Burial of PT Lian

The morning sun had barely begun its ascent, casting a dim golden glow over the regimental camp, when the convoy carrying the bodies of our fallen comrades began its journey home. Wrapped in the tricolor, their silent forms lay in the rear of the vehicles, bound for the villages where families awaited news they never wished to receive. There was a heaviness in the air, a sorrow so thick that even the usually unshakable soldiers wore expressions of grief as they stood in formation, offering their final salutes.

Among them was the young soldier from Bihar, who had barely served four months with us. A recruit from the Bihar Regiment, he had carried an infectious energy, his eyes always gleaming with dreams. His village, nestled in the heart of the state, was home to his aging parents who had pinned all their hopes on him. The team that accompanied his body to his village returned with a story that weighed upon us all.

His father, a frail man with sunken eyes and a posture that spoke of years of toil, had greeted them with a vacant look, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch his son's lifeless frame. "He promised to build our home," he murmured, his voice breaking. "A house with cemented walls... He told me this when he left last time. He said on his next long leave, he would make sure we would not have to sleep under a leaking roof anymore."

The old man’s words lingered, slicing through the silence that followed. The entire village had gathered, their heads bowed, their eyes damp. His mother had stood at the threshold of their mud-walled hut, too grief-stricken to move, her wails piercing the air as she called out her son’s name over and over again. For them, he had been the sole provider, their pillar of hope. And now, that hope lay still beneath the folds of the flag he had so proudly served. The future of his family had been swallowed by the dark void of loss.

The second fallen hero, PT Lian, was from the Gorkha Regiment. He had returned just the previous evening after a twenty-day leave, carrying with him the scent of home, the warmth of his loved ones still fresh in his heart. He had been advised by his senior to rest that day, to recover from the lingering daze of his holidays, but he had refused. "Sir, I will feel lonely in the barracks," he had said with a small smile. "Let me go with the team."

Those words now echoed painfully in our memories, a testament to his spirit, his dedication. When the convoy carrying his body reached Bona Devsar, his elder brother, a soldier serving in the Border Security Force at Anantnag, was waiting. He stood motionless as his younger brother was laid to rest on a high, flattened land, his final resting place chosen with the honor and dignity befitting a warrior.

The burial was attended by all ranks, each soldier standing in solemn respect. The crisp snap of the flag being folded, the muffled sound of boots shifting on the soft earth, and the final salute—each moment was heavy with unspoken words. His brother stepped forward, his face a mask of grief and pride, and placed a handful of soil over his sibling’s grave. No tears fell from his eyes, but his hands trembled as he whispered a final goodbye.

As I watched, my mind drifted to the words of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, words I had once read but never felt so deeply before: “In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners, but all are losers.”

That truth had never rung louder than it did in that moment. The battlefield had taken three of our own, three men who had walked among us, shared our laughter, our fears, our dreams. Their families had lost sons, brothers, protectors. We had lost friends, comrades. And though the mission had been successful, the price we had paid could never be measured in victories.

That night, as we sat in silence, staring at the flickering lanterns in our barracks, we knew that the war was not just fought with bullets and strategy—it was fought with lives, with the sacrifices of men whose stories would live on in the hearts of those they left behind. And as we prepared for the battles yet to come, we carried their memories with us, as a reminder of the true cost of war.

Lt.Col. SK Razdan

 Lt. Col. (Now Major General) Sunil Kumar Razdan belonged to the elite 7th Parachute Battalion and was posted as the 2IC of 6 Rashtriya Rifles in Jammu and Kashmir. His reputation preceded him—known for his iron will, tactical brilliance, and unwavering dedication to the mission, he had already carved a name for himself in counter-insurgency operations. But what would unfold on his birthday, during the third day of his Navratri fast, would define his legacy forever.

The call for help came in the form of a desperate father—a man whose 14-year-old daughter, Rehana, along with thirteen other women, had been abducted by nine heavily armed Lashkar-e-Taiba militants. Their hideout was in Damal Kunzipur, a remote hamlet surrounded by treacherous mountains, an area infested with insurgents. Lt. Col. Razdan did not hesitate. Gathering a team of twenty seasoned soldiers, he embarked on a grueling fifteen-hour trek, covering nearly forty kilometers of rugged terrain, driven by an unyielding sense of duty and the desperate urgency of the situation.

As dusk settled over the mountains, the soldiers, exhausted and famished, paused near the outskirts of Naugam. The smell of steaming khichdi filled the air as they hastily cooked a meal, their first in hours. Razdan, a Kashmiri Pandit fluent in three dialects of Kashmiri, used his linguistic skills to gather intelligence from the locals. The militants, he learned, were holed up in a dilapidated four-story house with a boundary wall, a kilometer and a half away, near a mountain spring. The clock was ticking.

By 10:30 PM, the soldiers approached their target with surgical precision. The challenge was not just the militants inside but also the alert village dogs that could give away their approach. Thinking ahead, Razdan’s men distracted the dogs by tossing them raw meat, ensuring complete silence. The house loomed ahead, its darkened windows holding secrets of terror within. The team split into two groups—six men would infiltrate the house while the rest formed a tight perimeter around it.

In the dim glow of an oil lamp, Razdan and his men entered the house. Thirteen terrified women huddled together in one room, their eyes wide with fear. In the kitchen, an older woman was making omelets. Upon seeing Razdan, she screamed, mistaking him for another tormentor. He swiftly reassured her in Kashmiri, "We are the Army. We are here to save you." With the front door now open, he instructed the women to flee, but their clinking anklets betrayed their movement.

The militants heard them.

Two gunmen rushed down the stairs. Razdan was ready. His rifle roared to life, cutting them down before they could react. A third militant appeared from the shadows, and Razdan’s AK-47 spat fire again, sending the insurgent sprawling to the ground. With three militants down, he believed the path was clear. He took a step forward, only to be met with a deafening burst of gunfire.

A hidden militant, still alive, emptied ten bullets into his stomach at point-blank range.

Agony exploded through his body as bullets tore through his abdomen, piercing his intestines and spine. He collapsed, his vision blurring with pain, yet his survival instincts kicked in. With sheer willpower, he raised his weapon and fired a final shot, ensuring his attacker never rose again. But now, a more pressing battle began—the fight for his own life.

Blood soaked his uniform, pooling around him. Knowing he had to act fast, he unraveled his patka, the cloth wrapped around his head, and tied it tightly around his stomach, holding his intestines in place. Crawling inch by inch, he dragged himself out of the house, clutching four enemy rifles as trophies of war, leaving a crimson trail behind him.

From behind a shack of firewood, he watched as his men engaged in a fierce firefight. The sound of gunfire echoed in the valley as the remaining militants were neutralized one by one. The mission was a success—all nine militants lay dead, and all fourteen women were rescued. Only then did Razdan finally allow himself to be carried to safety.

A helicopter airlifted him to the Srinagar General Hospital, where surgeons removed nine feet of his small intestine. His condition was critical, and he was soon transferred to Delhi for advanced care. Yet even as he battled for his life, his thoughts remained with the people he had saved. The villagers of Naugam did not forget him either. Overwhelmed with gratitude, they followed his recovery closely, even traveling to Pune to visit him at the Military Hospital in Khadki. They presented his wife with Rs. 10,000—an offering of their deepest appreciation, a small token for a debt they could never fully repay.

For his extraordinary valor and selfless sacrifice, Lt. Col. Sunil Kumar Razdan was awarded the Kirti Chakra, India’s second-highest peacetime gallantry award.

Back in Delhi, a Kashmiri shawl seller stood outside Razdan’s home, waiting patiently. When Razdan emerged, the man’s eyes widened with recognition. "You are the hero of Naugam," he said with reverence, holding out a finely woven shawl. When Razdan reached for his wallet, the seller shook his head. "This is my gratitude. No price can be put on what you did for our daughters."

Years later, even after retirement, Maj. Gen. Razdan continued his service to the nation, this time in a different capacity. Along with his coursemates, he dedicated himself to social work, identifying the children of widowed army wives and sponsoring their education. His body bore the scars of war, but his heart remained indomitable.

A soldier’s duty does not end with the battlefield.

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

Soldiers Dead Body to his village

It was the unwritten rule in Jammu and Kashmir—one forged out of necessity and compassion. If a soldier from the south fell in the line of duty, his body would be accompanied home by a team from the north: a JCO (Junior Commissioned Officer) and four soldiers. If the tragedy was reversed, and a soldier from the north laid down his life, it would be the southern soldiers who would take on this solemn duty. The reason was simple yet profound. Language barriers could obscure meaning, and misunderstandings could arise during conversations with grieving families. This quiet system ensured dignity and respect, maintaining the silence necessary in the most vulnerable moments.

The morning Gurpreet Singh’s body was sent to his village in Ludhiana district, a JCO and four soldiers from the Deccan region were assigned to the task. Gurpreet, the young soldier whose steadfast loyalty and warm smile had been an anchor in our regiment, was now draped in the tricolor, heading home for the last time. I watched as the truck carrying his mortal remains left the camp. The men accompanying him stood stiffly, their faces revealing little, though I could sense the heaviness in their hearts.

When they returned days later, the JCO came to my office, a file clutched under his arm. He was there to submit the report to the adjutant, but the adjutant was out for the day. As the JCO stood before me, I felt a flicker of curiosity. The duty of returning a fallen soldier to his family was always emotionally charged, but every story held its own weight, its own heartbreak.

“What happened there?” I asked gently, my voice tinged with a mixture of concern and interest. The JCO hesitated for a moment, perhaps trying to decide how much to share, but then he began to speak.

As he spoke, the room seemed to shrink, and his words became the only sound I could hear.

“When we reached the village,” he said, “it was still early morning. The sun was just rising, casting its golden glow over the green fields. The village was quiet, save for the soft bleating of goats and the occasional cry of a rooster. We drove straight to the gurdwara, where the arrangements had been made. The gurdwara was a modest building, its white walls gleaming against the backdrop of mustard fields swaying in the gentle breeze.”

He paused, his eyes distant as if he could still see the scene unfolding before him.

“There were a few children playing near the entrance,” he continued. “One of them, a little boy, maybe four or five years old, came running up to us. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with the innocent curiosity of childhood. He looked up at me and said, ‘Uncle, my dad is also in the Fauj…’”

The JCO’s voice faltered, and he looked away for a moment. “I bent down and patted his head. He smiled, but before I could say anything, he ran off to join his friends. It seemed like just a fleeting moment, but it stayed with me.”

My heart clenched at the thought. That small child, unaware of the storm about to descend upon his world, his words carrying an innocence that would soon be shattered.

The JCO cleared his throat and continued. “When we took Gurpreet’s body out of the truck and carried it into the gurdwara, the whole village had gathered. Men, women, elders—they all stood there, their faces a mosaic of grief and pride. The air was thick with the smell of marigolds and incense. As we laid the body down and lifted the cloth covering his face, there was a collective gasp. The murmurs stopped, and the only sound left was the stifled sobs of those who couldn’t hold back their tears.”

I could picture it vividly: Gurpreet’s face, peaceful in death, his memory etched into the hearts of the people who had gathered to bid him farewell. His sacrifice wasn’t just his family’s loss; it was the loss of the entire village.

The JCO’s voice grew softer. “Gurpreet’s family was called forward. His father, stooped with age, stood still, his hands trembling as they reached out to touch his son’s face. His mother wailed, her cries piercing through the silence, and had to be supported by the women around her. But it was his wife who broke everyone’s hearts.”

He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “She was clutching Gurpreet’s framed photograph to her chest, her face pale and her eyes swollen from crying. She stumbled forward, almost collapsing near the casket. And then… then the little boy from earlier came running into the gurdwara.”

The JCO’s voice cracked, and he looked down at the floor. I could feel the lump forming in my throat, but I gestured for him to continue.

“The boy—Gurpreet’s son—stopped short when he saw the casket. He looked at his mother, then at the body, and then back at us. His innocent eyes were wide with confusion, but he didn’t cry. He just stood there, staring. And then he asked, ‘Uncle, my dad is also in the Fauj… he didn’t come?’”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt the air leave my lungs as the weight of those words settled over me. The room was silent except for the faint sound of the ceiling fan whirring above us.

The JCO’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “No one could answer him. His mother broke down completely, clutching him to her chest and wailing. The villagers began to cry openly, their grief filling the gurdwara like a storm. Even my men, hardened as they were, couldn’t hold back their tears. And I… I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, trying to keep myself together.”

I closed my eyes, trying to process the flood of emotions his story had unleashed. The image of that little boy, his innocent question hanging in the air, was unbearable.

The JCO looked at me, his face etched with exhaustion and sorrow. “Sir,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot in this line of work, but this… this was something else. That boy’s words will stay with me forever.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight, and tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I raised a hand to signal him to stop, unable to bear any more. The JCO nodded, understanding, and left the room quietly, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

As the door closed behind him, I let the tears fall. I thought of Gurpreet, the soldier who had shared his worries with me just days before. I thought of his wife, who had written him that desperate letter, and of his son, whose innocent words now haunted us all.

War had taken so much from us, from them. It had stolen Gurpreet’s future, his family’s joy, and the innocence of a child too young to understand the weight of his loss. And yet, life went on. The regiment would march forward, and the battles would continue. But in that moment, all I could do was sit there, mourning a soldier, a father, a friend. Gurpreet’s sacrifice would never be forgotten, not by me, not by the JCO, and not by the little boy who would grow up knowing his father had been a hero.

Deadly Operation

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when the regiment prepared to move out for an operation. The air was heavy with anticipation, the kind of electric tension that always accompanied missions like these. Soldiers moved briskly, checking their weapons and gear, their faces serious yet calm, as though they had made peace with whatever lay ahead.

Amid this hustle, Gurpreet Singh, a soldier from a small village near Ludhiana, appeared at my office. His tall frame and earnest eyes betrayed a mix of determination and worry. He saluted and said, "Sir, I need your help."

I gestured for him to come in, sensing something urgent in his tone. "What’s the matter, Gurpreet?"

He pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it to me. "Sir, this is a letter from my wife. She wrote that I must come home soon, or we might lose our land. A relative is trying to capture it, and without me there, my family can’t fight this battle alone. I’ve applied for leave, but it hasn’t been sanctioned yet."

I read the letter, the desperation in his wife’s words piercing through the paper. The situation was serious. For a farmer, land is not just property; it’s pride, legacy, and livelihood. I looked up at him. His eyes were pleading, but there was no fear in them—only the quiet resolve of a man torn between duty and responsibility.

"Are you scared here, Gurpreet?" I asked softly, already knowing the answer.

He shook his head firmly. "No, sir. This isn’t about fear. It’s about my family, my land. I can’t let them down."

I nodded, understanding the weight of his predicament. "Alright," I said, handing back the letter. "Keep this safe and come back to see me in the evening. I’ll figure something out."

A flicker of hope crossed his face as he saluted and left for the operation. I sat back in my chair, the letter still lingering in my mind. It wasn’t just ink on paper; it was a cry for help, and I resolved to do whatever I could to help Gurpreet.

My day was busy with clerical work, but I found time to draft an application for Gurpreet, ensuring it was ready to be forwarded if his leave wasn’t sanctioned. As evening approached, I waited for the operation team to return, but they were delayed. Dinner came and went, and just as we were preparing to rest, the sharp sound of a warning whistle shattered the quiet.

We rushed to fall in, where the commanding officer informed us that the operation party was engaged in a major encounter. Crossfire was ongoing, and backup was needed immediately. For the first time since our deployment in Jammu & Kashmir, we faced a significant engagement, and I was assigned to the supporting team as a clerk.

By 11:15 p.m., we were on the move. Six of us were crammed into an ambulance, with the doctor sitting up front. The night was long and tense, the road winding through dense forests and rugged terrain. The only sounds were the hum of engines and the occasional static crackle of the radio. Sleep was impossible; the weight of the unknown pressed heavily on us.

We reached the encounter site at dawn, a Forest Bungalow nestled in a clearing. The first light of day revealed a chaotic scene—bullet-riddled walls, shattered glass, and the haunting quiet that follows a night of violence. Our adjutant and the doctor moved ahead on foot to assess the situation. After fifteen agonizing minutes, they signaled for the vehicles to proceed.

As we approached, the full extent of the carnage became visible. Seven terrorists lay dead, their bodies sprawled across the ground, grotesquely contorted. The Forest Bungalow, which they had taken over, bore the scars of a fierce battle. Inside, the family of the Forest Officer—three young girls and their mother—had been held captive. They were alive but deeply traumatized. The girls’ fair skin was marred with bite marks, a horrifying testament to the cruelty they had endured.

But the cost of victory was steep. Three of our soldiers had fallen, their lifeless bodies laid side by side in an ambulance. Among them was our newly posted 2IC, critically injured with a bullet lodged in his spine. He was immediately evacuated to the Military Hospital in Srinagar.

When I approached the bodies of the fallen soldiers, my heart sank. Gurpreet Singh lay among them, his face pale but peaceful, as if he had found solace in his final moments. My knees felt weak, and I had to steady myself against the side of the ambulance. The morning conversation with him replayed in my mind, his hopeful eyes, the letter from his wife, his faith in me to help him. It was too much to bear.

With the adjutant’s permission, I reached into Gurpreet’s shirt pocket and retrieved the letter. My hands trembled as I held it, the weight of its words now unbearable. I recounted the entire story to the adjutant, my voice thick with emotion.

He listened quietly, his expression grave. When I finished, he placed a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "Life is like that, my boy. It’s unfair, cruel even. But we have to carry on."

The words offered little comfort, but they were true. As soldiers, we were trained to face death, but nothing prepares you for the loss of a comrade, especially one with whom you shared a moment of connection.

We spent the rest of the day securing the area and documenting the operation. The Forest Officer’s family was evacuated, and the terrorists’ bodies were removed for identification. By evening, we began our journey back to the camp, the weight of the day heavy on our shoulders.

Back at the camp, I sat alone in my office, the letter clutched tightly in my hand. Gurpreet’s dream of returning home to protect his family had ended here, far from the fields of Ludhiana. I thought of his wife, who would soon receive the devastating news, and the land they had fought so hard to keep.

I resolved to ensure that his application, along with the letter, would be forwarded to the record office. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the least I could do to honor his memory.

Even now, years later, I remember Gurpreet Singh vividly. His story, his sacrifice, and his unwavering dedication to both his duty and his family remain etched in my heart. Every time I think of him, I am reminded of the fragility of life and the strength it takes to endure its trials. And though he is no longer with us, his spirit lives on in the courage and camaraderie of every soldier who walks the same path.

2IC Death

The day started like any other, with the crisp chill of the morning air biting at my face as I fastened the buttons of my uniform. The camp was alive with its usual routine—soldiers preparing for their duties, the clang of utensils in the mess, and the occasional hum of conversation. Yet, that day carried a peculiar weight, a foreboding silence beneath the noise.

Just as I was about to head for breakfast, a soldier came running to inform me that 2IC wanted to see me. I straightened my uniform and made my way to his office, the sense of duty overriding my hunger. When I entered, he greeted me with his usual authoritative nod.

"Good morning, sir," I said, standing at attention.

He gestured for me to relax and spoke in his usual measured tone. "I have a task for you," he began, leaning back in his chair. "I need a comprehensive register of all active terrorists in our area of responsibility. Include every piece of intelligence we have—names, aliases, hideouts, weapons, movements, everything. And ensure it’s detailed and well-organized."

I nodded, already visualizing how I would structure the document. "Yes, sir. I’ll get it done."

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze softening. "I know this isn’t your usual duty, and I apologize for adding to your workload. But I trust you’ll do it right."

Those words struck a chord. There was pride in being entrusted with such a crucial task, but his tone carried an unexpected warmth, almost as if he foresaw something. "Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you," I said, saluting before turning to leave.

As I reached the door, an officer from our regiment arrived with a local informer in tow. The informer, a wiry man with sunken eyes, looked nervous, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of what he was about to reveal. He whispered something to the officer, who immediately relayed the information to 2IC.

Two terrorists were hiding in a nearby village, just beyond Bona Devsar. The gravity of the situation hung in the air like a thick cloud. Without hesitation, 2IC sprang into action. He summoned the Quick Reaction Team (QRT) and began briefing them on the mission. His voice was firm, calm, and resolute, as it always was during moments of crisis.

Before leaving, he turned to me. "The register, by evening," he said, almost as an afterthought, and then added with a faint smile, "And remember, a little fun like last week’s incident with Jacob is good for morale. Don’t lose that spirit."

I saluted as he walked away, the QRT following closely behind. The sight of them gearing up and moving out was both awe-inspiring and sobering. They were heading straight into danger, yet there was no hesitation, no fear visible on their faces.

I made my way to the mess for a quick breakfast, but my mind was preoccupied. As I sat down to eat, the distant sound of gunfire echoed across the camp. The operation had begun. My appetite vanished, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease.

Returning to my desk, I immersed myself in the task at hand. The register was taking shape, each entry meticulously detailed, but the sporadic bursts of gunfire from the village were a constant reminder of the stakes. My thoughts drifted back to 2IC’s parting words and the camaraderie we had shared just a week ago. His laughter, his encouragement—it all felt so vivid, so present.

Then, at 10:30 a.m., the news came like a thunderbolt. 2IC had been killed in action. The words hit me harder than I could have ever imagined. My hands froze over the register, the pen trembling between my fingers. For a moment, the entire camp seemed to hold its breath, the usual buzz of activity replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

I stared at the partially completed register, his voice echoing in my mind: "The register, by evening." My chest tightened, and my eyes burned, but I forced myself to hold back the tears. Soldiers don’t cry, I reminded myself. It’s our unspoken code. But the weight of the loss was unbearable.

The details of the operation trickled in later. Two terrorists had been neutralized, but at a great cost. Three of our soldiers were injured, and 2IC had fallen. He had led the QRT into the village and directly entered the house where the terrorists were hiding. A burst of AK-56 fire had struck him down.

What made it even more shocking was the irony. Only a week ago, he had reprimanded us during a briefing: "Don’t try to be a hero. Never stand in front of the bullets. Find cover, assess the situation, then act." Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had done exactly what he had warned us against. It was as though something—or someone—had compelled him to act differently that day.

Rumors began to circulate among the soldiers. Some speculated that the local informer might have misled the team, while others whispered about internal pressures from higher-ups. But in the end, the battlefield doesn’t care for reasons. It takes who it takes, leaving behind only questions and grief.

I completed the register by evening, just as he had asked. Every entry felt like a tribute to him, a way to honor the trust he had placed in me. But the act of writing, of compiling names and details, felt hollow. The man who had given me the task was no longer there to review it.

That night, as the camp gathered to pay their respects, I stood silently among my comrades, the register clutched tightly in my hands. The flickering flames of the ceremonial pyre cast long shadows, dancing like ghosts against the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and the unspoken sorrow of men who had lost one of their own.

Later, as I sat alone in my barracks, Jacob joined me. For once, his usual stern demeanor was softened by a rare vulnerability. "He was a good man," he said simply, his voice low.

I nodded, unable to find the words.

"Remember when he asked you about polishing my arm?" Jacob added, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Even in a place like this, he knew how to make us laugh."

That memory brought a bittersweet smile to my face. "He told me fun is necessary, even in a war-field. I didn’t realize how true that was until now."

The days that followed were a blur of routine and reflection. The register became a vital resource, its entries guiding future operations, but for me, it was more than that. It was a reminder of a man who had believed in me, who had led with courage and heart, and whose absence left a void that could never truly be filled.

Even now, years later, I can still hear his voice, see his smile, and feel the weight of that day. It’s a part of me, a chapter of my life that shaped who I am. And every time I polish my boots or laugh at a silly memory, I think of him and the lesson he left behind: to find light even in the darkest of times.

Jacob's Story

 It was a crisp, golden Sunday morning at Bona Devsar, the kind of morning when the sun felt just warm enough to ease the chill in the air. The barracks buzzed with the usual weekend activities. Soldiers, relieved of their regular duties, lounged around, some catching up on much-needed rest, others, like me, attending to the tedious but essential task of maintaining our uniforms, boots, and belts.

I sat cross-legged on a mat outside our barracks, methodically working black polish into my boots until they gleamed like obsidian. The rhythmic motion of the brush and the faint smell of the polish filled the air. Beside me sat Jacob, a stocky South Indian soldier with an ever-serious demeanor. His dark skin glistened in the sunlight as he diligently polished his boots and belt, completely absorbed in the task.

Jacob, with his deep baritone and no-nonsense attitude, was the sort of person you didn’t mess with—unless, of course, you were me, with a mischievous streak that could rival any prankster in the camp.

As I worked on my belt, my eyes wandered to Jacob’s arm, which rested on his knee. The sunlight caught the sheen of his skin, and a cheeky thought popped into my mind. The black polish on my brush matched the hue of Jacob’s arm so perfectly that, before I could stop myself, I reached out and lightly dabbed the brush on his arm.

At first, Jacob didn’t react. He gave me a sideways glance but went back to his work, likely assuming it was an accident. I stifled a grin and returned to polishing my belt. But the temptation was too great. A minute later, I repeated the action, brushing his arm again. This time, Jacob frowned but didn’t say a word, his focus unwavering.

By the third time, however, Jacob caught on. He paused, his brush hovering mid-air, and looked down at his arm. Slowly, he turned his gaze to me, his dark eyes narrowing. I, of course, was failing miserably at keeping a straight face. My lips twitched, and before I could contain it, a chuckle escaped.

“Are you polishing my arm, you rascal?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with disbelief and a growing sense of amusement.

“No, no,” I said, feigning innocence but unable to hide my grin. “I’m just testing if your arm can shine like my boots!”

Jacob’s expression shifted from confusion to realization. Without a word, he picked up one of his freshly polished boots—an enormous, sturdy thing that could easily double as a weapon—and lunged at me. I let out a startled yelp and scrambled to my feet, narrowly dodging the first swing.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” Jacob bellowed, chasing me around the barracks, his boot raised like a club. I darted between mats and soldiers, my laughter ringing through the air as Jacob thundered after me, his heavy boots thudding against the ground.

“Come here, you little monkey!” he roared, his voice a mix of mock anger and genuine amusement. “Let me polish your head with this boot!”

The commotion drew the attention of the other soldiers, who quickly caught on to what had happened. Laughter erupted as they watched our cat-and-mouse game unfold. Some cheered Jacob on, while others shouted for me to run faster.

“Jacob, don’t kill him! We need him for the next drill!” someone called out, sending another wave of laughter through the crowd.

Finally, I ducked behind a stack of supplies, catching my breath as Jacob slowed down, panting but grinning from ear to ear. “Next time,” he said, pointing the boot at me like a warning, “I’ll polish you head to toe.”

“I’d probably shine better than your boots,” I quipped, earning another round of laughter from the onlookers.

The incident became the talk of the camp. Every time Jacob and I crossed paths, someone would joke about the “polish incident,” and Jacob, to his credit, took it in stride, his mock glare always accompanied by a faint smile.

A few days later, during a morning inspection, our 2IC (Second-in-Command) called me over. He was a stern man but had a sharp sense of humor that often caught us off guard.

“So,” he began, eyeing me with a look of mock seriousness, “I hear you’ve been polishing more than just boots lately?”

I hesitated, unsure if I was about to be reprimanded, but the glint in his eye gave him away. “Yes, sir,” I admitted, trying to keep a straight face.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Tell me, naughty boy, how did this brilliant idea come to you?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sir, it was just... a moment of inspiration.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, keep it up. This kind of fun is necessary, especially in a war-field-like area. We need laughter to stay human.”

His words stayed with me. In the harsh, disciplined life of a soldier, moments of levity were rare but invaluable. The laughter we shared that day didn’t just lighten the mood; it strengthened our bonds, reminding us that even in the toughest of times, humor could be a powerful balm.

Jacob and I remained good friends, our camaraderie solidified by that ridiculous but unforgettable episode. And though he never let me live it down, I knew he secretly appreciated the laughter we brought to the camp that sunny Sunday. After all, it’s not every day you get to be part of a story that makes everyone laugh—even the 2IC.

Dalbir Chetan story

 It was a warm, golden afternoon when my mother returned from the Central Bank of India, Beas, with an unexpected message. “Nachhtar wants you to come by,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. “He’s there with Dalbir Chetan, and they’d like to meet you.”

The name “Dalbir Chetan” struck a chord in me. He was not just a name; he was a force in Punjabi literature, a storyteller whose words graced the pages of Amrita Pritam’s iconic magazine, Nagmani. His stories had depth and soul, and as a poet who regularly contributed to the same magazine, I felt an almost unspoken kinship with him. This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

By 2:30 p.m., I was ready and on my way to the bank. Walking into the small yet bustling building, I spotted Nachhtar immediately, his wide grin welcoming me. Next to him stood Dalbir Chetan, an unassuming man with sharp, observant eyes and an aura of quiet humility. He extended his hand with a warmth that put me instantly at ease. “I’ve read your poems,” he said, his voice measured and sincere. “Your concepts are fresh, full of life.”

I felt an indescribable pride at that moment. To have my work acknowledged by someone I admired deeply—it was a validation I hadn’t realized I needed. We spent the afternoon engrossed in conversation, exchanging ideas about literature, the essence of storytelling, and the rhythms of poetry.

At 5 o’clock, it was decided that we’d go to my village, Wazir Bhullar, for a relaxed evening by the Beas River. Nachhtar, Dalbir, Mehta Sir (one of Nachhtar’s bank colleagues), and I piled into a car, our spirits high. On the way, we stopped at a roadside vendor and bought a live chicken, destined to become the centerpiece of our evening meal. Mehta Sir, known for his culinary skills, was in charge of cooking.

By the time we reached my home, my mother greeted us with her usual grace, though her curiosity about the chicken was evident. “Mehta Sir will handle it,” I assured her with a grin. The kitchen came alive with activity as Mehta and my mother worked together, their laughter spilling into the house. Meanwhile, the rest of us settled into a room, making plans for our little picnic by the river.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, we made our way to the riverbank, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of the flowing water. The Beas River shimmered under the fading light, its gentle current a soothing melody in the background. We spread a simple mat on the sandy shore, unpacking the perfectly roasted chicken and a bottle of homemade liquor, a local specialty that seemed to warm both the body and the spirit.

It was here, under the canopy of twilight, that Dalbir Chetan began narrating one of his new stories. His voice, steady and rich, painted vivid scenes of life, love, and loss. We listened intently, the world around us fading into the background as his words took center stage. The stars began to emerge one by one, as if drawn out by the power of his storytelling.

The evening passed in a blur of laughter, food, and heartfelt conversation. By the time we packed up, it was too late for Dalbir to return to his village, Taragarh, near Jandiala Guru. Nachhtar and Mehta bid us goodbye and drove back to Beas, leaving Dalbir to stay the night at my home.

We settled into the small room near the main door of the house, its simple interior illuminated by the soft glow of a single lantern. After a light dinner, we lay on our charpoys, talking late into the night about poetry, life, and everything in between. It felt as though time had slowed, allowing us to savor the rare camaraderie that had blossomed between us.

Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I mentioned Shubhangi. “She’s coming at midnight,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Dalbir raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “Really now?” he said, his tone teasing.

I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation. “She’ll knock softly. Don’t make a sound,” I warned him. “Just hide under the quilt and pretend you’re not here.”

As the clock inched closer to midnight, the room fell silent. Dalbir buried himself under his quilt, his stillness so convincing that he seemed to disappear entirely. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of the trees outside.

Then came the knock. Soft, deliberate, and right on time. My heart leapt in my chest as I crept to the door, careful not to make any noise that might wake my mother. My father was away, but my mother’s vigilance was legendary, and I couldn’t afford to risk her waking up.

I unlatched the door slowly, my palms slick with nervous sweat. But instead of Shubhangi, it was someone else who stood there, framed by the dim moonlight. My elder brother.

A captain in the Army, he was stationed in Chandigarh and had come home on short leave, unannounced. For a moment, I was frozen in shock, my mind racing to reconcile the joy of seeing him with the disappointment of what his presence meant.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked, his voice low but filled with warmth.

“Very,” I managed, forcing a smile. “Come in.”

He stepped inside, his boots making a faint thud against the floor. I closed the door behind him, glancing nervously at the quilt where Dalbir lay hidden. My brother, blissfully unaware, began recounting stories from his life in the Army, his words a mix of pride and exhaustion. I listened, nodding and responding when appropriate, all the while acutely aware of the quiet figure in the corner.

Eventually, my brother retired to another room, leaving me alone with Dalbir, who emerged from his hiding spot with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “That was close,” he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and relief.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension of the moment dissolving into shared humor. “I didn’t know whether to feel happy or disappointed,” I admitted.

“Life has a funny way of keeping us on our toes,” Dalbir said, his eyes twinkling.

That night, as we finally drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but marvel at the unpredictability of life. The incident became a story in itself, one that Dalbir and I would recount many times in the years to come, laughing until our sides ached. It was a memory etched in the sands of time, a testament to the beauty of friendship, family, and the unexpected twists that make life worth living.

Meeting Shubhangi

The twin oak trees in the heart of our village stood like silent sentinels, their roots sprawling across the ground, forming natural benches where life and laughter had intertwined for decades. That evening, as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and crimson, I found myself perched on one of those roots, lost in thought. The stillness of the moment wrapped around me like a warm cocoon until I saw her – Shubhangi, her silhouette moving gracefully past the street in front of me.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t need to. Her subtle gesture – a fleeting glance, a tilt of her head – was all it took to summon me. Like a magnet drawn to steel, I found myself trailing behind her, careful to keep a safe distance. On the way, her hand brushed against mine, slipping a small piece of folded paper into my palm. She disappeared around a corner while I veered in the opposite direction, clutching the note like it was the world’s most precious secret.

Later that evening, under the guise of silence, I unfolded the paper. Her delicate handwriting seemed to dance across the page as I read: "We’ll meet at midnight." My heart raced, a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation coursing through me. The thrill of the clandestine rendezvous made my ears burn with excitement.

That night, I chose the roof of my house as my temporary bed, feigning sleep to avoid any suspicion from my parents. The hours crawled by, each second stretching into eternity until the clock struck eleven. I slid off the roof with a nimbleness I didn’t know I possessed, landing softly on the ground below. The night, cloaked in a heavy silence, seemed to hold its breath as I navigated the narrow lanes of the village to our meeting point.

At exactly midnight, Shubhangi’s door creaked open, the sound so faint it might have been imagined. She emerged like a shadow, barefoot and quiet, her presence as unassuming as the soft rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Our paths converged, and without a word, we began our journey to the river, our movements as silent as the moonless sky above.

The boundary of the village streets gave way to an earthen path, and soon, we were swallowed by the forest of thorny kickers that bordered the riverbank. These forests were notorious, their sharp needles piercing through shoes and slippers even in daylight. Yet that night, as if protected by the gods themselves, not a single thorn found its way to my bare feet. When Shubhangi faltered, I slipped off my slippers and placed them on her delicate feet, their weight no burden to me.

The forest gave way to the river’s embrace. The sound of flowing water was a lullaby, a gentle hum that masked our whispers and steps. We found ourselves at the edge of a dry stream, its sandy bed gleaming faintly under the starlight. Exhausted but exhilarated, we sank to the ground, the cool sand offering a strange kind of comfort. I shrugged off my shirt, spreading it across the sand to create a makeshift sheet for us.

We lay side by side, the vast sky above us, an infinite canvas sprinkled with stars. The air was cool, filled with the earthy aroma of the river and the faint fragrance of Shubhangi’s jasmine-scented hair. Her presence was a balm to my restless soul, her silence speaking volumes as we listened to the symphony of the night.

“You’re brave,” she whispered finally, her voice soft yet firm.

“For you, I can brave anything,” I replied, my words barely audible over the sound of the river.

We spoke in hushed tones, weaving dreams and sharing secrets under the watchful gaze of the stars. Her laughter was like the tinkling of wind chimes, her touch a spark that set my heart alight. The moments stretched, time seeming to slow in reverence to the purity of our bond.

As the night deepened, a chill began to settle over the sand. Shubhangi shivered, and without a second thought, I wrapped my arms around her, drawing her close. The warmth of her body against mine was a comfort I didn’t know I craved. In that fragile embrace, we found a haven, a sanctuary that the world could not touch.

The horizon began to lighten, signaling the approach of dawn. Reluctantly, we tore ourselves away from the magic of the night. Retracing our steps, we navigated the thorny forest once more, careful to leave no trace of our presence. At the edge of the village, we parted ways, a lingering glance our only goodbye.

I returned to the roof of my house just as the first rays of sunlight kissed the earth, slipping back into the semblance of sleep as though nothing had happened. But my heart was alive, a treasure trove of memories glowing within it. That night by the river wasn’t just an adventure; it was a testament to the power of love, a reminder of the lengths we’re willing to go for the ones who complete us. 

A Restless Night and Reflections on Discipline

The third night after the sniper shot incident at Bona Devsar found me grappling with another bout of sleeplessness. The incident had left an indelible mark on my mind, the whizzing sound of the bullet and the shattering of the glass replaying themselves in haunting clarity. As I lay in my sleeping bag, my face peeking out into the dimly lit tent, my eyes fixated on the triangular roof above me. The sharp edges of the canvas seemed to form patterns, shapes morphing in the low light, mirroring the shifting memories in my mind.

I tried to calm the storm of thoughts, but my restless mind drifted to a different time and place—my tank-driving days during training. It was a time of camaraderie, challenges, and unforgettable lessons. One particular memory stood out, vivid and almost surreal in its detail, as though I were reliving it in the quiet of that restless night.

The Basketball Tournament

Training was in full swing at the Automotive Regiment. It was demanding yet rewarding, every day filled with the hum of engines, the clanking of machinery, and the sharp instructions of our superiors. Amid this rigorous schedule came an announcement that brought excitement and anticipation: the Inter-Regiment Basketball Tournament.

Basketball had been my passion since my school days. The court was my sanctuary, where the world narrowed to the bounce of the ball, the rhythm of my steps, and the exhilaration of a well-aimed shot. My love for the game had carried through basic training, earning me a place on the Automotive Regiment team.

The days leading up to the tournament were filled with practice sessions that pushed us to our limits. My specialty lay in precision throws, the ball sailing through the air in a graceful arc before swishing cleanly through the hoop. During the tournament, though we didn’t emerge victorious, my technique drew applause, earning respect and admiration from players and spectators alike. The memory of that applause, the energy of the game, still brought a smile to my face even on nights like these.

The Incident in the Stadium

The tournament week was a whirlwind, and we were granted a rare privilege: excusal from tank training until 10 a.m. each day to accommodate our practice. It was a welcome reprieve, a chance to focus entirely on the game without the usual demands of our training schedule.

One morning, after an intense practice session, a group of us decided to rest in the stadium shed instead of returning to our barracks. The shed was shaded, a cool refuge under the relentless sun, and from its vantage point, the road leading to the Regiment gate was clearly visible.

We lay sprawled on the ground, some chatting idly, others drifting into light naps. The camaraderie among us was palpable, a shared sense of purpose and unity that was unique to soldiers in training. But little did we realize, our decision to rest there instead of the barracks was being observed.

An officer passing by noticed us, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than usual before continuing on. We thought nothing of it then, unaware of the storm brewing on the horizon.

The Punishment

As we returned to the barracks area, still flushed from practice and the morning sun, we were stopped abruptly. Our Regimental Dafadar Major (RDM), a towering figure with a voice that could silence a parade ground, awaited us. His expression was stern, his eyes scanning each one of us with an intensity that made my heart sink.

“What were you doing in the stadium shed?” he demanded, his voice carrying a note of disappointment that stung more than anger ever could.

We fumbled for words, the weight of our mistake dawning on us. Resting there had seemed harmless at the time, but it was a lapse in discipline, a deviation from the strict regimen that defined military life.

The punishment was swift and unrelenting. Each of us was handed a backpack filled with crushed stones—a heavy burden that seemed to grow with every passing moment. We were ordered to march up and down the barracks area for an hour, the uneven terrain testing our endurance.

Adding to the ordeal were the rolls—five forward rolls on the way up and two on the way down. Rolling forward with the weight of the backpack was challenging, but the real trial came in getting up. Every muscle screamed in protest, the strain on our backs a sharp reminder of our lapse in judgment.

Each roll felt like an eternity, the ground beneath us unforgiving. Dust clung to our sweat-soaked uniforms, the heat intensifying the physical toll. It was a grueling punishment, one that left us battered and aching, but it was also a lesson etched deeply into our minds.

A Lesson in Discipline

That punishment wasn’t just about the physical strain; it was a lesson in discipline, responsibility, and the importance of adhering to the rules. The military wasn’t just about individual excellence; it was about collective effort, about every soldier upholding the values that defined the Regiment.

As I completed each roll, my thoughts oscillated between regret and resolve. Regret for the lapse in discipline that had led to this moment and resolve to never repeat the mistake. By the end of the hour, my body was exhausted, but my spirit felt fortified.

The experience instilled a sense of accountability that would shape my actions in the years to come. It was a turning point, a moment when I truly began to understand what it meant to be a soldier.

Reflections in the Present

Lying in my sleeping bag, staring at the tent’s roof, the memory of that morning felt both distant and immediate. I could almost feel the weight of the backpack, hear the stern voice of the RDM, and sense the camaraderie of my teammates as we endured the punishment together.

In the stillness of the night, I found myself drawing parallels between that day and the present. Back then, I had learned the importance of vigilance, of staying true to the expectations placed upon me. Today, that lesson held even greater significance. The sniper shot incident at Bona Devsar was a stark reminder of the stakes involved, of the lives depending on my actions.

The memory of that morning punishment, though grueling, brought a sense of clarity and strength. It reminded me of the resilience that had been forged in those early days of training, of the camaraderie that had carried us through challenges, and of the lessons that had shaped the soldier I had become.

As the night wore on, the haunting echoes of the sniper shot began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of my memories. The past and present merged, each experience a thread in the fabric of my journey. And though sleep still eluded me, I found solace in the realization that every trial, every challenge, was a step toward becoming a better soldier, a better person.

That sleepless night, like so many others, became a chapter in the story of my life—one of growth, resilience, and unwavering resolve.

Comparison of Two Nights

The quiet stillness of that night weighed heavily on me, both physically and emotionally. It was one of those endless nights when sleep eludes you, and fatigue becomes your only companion. I had spent hours staring at the dimly lit surroundings, the hum of distant sounds occasionally breaking the silence. As the minutes crawled by, an odd memory stirred within me—a flashback to my early days of training when sleep had been an indulgence I had taken for granted.

A faint smile crept onto my lips as the memory grew clearer, my thoughts drifting back to a simpler time. I recalled my driving training days, a time filled with youthful mischief, camaraderie, and countless lessons—some learned the hard way. Among those countless days and nights, one incident stood out—a night when my determination to stay awake on duty had been no match for the pull of sleep.

As I sat in the present, grappling with the exhaustion of my current responsibilities, the memory of that long-ago night played out like a film before my eyes. How ironic, I thought, that I had once been caught sleeping on duty, and here I was now, unable to afford even a moment of rest. The contrast was stark yet humbling.

Back then, I had been naive, unseasoned, and unaware of the weight of responsibility. Sleep had seemed like an inconvenience, something to be fought off with half-hearted efforts. Today, every passing moment felt like a battle to stay awake, a fight against the fatigue that came with the gravity of my role.

The memory of that night wasn’t just a nostalgic anecdote—it was a reminder of how far I had come, of the lessons I had learned along the way. It brought into sharp focus the transformation from a young recruit to a seasoned soldier who understood the value of vigilance, discipline, and duty.

Sniper's shot

Life in the army is a delicate dance with fate—a journey where each day is a new chapter in a story filled with uncertainty, camaraderie, and resilience. The fog of war, both literal and metaphorical, shrouds every moment in suspense, where the mundane transforms into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye. My time in the Rashtriya Rifles, stationed at Bona Devsar, epitomized this paradox of routine and unpredictability.

From D Company to Regimental Headquarters

It was during my tenure in Pahalgam that my proficiency in drafting reports and correspondence caught the attention of my superiors. My transfer from ‘D’ Company to the Regimental Headquarters (RHQ) of the 6 Rashtriya Rifles came as both an honor and a challenge. The RHQ camp, perched atop a mountain painstakingly leveled by the Engineering Regiment, was a marvel of ingenuity—a sanctuary amidst the hostile terrain of Jammu and Kashmir.

My office, situated on the edge of this flattened summit, had a commanding view of the valley below. With its wooden doors and glass windows, it stood as a beacon of light and activity in the quiet, brooding darkness of the mountains. Yet, as the events of one fateful night would remind me, even the most secure of locations could be rendered vulnerable in an instant.

The First Snowfall

As autumn gave way to winter, the valley prepared itself for its first snowfall. The air carried a biting chill, and the mountains, already dusted with frost, seemed to hold their breath in anticipation. That evening, I sat alone in my office, waiting for the Operation Party (OP) to return from their patrol. Snowflakes, delicate as cotton, floated gently to the ground, painting the world in a pristine white.

To mark the occasion, I had procured a bottle of rum—a small indulgence to accompany the historic snowfall. The warmth of the drink and the soft glow of the electric lights in my office created a cozy reprieve from the cold outside. The generator hummed steadily, lending an air of normalcy to the night.

As I bent down to pour myself another peg, the calm was shattered.

A Sniper's Shot

A sharp crack split the silence, followed by the tinkling sound of breaking glass. My heart leapt to my throat as shards of the window landed on my desk. The realization struck me like a bolt of lightning—it was a sniper shot. The wooden chair clattered to the floor as I instinctively dove for cover, adrenaline surging through my veins.

The window, behind me just moments ago, was now a jagged void, and the bullet had left its deadly mark. My mind raced. I knew I was a target, my lit office a glowing bullseye in the darkened camp. Crawling towards the switchboard, I switched off the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

Outside, tracer bullets painted fiery arcs in the cold night air, their luminescence betraying the sniper's location on a distant mountain. The OP arrived at the main gate amidst the chaos, their Officer-in-Charge quickly apprised of the situation by the alert guards.

The Walnut Tree and Survival

In the darkened office, I steadied my breathing and assessed my options. Stepping out cautiously, I took cover behind a walnut tree near the building. The rough bark pressed against my back as I waited, every sound amplified by my heightened senses. Minutes felt like hours. Gradually, the gunfire subsided, and an uneasy stillness returned to the camp.

With the immediate threat neutralized, I relocated to another office surrounded by my comrades and submitted the OP’s report. It was a small act of defiance against the shadowy adversaries who sought to disrupt our mission.

Morning Revelations

Dawn revealed the full extent of the sniper’s attack. The bullet had pierced multiple wooden walls of the offices, a chilling reminder of the narrow escape I’d had. My Second-in-Command (2IC) inspected the site and inquired about the incident. As I recounted the events, his eyes fell on the rum bottle, glass, and water bottle lying beside my chair.

A wry smile spread across his face. “Rum bacha gayee tumhe… Lucky ho!” he quipped, his laughter a welcome relief in the otherwise somber morning. His words carried a truth that resonated deeply with me—I was indeed fortunate to be alive.

A Changed Camp

The incident prompted immediate changes. Curtains were hung in all offices and living quarters, masking the light that had made us vulnerable. The camp adapted, as it always did, to the evolving threats of our environment. Yet, for me, the experience left an indelible mark.

I couldn’t shake the feeling of living a second life, a life borrowed from the brink of death. Each day became a gift, a chance to appreciate the bonds of brotherhood, the beauty of the mountains, and the resilience of the human spirit.

Reflections in the Fog

The fog that descended upon Bona Devsar was not just a veil of nature but a metaphor for the uncertainty that defined our existence. It blurred the lines between safety and peril, friend and foe, life and death. Yet, amidst this fog, there was clarity—a profound realization of what it meant to serve, to protect, and to persevere.

The sniper’s shot was more than an act of aggression; it was a stark reminder of the precariousness of life in the army. It was a lesson in vigilance, a testament to the strength of the human spirit, and a moment that would forever shape my understanding of courage.

As I recount this chapter of my life, the memories remain vivid, etched in the canvas of my mind like the bullet holes in those wooden walls. The fog may have obscured the path ahead, but it also revealed the unyielding determination that lay within—a determination to face the unknown, to endure, and to emerge stronger on the other side. 

Tral

In the army, life is often a journey through the unexpected, where every moment tests not just your physical endurance but also your mental fortitude. My time in the Rashtriya Rifles was a kaleidoscope of such experiences—intense, vivid, and deeply humbling. One such chapter unfolded during our deployment to provide protection for the Amarnath Yatra, a pilgrimage steeped in spirituality but fraught with challenges.

The Snake Beneath My Pillow

The evening before our movement orders, we were instructed to leave for Pahalgam at dawn. Preparations began in earnest at 2 a.m. As I rolled up my bedding, a horrifying sight greeted me: a snake, coiled tightly, resting mere inches from where my head had been. The realization sent a chill through me.

It had found refuge in a small, round depression in the ground under my pillow. My comrades rushed to grab a pole to kill it, but I stopped them. This creature had been my silent companion through the night, causing no harm. Perhaps, I thought, it had chosen the spot for its warmth and found me an unwitting protector. “Let it go,” I said. And so, like a phantom of the night, it slithered away, leaving us in awe of the fragile coexistence between man and nature.

The Convoy to Pahalgam

Before the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, we set off in a convoy towards Pahalgam. The air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and earth. By mid-morning, our ‘D’ Company camped in the dense Batakote Forest, while the rest of the battalion continued to Pahalgam.

We worked relentlessly to set up our camp, completing the arrangements by early afternoon. My office was housed in a Forest Rest House with large glass walls overlooking the road—a tranquil setting, yet one that made us feel exposed. As we began to relax, the serenity was shattered by a deafening blast, just 100 meters away on the road leading to Pahalgam.

A Shattering Welcome

The explosion was an IED blast that targeted a vehicle from the Engineer Regiment. The shockwave rippled through our camp, snapping us into high alert. Within moments, we were in our bunkers, scanning the surroundings with hawk-eyed precision. The incident was a grim reminder of the valley’s volatility—a brutal welcome to Batakote.

That night, we remained vigilant, the weight of the day’s events pressing heavily on us. Sleep was a luxury we could not afford, for danger lurked in every shadow. The following days saw us engaged in Road Opening Party (ROP) operations, ensuring the safe passage of the Amarnath Yatra pilgrims. The work was grueling, but our resolve remained steadfast.

The Road to Bona Devsar

With the Yatra completed, new orders directed us to Bona Devsar, a remote village in Kulgam district. The journey was a testament to the resilience of both man and machine. The roads were little more than sand paths, their bridges reduced to rubble by terrorist attacks. Yet, thanks to the ingenuity of the Engineering Regiment, temporary military bridges allowed us to press forward.

As our convoy snaked through the rugged terrain, disaster struck. An IED blast ripped through a 1-tonne truck carrying five soldiers, killing them instantly and leaving two others grievously injured. The explosion was devastating, its sound reverberating through the convoy and sending shockwaves through every soldier’s heart.

I was in my office truck, two vehicles behind the ill-fated one. The scene ahead was one of chaos and despair. Smoke billowed into the air, mingling with the acrid smell of burning metal and rubber. My driver, pale and shaken, gripped the steering wheel tightly. Fear coursed through my veins, but there was no time to dwell on it. We had to move forward.

The terrorists, surprisingly, did not follow up the blast with gunfire—a common tactic. Perhaps they underestimated our resolve, or maybe their plan had gone awry. After an hour of regrouping and tending to the wounded, we resumed our journey, carrying with us the heavy burden of loss.

Arrival at Bona Devsar

By the time we reached Bona Devsar, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the wooden huts erected by the Engineering Regiment. These makeshift shelters became our first home in the area. The stillness of the night was a stark contrast to the violence we had witnessed just hours earlier.

Despite our exhaustion, we knew our challenges were far from over. Bona Devsar was an uncharted territory for our battalion, its dense forests and narrow alleys a potential haven for insurgents. The wooden huts provided little protection, their thin walls amplifying every sound from the outside world. Every rustle of leaves, every distant howl, kept us on edge.

Life Amid Uncertainty

In Bona Devsar, life settled into a precarious rhythm. Days were spent patrolling the labyrinthine paths of the village and its surroundings, always wary of hidden dangers. Nights were a blend of restless sleep and heightened alertness. The huts, though rudimentary, became a symbol of our resilience—a testament to our ability to adapt and endure.

Interactions with the villagers were cautious but necessary. Trust was a rare commodity in this fog of war, where friend and foe often wore the same face. Yet, amidst the uncertainty, there were moments of humanity—an old man offering us tea, children peeking curiously from behind doorways, their laughter a brief reprieve from the grim reality.

Reflections in the Fog

Looking back, the journey to Bona Devsar and the events that unfolded there remain etched in my memory. The snake beneath my pillow, the blast on the road, the wooden huts in the heart of insurgent territory—each moment was a lesson in survival, a testament to the unpredictability of life in the army.

The fog, both literal and metaphorical, became a constant companion. It blurred the lines between safety and danger, friend and foe, life and death. Yet, it was within this fog that we found our purpose. Every soldier carried with them an unyielding determination to protect not just the nation’s borders but its very heart.

As I pen these memories, I am reminded of the resilience of the human spirit. The journey through the fog may have been fraught with challenges, but it also revealed the strength that lies within—a strength forged in the crucible of service, sacrifice, and unwavering resolve.

Transfer to RR

The creation of the Rashtriya Rifles (RR) in 1990 marked a turning point in India's counter-insurgency efforts. Raised as a specialized force to combat the growing insurgency in Jammu and Kashmir, the RR brought together seasoned personnel from various infantry regiments of the Indian Army. Unlike conventional war where the enemy is identifiable, the challenge of counter-insurgency lies in its invisibility—the enemy can be anyone, anywhere, blending seamlessly into the fabric of everyday life. This unique reality of insurgency warfare was a lesson I learned firsthand during my time with the RR in the twilight years of my service.

The Transfer to Rashtriya Rifles

When the orders came transferring me from the Armoured Corps to the Rashtriya Rifles, I was engulfed by a mixture of excitement and apprehension. For a soldier, the prospect of being at the forefront of action is invigorating, but the nature of this action was unlike anything I had experienced before. The battlefield here was not a distant land against a foreign army—it was our own country, and the adversaries were shadows lurking in familiar surroundings.

The idea of engaging in an invisible war, where an enemy could be traveling alongside you or even sharing your meal, added a layer of unpredictability and tension that no amount of training could fully prepare you for.

Arrival in Taraal

Our battalion’s deployment to Taraal, a volatile region in Jammu & Kashmir, began under a deceptively serene sky. The morning sun bathed the rugged terrain in golden light, but its warmth could not mask the undercurrent of tension that simmered beneath the surface. We arrived to relieve the Rajputana Rifles, who had held the area until our arrival.

Their soldiers carried the weary but resolute expressions of men who had faced the valley’s unforgiving realities. After a brief recce, their remaining team handed over critical information about the terrain, potential hotspots, and insurgent movements. By mid-afternoon, they were gone, leaving us alone with the weight of our new responsibilities.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, painting the valley in hues of amber and crimson, we prepared for our first night in the region.

The First Night: A Trial by Fire

Night fell swiftly in the valley, the darkness accentuated by an eerie silence that seemed to amplify every rustle of leaves and every distant howl of wind. I had been assigned as the Guard Commander for our company’s mess, positioned near the barbed-wire perimeter of the camp. As a clerk by trade, such duties were not my usual domain, but here, every man was a soldier first.

Dinner that night was a hasty affair shared with a few guards and a JCO (Junior Commissioned Officer) in the cookhouse. The smell of freshly cooked lentils and chapati mingled with the crisp mountain air, but before we could finish our meal, the night was split by the sudden, unmistakable rattle of machine-gun fire.

The MMG post perched high above the camp had opened fire—a signal that insurgents were on the move.

Chaos and Adrenaline

Adrenaline surged as we abandoned our meal and sprinted to our bunkers. Rifles cocked and senses heightened, we scanned the darkness beyond the barbed wire. The camp, strategically situated, faced the highway leading to Srinagar, about a kilometer away. The flashes of gunfire from the other side of the camp illuminated the night like brief, fiery specters.

From our vantage point, we spotted the faint silhouettes of insurgents moving in the distance. Their positions were betrayed by the muzzle flashes of their weapons, like fleeting stars in the inky darkness. Without hesitation, we opened fire, the sharp reports of our rifles echoing through the valley.

The insurgents, realizing their exposure, altered their course, veering away from our position. Their retreat was chaotic but calculated, vanishing into the labyrinth of the valley’s terrain.

The Valley’s Welcome

That night marked our baptism by fire, a harsh initiation into the volatile rhythm of life in the valley. The insurgents’ attack was not just a tactical move—it was a message, a grim reminder of the constant danger lurking in the shadows.

As the chaos subsided, the silence that followed was almost oppressive. Our operation teams, deployed elsewhere, returned only after calm had been restored. Their arrival brought a sense of relief, but it was tinged with the sobering realization that this was just the beginning.

Life on the Edge

Over the days and weeks that followed, the routine of the Rashtriya Rifles began to shape our lives. Every movement, every decision, was underscored by the awareness that the enemy could be anywhere, watching, waiting. The lines between friend and foe blurred in the fog of insurgency, where trust was both a necessity and a liability.

The valley, with its breathtaking beauty, became a paradoxical backdrop to the constant tension. The pristine snow-capped peaks and lush green meadows belied the danger that lurked in every shadow. Each operation, each patrol, was a dance with uncertainty, where the only certainty was the unpredictability of what lay ahead.

The Soldier’s Resolve

Through it all, what kept us going was the bond we shared as soldiers. In the Rashtriya Rifles, the diversity of backgrounds—drawn from various infantry regiments—became our strength. Each man brought his unique experience and perspective, and together, we forged a brotherhood that transcended the challenges we faced.

The valley tested us in ways we had never imagined. It was not just a test of physical endurance or tactical acumen but of mental resilience and moral clarity. The fog of insurgency, both literal and metaphorical, required us to navigate not just the terrain but the complex interplay of trust, suspicion, and duty.

Reflections in the Fog

Looking back, my time with the Rashtriya Rifles was not just a chapter in my military career—it was a crucible that shaped me as a soldier and as a human being. The first night in Taraal, with its chaos and adrenaline, was a microcosm of the larger journey, a reminder of the thin line between order and chaos, between life and death.

The fog that enveloped the valley mirrored the fog of war, where clarity was a luxury and every decision carried weight. Yet, it was in this fog that we found our purpose, our resolve, and our humanity.

The valley, with all its contradictions, remains etched in my memory—a place of both beauty and peril, a battleground that tested the limits of courage and camaraderie. As I reflect on those days, I carry with me not just the lessons of warfare but the stories of the men who stood by me, the moments that defined us, and the indelible mark of a soldier’s journey through the fog.

A Man in the Fog - A Night to Remember

Evening was settling in at the Central Headquarters in Ahmednagar, casting a serene glow over the sprawling training center. After a long day’s work, the barracks buzzed with the sort of camaraderie that only soldiers know. Laughter mixed with the hum of a tape recorder playing old Hindi film songs, and the heady aroma of rum lingered in the air. It was one of those evenings when spirits soared, and inhibitions took a backseat.

The Rum Party and The Plan

The party had started innocently enough. A few glasses of the strong, no-nonsense Army rum loosened everyone’s mood, and soon the barracks transformed into an impromptu dance floor. Soldiers moved to the beats, their boots thudding against the floor, drowning out the weariness of daily duties. Patil and Laxman, my companions, matched my enthusiasm for the dance, and together we filled the room with laughter and stomping feet.

As the night progressed, someone floated an idea that sparked excitement among the group—a visit to the infamous Chitra Gali, the red-light area in the heart of Ahmednagar. The decision, made in the haze of camaraderie and alcohol, seemed thrilling. The idea of venturing into the city felt like an adventure too tempting to resist.

With the plan set, the three of us grabbed our bicycles, adrenaline and rum fueling our excitement. The city was four kilometers away, and the rhythmic pedaling began to sober us slightly, but by the time we reached the outskirts, our bodies craved more liquor. The local shopkeeper welcomed us with the casual indifference reserved for regular customers. Glasses clinked, and the sharp, earthy taste of local liquor rekindled the high.

The Mujra and the Crowd

By the time we reached Chitra Gali, the clock struck 10:30. The narrow alley buzzed with activity, and dimly lit windows revealed glimpses of performances within. Inside one of the rooms, the rhythmic beats of a tabla resonated, accompanied by a hauntingly sweet harmonium. A mujra performance was in full swing.

Patil and Laxman disappeared into the shadowy rooms, each choosing a companion for the evening. Left to my own devices, I was drawn to the central performance area. The mujra girl, adorned in shimmering attire, danced gracefully, her anklets jingling in sync with her movements. Something about the scene pulled me in—not the allure of the girl but the rhythm, the energy, and the crowd’s infectious excitement.

Without thinking, I joined her on the makeshift stage. My steps found harmony with hers, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Money rained down as I matched her moves with practiced ease, my years of army discipline translating into an unexpected grace on the dance floor. For a brief moment, it was as though the world beyond the dimly lit room ceased to exist.

The Scuffle and the Knife

The euphoric atmosphere shattered suddenly. A scuffle broke out near the entrance, drawing everyone’s attention. The music stopped abruptly, and a tense silence replaced the cheerful din. From the corner of my eye, I saw Patil locked in a heated argument with a local rowdy. Their voices escalated, and before anyone could intervene, fists flew.

Instinct took over as I leaped down the steps to intervene. The rowdy’s focus shifted to me, his eyes narrowing as he assessed my six-foot frame. Fueled by bravado, he pulled out a gleaming knife. Time slowed, and the muffled gasps of the crowd faded into the background.

I felt a surge of clarity despite the haze of liquor. My eyes darted to the bicycles parked nearby. Without hesitation, I grabbed one and lifted it above my head, its weight a reassuring anchor in the chaotic moment. With all my strength, I hurled the bicycle toward him. The rowdy stumbled back, his knife falling to the ground as he tried to regain his footing.

Patil, seizing the moment, pounced on him, pinning him to the ground. Laxman appeared out of nowhere, kicking the knife safely out of reach. Just as we began to catch our breath, a new wave of the rowdy’s friends appeared, rushing toward us with angry shouts.

Escape in the Fog

The situation teetered on the edge of catastrophe when salvation arrived in the form of a 1-ton Military Police vehicle. Its headlights pierced through the foggy night, illuminating the chaotic scene. Recognizing the uniformed men, we didn’t think twice. Grabbing our bicycles, we loaded them onto the truck and clambered in, the tension in our chests releasing in ragged sighs of relief.

The Military Police personnel, fortunately from our Central Headquarters, gave us a knowing look. Their intervention had been timely, but we all knew this was far from over. The ride back to the barracks was quiet, the earlier euphoria replaced by a heavy sense of foreboding.

The Consequences

The following morning, reality hit hard. Summoned to the Officer Commanding’s office, we stood in a line, our heads bowed. The OC’s stern gaze bore into us as he read out the charges. Being caught in an out-of-bounds area was a serious offense, and our actions had brought dishonor to the regiment.

The punishment was swift and harsh: 14 days’ pay forfeited, a red-ink entry in our Annual Confidential Reports, and a stern warning that any repeat offense would result in far graver consequences. The sting of the punishment was nothing compared to the weight of guilt that settled over us.

Reflections in the Aftermath

In the days that followed, I found myself replaying the night’s events over and over. The foggy streets of Ahmednagar, the rhythmic beats of the mujra, the glint of the knife, and the thud of the bicycle—all of it felt like a surreal dream.

As soldiers, we were trained to face danger, to act decisively in the heat of the moment, and to stand by our comrades. That night, these instincts had driven my actions, but the setting and circumstances had been far removed from the battlefield.

In the end, the incident became a turning point. It taught me the importance of discipline, not just in following orders but in every aspect of life. It reminded me of the responsibility that came with the uniform and the trust that others placed in us.

A Man in the Fog

The title of this tale—"A Man in the Fog"—serves as a metaphor for the night’s events and their aftermath. The fog represents the uncertainty, the moral ambiguity, and the haze of emotions that surrounded our actions. In the literal sense, it was the foggy streets of Ahmednagar that added to the tension of the escape.

But beyond the physical fog, there was a deeper, more introspective layer. It was the fog of youth, of impulsiveness, of choices made without fully understanding their consequences. Standing in the OC’s office, facing the reality of my actions, I felt as though I had emerged from that fog, seeing clearly for the first time the path I needed to walk.

Life in the army was filled with lessons, some taught in the classroom, others learned in the barracks or on the field. That night in Chitra Gali was one such lesson—a reminder that every choice we make leaves a mark, not just on ourselves but on those around us. And as a soldier, those marks carry the weight of a uniform, a regiment, and a nation.

Even now, years later, the memory of that night lingers. It’s a story I carry with me, not as a badge of honor but as a reminder of the man I was and the man I strive to be. It’s a story of camaraderie, of mistakes, and of lessons learned—a story of a man in the fog.

Understanding Human Metapneumovirus (HMPV) - A Balanced Perspective

Recent developments from China have reignited concerns about global health crises, reminiscent of the COVID-19 pandemic. Social media is flooded with videos showing overcrowded hospitals in various Chinese cities, with patients exhibiting flu-like symptoms. The virus at the center of this concern is the Human Metapneumovirus (HMPV), a respiratory pathogen first discovered in 2001. While alarming headlines and exaggerated reports have spurred fears of another pandemic, experts urge a calm and informed approach. This article delves into the nature of HMPV, its history, implications, and how the world, including India, can respond effectively.

The Origins of HMPV

HMPV is not a new entity in the world of viruses. Its history dates back centuries, with origins traced to birds. According to a study published in Science Direct, HMPV likely jumped to humans after mutating over 200-400 years ago. The virus’s transition from birds to humans was identified in the Netherlands in 2001, marking its official recognition as a human pathogen.

Unlike COVID-19, which originated in Wuhan, China, and rapidly spread due to its novel nature, HMPV has been present worldwide for decades. It is a seasonal virus that primarily causes respiratory infections. Most individuals, particularly children under the age of five, have been exposed to HMPV at least once. Reinfections are common throughout life, often presenting as mild illnesses akin to the common cold or flu.

Symptoms and Transmission

HMPV primarily targets the respiratory system. Common symptoms include:

• Fever
• Persistent cough
• Nasal congestion
• Difficulty breathing (in severe cases)

For most individuals, these symptoms resolve within 5-10 days without medical intervention. However, vulnerable populations, such as infants, the elderly, and those with compromised immune systems or chronic respiratory conditions, may experience complications like bronchitis or pneumonia.

The virus spreads through respiratory droplets, much like influenza or the common cold. When an infected person coughs or sneezes, droplets containing the virus can land on surfaces or be inhaled by others. Additionally, touching contaminated surfaces and then touching the face, nose, or eyes can facilitate transmission. The incubation period ranges from 3-6 days, during which infected individuals may already be contagious.

Current Situation in China

Reports from China's National Disease Control and Prevention Administration confirm a rise in respiratory infections, including HMPV. Cities like Beijing, Chongqing, and Guangdong have reported increased cases, prompting concerns. However, Chinese authorities have stated that the current wave of infections is not as severe as the previous year’s flu season.

The heightened alarm stems from China’s stringent zero-COVID policies, which limited exposure to common respiratory viruses for an extended period. This prolonged isolation led to what experts call an “immunological deficit,” where reduced exposure weakened the population’s natural immunity. As normalcy resumed, a surge in respiratory illnesses was inevitable.

Misconceptions and Media Hype

Indian media’s portrayal of HMPV has added to the panic. Dramatic headlines suggest the onset of another global pandemic, drawing comparisons to COVID-19. However, experts like Dr. Soumya Swaminathan, former Chief Scientist at WHO, emphasize that HMPV has been circulating in India for years. Cases identified in Bangalore, Gujarat, and Tamil Nadu confirm the virus’s presence but do not indicate a new outbreak or international spread from China.

Dr. Swaminathan notes that tracking individual HMPV cases serves little purpose, as it is a common respiratory pathogen. The fear-mongering has even impacted financial markets, with India’s stock market experiencing losses of approximately ₹11 trillion due to panic selling.

How Dangerous is HMPV?

The fatality rate of HMPV is significantly lower than COVID-19. A 2018 study published in The Lancet attributed 16,100 deaths globally to HMPV, with 65% involving infants under six months. While these numbers are concerning, they pale compared to COVID-19’s global mortality. Furthermore, most HMPV infections are mild, and fatalities are rare in healthy individuals.

Dr. Paul Hunter of the University of East Anglia highlights that almost every child contracts HMPV before the age of five, developing partial immunity. Reinfections tend to be milder, reinforcing the virus’s low mortality risk.

Why No Vaccine?

Despite being discovered over two decades ago, HMPV has no vaccine. Efforts to develop one have faced challenges, primarily due to safety concerns and the virus’s tendency to mutate. Experimental vaccines in animal studies often exacerbated lung inflammation, raising red flags for human trials.

Additionally, HMPV’s similarity to other respiratory viruses complicates vaccine development. Like the common cold, caused by over 200 different viruses, HMPV mutates frequently, reducing the likelihood of long-term immunity.

Practical Precautions

While HMPV is not a pandemic-level threat, precautions remain essential to limit its spread, especially among vulnerable populations. Key measures include:

1. Hygiene Practices: Regular handwashing with soap and water minimizes the risk of infection.
2. Mask Usage: Wearing masks in crowded or poorly ventilated areas can reduce transmission.
3. Cough Etiquette: Use a tissue or elbow to cover your mouth and nose when coughing or sneezing.
4. Avoiding Crowds: Particularly during peak flu seasons.
5. Disinfection: Regularly clean frequently touched surfaces like doorknobs, phones, and countertops.
6. Rest and Hydration: For those infected, staying hydrated and resting is crucial.

Lessons from COVID-19

The global response to COVID-19 offers valuable lessons for managing health scares. Transparency, accurate information, and proportionate action are critical to preventing unnecessary panic. Authorities must strike a balance between raising awareness and avoiding alarmism.

China’s experience with HMPV also underscores the importance of maintaining immunity through regular exposure to common pathogens. Over-reliance on isolation can lead to long-term immunological challenges, as seen during the post-lockdown resurgence of respiratory illnesses.

The Indian Perspective

India has witnessed isolated HMPV cases, primarily in infants and elderly individuals. Healthcare professionals stress the importance of early diagnosis and supportive care for high-risk groups. Pediatricians recommend vigilance among parents, particularly for children under one year.

India’s robust healthcare infrastructure, developed during the COVID-19 pandemic, is well-equipped to handle HMPV cases. Public health campaigns emphasizing hygiene and vaccination against other respiratory illnesses, such as influenza, can further mitigate risks.

Moving Forward

The current discourse around HMPV highlights the need for a measured response to health challenges. While vigilance is necessary, fear and misinformation are counterproductive. Public health authorities, media outlets, and individuals must collaborate to ensure a balanced narrative.

Global health organizations, including WHO, continue to monitor HMPV. No mutations have been identified that would make the virus more dangerous or transmissible. With continued research and proactive measures, HMPV’s impact can be effectively managed.

Conclusion

HMPV is neither a new nor an exceptionally dangerous virus. Its recent spotlight is a reminder of the world’s heightened sensitivity to respiratory illnesses post-COVID-19. By adhering to basic hygiene practices and staying informed, individuals can protect themselves and their communities. The key lies in understanding the facts, avoiding unnecessary panic, and focusing on collective resilience.