Exclusive Excerpt from Flowers on a Kargil Cliff: The Months Before the Kargil War Through a Journalist's Eyes

I had utilised my leave in January 1999 well. I got engaged to Hemani in Chandigarh. Ever since my return to Srinagar, I would diligently send her flowers from my reporting assignments in Kashmir, including those from operations with frontline troops of the Army. Kamal Kunj Guest House at Rajbagh, Srinagar, where I stayed as a paying guest, had the loveliest array of pink roses on a creeper that climbed right up to the window of my room on the first floor. Clumps of daffodils lined the guesthouse driveway in effortless ecstasy despite the best efforts of the part-time gardener not to tend to them. That was the magic of Kashmir’s soil, air, and water. These flowers featured regularly in my letters to her before the Kargil War. Now, I had outdone those voluptuous, flashy, and colourful Kashmir ki kalis with the tiny, stoic, understated, and humble beauties that dwelt in the warring heights of Kargil.

Having gotten engaged in January 1999 and on completion of 15 months in Srinagar since October 1997, my heart was torn asunder by a dilemma. I wanted to seek a transfer from Srinagar to Chandigarh and marry her. In fact, Hemani’s father had made it clear that the marriage would happen only after my transfer out of Srinagar. On the other hand, I had made a solemn promise to myself that I would complete two years in Srinagar before seeking an exit from the conflict zone.

In my letters of February and March 1999, before the war, I had written to Hemani from Srinagar: ‘Sometimes I think of taking a transfer right away. Yet, there seems to be some strange force wanting me to stay on further in Srinagar… I wish I could turn into a Shakespeare and pen down a few immortal lines for you. Maybe, one day, I will manage to. At the moment, would this little poem make do, composed these lines just now…’

Eventually, I did not seek a transfer. Something else was destined—the Kargil War was lurking around the corner to surprise the Army and our nation. The Pakistanis had already stolen into Kargil. The die had been cast and unknown to us, a defining moment of reportage lay ahead for me.

What makes this passage remarkable is its quietness. There are no sounds of artillery or descriptions of combat—yet the shadow of war is everywhere. The beauty of Kashmir’s flowers, the anticipation of marriage, and the uncertainty of the future all exist against the backdrop of an approaching conflict that neither the journalist nor the nation fully sees coming.

It is a reminder that history often arrives unannounced. Before the headlines, before the battlefield reports, and before the nation’s attention turned to Kargil, there were ordinary hopes, personal promises, and letters filled with flowers.

That is what makes Flowers on a Kargil Cliff such a compelling read: it captures not only the war that followed, but also the human moments that preceded it.

What sets Flowers on a Kargil Cliff apart from many accounts of the Kargil War is its unique vantage point. This is not the story of the conflict told solely through military strategy, battlefield victories, or historical hindsight. Instead, it is the story of a war witnessed in real time by a journalist on the ground—someone who moved between soldiers, civilians, and the rapidly unfolding frontlines.

The book’s greatest strength lies in its ability to balance the personal and the historical. Moments of love, uncertainty, humour, and everyday life sit alongside some of the most consequential events of the conflict. The result is an intimate portrait of Kargil that feels both deeply human and historically significant.

For readers interested in military history, journalism, or the human stories hidden behind the headlines, Flowers on a Kargil Cliff offers something rare: a firsthand account of a defining war seen through the eyes of someone who lived, reported, and reflected on it as it happened. It is as much a story about people as it is about the battlefield—and that is what makes it unforgettable.

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