The First-Timers

As we talk, they display some sense of occasion, listening in rapt attention to the experiences of each other in the army. Says Singh about his PMA days, "At times, I used to wonder where I had landed myself. I stood out like a sore thumb, many of the cadets had never seen a Sikh in the flesh. I had a tough time because of my appearance. The others—Hindu and Christian—at least look like 'ordinary' cadets."

For nearly two years now, Outlook has been seeking access to Singh and the two Hindu officers. It took months of persistent lobbying by the Inter Services Public Relations director-general, Gen Athar Abbas, before the army agreed to allow an Indian publication to interview the three officers. As Col Atif coordinated to fly me to Karachi last week, new obstacles kept surfacing. Lt Col Idrees Malik had to implore his superiors to grant permission for Singh to miss a day's class of the course he's taking, and bring Capt Danish from interior Sindh.

At the officers' mess, amidst smiles and a display of palpable pride, Singh begins his story from the day his romance sparked with the Pakistan army. Like all such stories, it was ignited with a chance glimpse and an irrepressible tug at the heartstrings. It was nearly three years ago, and he and his friends had decided to apply to the prestigious National College of Arts (NCA) in Lahore. On the way, they passed an army recruitment centre. Something about it spoke to him, perhaps. "But no one had any idea of a Sikh being allowed entry into Pakistan's military institutions," Singh recalls.

Singh got admission to the NCA but he decided to visit the recruitment centre to make inquiries. When told the law didn't proscribe Sikhs from the army, he promptly submitted an application, apparently arousing curiosity at the centre even then about the "Sikh who wants to join the army". He was selected, in the process grabbing headlines countrywide. But his family was opposed to him joining the army, the elders wanting him to head the business of his deceased father. And then there was Singh's mother who believed a career in the army would shame the family. Shame? "All our lives our community had been ridiculed. Especially in the electronic media where Sikhs were portrayed as drunks, womanisers and villains. My mother said that I wouldn't be respected and this would bring shame to the family."

At the PMA, the callow, sensitive Sardarji was baffled by some insensitive souls asking him to convert to Islam. "I wondered what kind of people are these who are not happy with the way I am, who offered to convert me. I didn't mind jokes about Sikhs because these are so common," he says wryly. But at Kakul, with young cadets and their irritating inquisitiveness, it took some chutzpah to ensure his religion or culture was not compromised. But he had his sergeant on his side. As Singh puts it, "My sergeant told me I was free to follow my religion and that everything would be done to make me comfortable."

Singh now did two things—he told his room-mate if they had to share a room they must show tolerance for each other's religious codes of living; his second act was daring and sagacious. He approached the commandant to make a presentation about his faith. "With the help of a documentary from the Golden Temple and my own literature I gave a presentation about the Sikh religion and culture. I explained why I looked the way I did, the symbols of faith a Sikh is never found without. Then I asked for questions," says Singh, bubbling with confidence. "In the next two years at the PMA, no questions were asked."

But Singh's glory days didn't end at the PMA. His excellent drill at Kakul prompted the army to choose him for guard duty at the Quaid-e-Azam Mazar, or the mausoleum of Mohammed Ali Jinnah. "I couldn't believe it, no Sikh here could even imagine such a thing." In these days of jehadi intolerance, a new chapter had opened. Of course, it was also a huge PR win-win situation, his duty at the mausoleum invited international media attention, and his family was flooded with calls from Sikhs the world over.

he induction of Singh, Danish and Aneel marks a revolutionary change for the Pakistan army, but then it poses new challenges too. The sheer enormity of this change can be gleaned from a reading of Dr Aneela Zeb Babar's Texts of War: The Religio-Military Nexus in Pakistan and India. She writes, "In Pakistan, the military officer is not just a professional. Placed on a pedestal, he is glorified as a hero. The public feels he is performing his religious duty.... All advertisements for recruitment in the Pakistan military and all publicity material start with Quranic verses." Dr Babar quotes junior Muslim officers describing their motivational lectures, "We are taught that in the Quran one Muslim is equal to 10 kafirs and after every lecture, slogans praising God and caliph Ali are raised." Will the trio's induction prompt a change now in the army's ethos, perhaps a dilution of its Islamic orientation or at least some understanding of those officers who belong to minority communities.

Perhaps this is already happening—the three non-Muslim officers, like most others here, wear their religion on their sleeves with a confidence quite remarkable for their age and ambience. Both Danish and Aneel testify to this. "We are very comfortable with our Hindu faith. We too had been assured by the sergeant (during their training) that we were free to worship as we wanted and if there was any way he could help, we shouldn't hesitate to come to him." Danish, incidentally, hails from the remote poverty-stricken Tharparkar, and graduated as a doctor before he saw an advertisement for a post in the army. He applied without taking his family into confidence and was selected. "Initially, there were constraints...about how a Hindu could fit in the army but today they are proud of me and I have even been sent to Wana (a tribal area) to deal with patients there. It was a very different experience. The place and people were so different from the desert of Sindh," he says.

Aneel, who belongs to Hyderabad, says the army's ignorance about religions other than Islam is matched by the Hindu community's sketchy knowledge about cantonment life. "People from my community had earlier interacted only with the police...we had no idea what the army was like," admits Aneel, even as he expresses hope that youth from his community would see Danish and him as role models and strive to join the officer cadre. Singh, however, doubts whether many Sikhs would join the army, largely because his community is engaged in business with their counterparts in India. Army officers who have relatives doing business with Indians would be a major problem, Singh declares.

For Sikhs at least, an army career marks a snapping of the umbilical cord tying them to religious places in India. Singh, for instance, has given up on his dream of visiting the Golden Temple in Amritsar. "I am a Pakistani army officer now and I can't even think of performing my religious duties in India. Even my mother will not be allowed to go, with a son in the army," he laments.

So what do these three officers think of Pakistan going to war in the future? They reply in unison, "We are now a nuclear power. Besides, there are so many internal threats." I ask them the question which most insular Pakistanis harbour in their hearts: would they be willing to kill others of their faith in a war? Danish replies, "Of course, we will or else we will be killed. Even our mothers will not ask us why we fired, they will just be glad that we survived."

Both Danish and Anil don't nurture lofty ambitions, hoping to negotiate one step at a time in the army. What about Singh? "Well, I have set my sight on wearing red pips, that is become a brigadier," he says. When I tell him that army rules don't debar him from the rank of Chief of Army Staff, his eyes glitter and a smile lights up his face.