that peace withholds. It holds the power of growth. The power of innovation. The power of happiness. The power of free, humane existence.

But I don’t know how we can attain peace. I think I am not educated enough to find an answer to this. But we can make a start, I guess. In my quest to find answers to my crazy questions, I Googled “World’s most peaceful country.” I was informed that there’s something called Global Peace Index (GPI) that, on diverse parameters, evaluates various countries for their Peace Values. I was wondering, why I never get to read about Norway or New Zealand (who have the lowest GPI and are considered most peaceful countries in the world) but have to read about U.S. and such countries which only know how to “fight for peace” and are never able to achieve it? There’s some serious error.

I feel sad about all those history classes where I studied all those battles. I have wasted a great deal of time in this life. I wish I could change those books for generations to come. I think that would be a kind of revolution in education. In a true sense, 'A battle for Peace’.