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.

The River, the Utensils, and the Test of Will

A Morning of Manipulation

The sun was just beginning to rise over the camp, casting long shadows across the tents. The cool morning air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint murmur of the nearby river. Our OC had left early with the Regiment Commanding Officer for a reconnaissance of the area, leaving a vacuum of authority that the Troop Dafedar was quick to exploit.

This wasn’t the first time he had tried to undermine me, but this day would test my patience like no other. Without preamble, he marched up to me, his voice sharp and commanding. “Bhullar, the Transport Officer needs water for his barrels. Go fill them from the river. Now.”

I nodded silently, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing any resistance. Slinging two empty buckets over my shoulders, I trudged toward the river, the weight of his condescension heavier than the buckets themselves.

The river was a shimmering ribbon of silver, about 500 meters from the camp. The journey there and back was a grueling trek over uneven ground, and with each trip, my muscles burned a little more. By the time I had filled three barrels—16 rounds of relentless back-and-forth—the sun was high in the sky, and sweat dripped from my brow.

When I returned to report to the TO, I was ready to rest, but fate had other plans.

A Humiliating Command

The TO’s orderly intercepted me with a smirk. “The sahib has more work for you. Follow me.”

I followed him into the tent, my boots leaving faint imprints on the dry ground. Inside, a smaller tent served as a makeshift washroom, and there, piled high, was a mountain of greasy, unwashed utensils. The orderly pointed to them with a grin that made my blood boil.

“Wash these,” he ordered, crossing his arms.

I stared at him, incredulous. “What are you here for? Isn’t this your job?”

His grin faltered, replaced by a glare. “You dare question me? I’ll report this to the TO.”

“Go ahead,” I replied evenly, standing my ground.

Moments later, the TO appeared, his face a mask of authority. “So, you refuse to wash the dishes?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

“Sir,” I replied, “I was sent to fetch water from the river, and I’ve completed that task. The orderly is here for such duties, not me.”

The TO’s eyes narrowed. “Are you refusing to follow my orders?”

I stood silent, knowing my response could escalate the situation further.

He leaned forward, his voice hardening. “Shall I call your Senior JCO?”

I nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

The Senior JCO’s Arrival

The TO picked up his wireless set and issued the call. Within ten minutes, the Senior JCO arrived, his authoritative presence instantly shifting the atmosphere. We both saluted him as the TO launched into a tirade, accusing me of disobedience.

“This soldier refused to carry out my orders,” he concluded. “Take him and punish him with a backpack full of sand.”

The Senior JCO nodded solemnly, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Sir.”

We saluted again and exited the tent. As soon as we were out of earshot, the JCO’s demeanor changed. He chuckled softly, a rare sound in the otherwise disciplined environment.

“Bhullar,” he said, “hand over your pistol.”

I hesitated but complied, handing him my 9mm sidearm.

He patted my shoulder. “Listen, son. Go to your village for the day. Take some rest and come back tomorrow. I’ll handle everything here.”

The Journey Home

The JCO handed me some money for bus fare, a gesture that touched me deeply. My village was only an hour away, and I set off, taking the road that led to the bus stand. Along the way, a car slowed down, and the driver offered me a lift—a common courtesy extended to a soldier in uniform.

As the car sped through the countryside, I allowed myself a moment of peace, the wind cooling my face. The black uniform of an armored regiment often drew respect, but today, it felt like a shield against the frustration and humiliation of the morning.

At the bus stand, I caught a bus that would take me the rest of the way home. The familiar sights of my village brought a sense of comfort, and as I stepped off the bus, I was greeted by the warm embrace of home.

A Quiet Evening

My parents welcomed me with smiles and questions, eager to know about my unexpected visit. I avoided mentioning the incident, not wanting to burden them with my troubles. Instead, I focused on the joy of being home, even if just for a short while.

My father, a retired farmer, shared stories of the harvest, while my mother fussed over me, insisting I eat more than I could handle. Their simple, unassuming lives were a stark contrast to the complexities of the camp, and for a few hours, I allowed myself to forget the morning’s events.

Reflection and Resolve

As I lay on my cot that night, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling, I replayed the day’s events in my mind. The humiliation of being ordered to wash utensils, the TO’s disdain, and the JCO’s unexpected kindness all swirled together, leaving me with a mix of emotions.

I realized that the military wasn’t just about tanks and battles; it was also about navigating the intricate web of human relationships and power dynamics. The Troop Dafedar’s harassment and the TO’s arrogance were tests of my character, and I had passed—not by retaliating, but by standing my ground with dignity.

The next morning, I would return to camp, ready to face whatever awaited me. But for now, I allowed myself the luxury of peace, surrounded by the familiar comforts of home.

This incident, like so many others, was a reminder that resilience wasn’t just about enduring physical challenges—it was about maintaining integrity and strength of will in the face of adversity. And in that, I found a quiet triumph.

Trials on the Trolley and Triumph in the Field

The First Climb: Nerves on the Trolley

Tank driving was my pride and my identity. Over time, I had conquered every challenge the roaring machine posed, but the day I was tasked with loading the tank onto a trolley for transportation, I faced a new kind of fear. It wasn’t just about maneuvering the tank; it was about ensuring the 40-ton beast didn’t topple over, putting lives and reputations at stake.

The war scheme demanded that we transport our tanks from Jammu to Punjab. The tanks had to be loaded onto flatbed trolleys, a process notorious for its risks. Stories of tanks tipping over during loading circulated in hushed tones among the ranks. It wasn’t just hearsay—there were real incidents where seasoned drivers had faltered. And now, it was my turn.

I couldn’t hide my anxiety, but my Squadron Commander, Major Sahib, noticed my apprehension. With his calm demeanor, he approached me and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Bhullar, you’ve got this. Remember, the tank listens to you. Trust yourself.”

His words ignited a spark of confidence. Determined not to disappoint him or myself, I took the plunge. As the tank climbed the steep ramp of the trolley, the horizon disappeared, and all I could see was the sky. My heart pounded, and my palms were slick with sweat inside my gloves. For a brief moment, I felt disoriented, but I tightened my grip and focused on maintaining control.

The engine roared as the tank ascended, inching forward with calculated precision. Everyone around held their breath, their eyes glued to the massive machine. Finally, with one last push, the tank settled atop the trolley. A wave of applause erupted, and I exhaled deeply, feeling a rush of relief and pride.

As I climbed down, Major Sahib extended his hand, a rare gesture of acknowledgment. “Well done, Bhullar. You’ve done it,” he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. That handshake wasn’t just a congratulation—it was a seal of trust, one that I would carry with honor.

The Thorn in the Ranks: Troop Dafedar’s Resentment

Despite my growing reputation, not everyone shared Major Sahib’s faith in me. The Troop Dafedar, who had previously been the OC’s driver, saw my promotion as a personal slight. His resentment was evident in his actions. He would find ways to assign me the most tedious or undesirable tasks, especially during the OC’s absence.

One such instance was when I was sent on guard duty at the ammunition dump, a post strictly forbidden for drivers of my position. The Dafedar knew I wouldn’t complain—my principles forbade me from lodging grievances against fellow soldiers. For me, enduring such injustices silently was a mark of character. But his constant provocations tested my patience.

During the war scheme, his animosity escalated. One day, after attaching a mine-troll to my tank, the Dafedar decided to assert his authority by taking the commander’s seat himself. Mine-trolls were heavy contraptions designed to detonate hidden mines, clearing the path for following tanks. Their weight was immense, often surpassing that of the tank itself.

As we traversed the terrain, we encountered a stretch of water. Through the headphones, I heard his command: “Reverse and enter the water.” I complied, cautiously guiding the tank halfway into the water. Then came his abrupt instruction: “Stop.”

Obediently, I brought the tank to a halt. But just as I did, he barked, “Why did you stop?”

“Sir, you gave the command,” I replied, perplexed by his denial.

“I didn’t say stop!” he snapped, his voice laced with irritation.

The tank, now burdened with the mine-troll, was immobilized in the water. Despite my best efforts, it refused to budge. The mine-troll’s immense weight made it impossible to move without external assistance. A crane was summoned to detach the mine-troll and pull it out. The tank followed soon after, but not before the incident had drawn significant attention.

The Major’s Investigation

As we returned to the camp, the sight of Major Sahib waiting for us sent a shiver down my spine. He called each crew member individually to recount the events.

When my turn came, I stood before him, my nerves tingling. “Bhullar, I’ve been told you stopped the tank in the water. Why?”

“Sir, I stopped because I was ordered to stop,” I replied, my voice steady.

“Who gave the order?”

“The Dafedar, sir.”

He frowned. “He denies giving such an order.”

I met his gaze, unwavering. “Sir, why would I stop without a command?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. Take care next time—a tank with a mine-troll should never stop in water.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, saluting before returning to my tent.

Later, I learned that the gunner and the signal operator had also been questioned. Both corroborated my account, confirming that the Dafedar had indeed given the command to stop. Their testimonies, along with the fact that all crew members wore headphones and could hear every instruction, left no room for doubt.

The Aftermath: A Quiet Vindication

The Dafedar was reprimanded by Major Sahib, though the specifics of their conversation remained a mystery. However, the repercussions of his actions didn’t end there. The very next day, he sought revenge in subtle but spiteful ways. Tasks were assigned with the intent to humiliate or frustrate me, yet I endured them without complaint.

For me, the incident was a lesson in resilience and integrity. It reaffirmed my belief that dignity lay in doing one’s duty without succumbing to pettiness or vindictiveness. My respect for Major Sahib grew, as did my determination to prove myself worthy of his trust.

Reflection: Strength in Challenges

As I look back on those days, the memory of that trolley climb and the mine-troll incident remains vivid. Each challenge, whether it was the nerve-wracking ascent onto the trolley or navigating the turbulent waters of inter-personal conflicts, shaped me into the soldier I was destined to become.

The tank wasn’t just a machine; it was a metaphor for life itself—powerful, demanding, and unforgiving, yet capable of remarkable feats when guided with skill and determination. And like the tank, I learned to navigate obstacles, trusting in my abilities and staying true to my principles.

The Dafedar’s hostility, the applause of my peers, and the firm handshake of my Major—each moment contributed to a story of growth, resilience, and quiet triumph. These memories are etched not just in the annals of my military journey but in the very fabric of who I am.

A New Role of Pride & The Lamb Slaughter Case

Becoming the driver of the Officer Commanding's (OC’s) tank was a monumental moment in my journey as a soldier. It was not just a position of responsibility but a badge of honor. Months of rigorous training and countless trials on the rugged tracks had sharpened my skills. I had transitioned from a nervous recruit, gripping the tank's controls with sweaty hands, to a confident operator who maneuvered the beast with precision and poise.

The recognition didn’t come overnight. Days of perseverance, practice, and learning the nuances of tank driving had built my reputation in the barracks. My fellow soldiers spoke of me with respect, and their praise echoed beyond the walls, reaching even the ears of our Squadron Commander, Major Sahib.

One crisp morning, Major Sahib decided to test my abilities. With my troop leader, Squadron Dafedar Major (SDM), a gunner, and a wireless operator perched on the tank, I took my position at the controls. Through the headphones, Major Sahib’s voice boomed, steady and authoritative:

“Good, Bhullar. Now pick up speed and cross that mound!”

The tank roared to life as I accelerated, the ground trembling beneath us. Just as the tank climbed the mound, his voice came again, sharp and sudden:

“HALT!”

Years of training kicked in, and I brought the tank to a smooth stop, avoiding the jarring impact of a sudden brake. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I heard his approval.

“Well done, Bhullar. Just testing your reflexes. You’ve passed.”

From that day forward, I was entrusted with the OC’s tank, a privilege that came with its own unique responsibilities. It meant I no longer had to juggle other duties; my sole focus was maintaining and driving the tank. It felt like owning a piece of armored history, a machine that symbolized strength and discipline.

I wrote to my father about this milestone, and his joy knew no bounds. A man who had served in the same regiment for 28 years, he saw this as an honor not just for me but for our family. When he visited me a year and a half after I joined the regiment, his pride was palpable. He held his head high as he heard others speak of his son’s talent. It was a moment of fulfillment, knowing I had lived up to his legacy.

The Lamb Slaughter Case

Life in the regiment was not just about tanks and parades; it was also about unexpected adventures, some of which were bizarre yet unforgettable. One such incident unfolded during our posting near the Central Ammunition Dump, nestled deep in the jungle.

The dump was a secluded area, far from our unit, guarded by rotating teams of soldiers. The tranquility of the place was often disrupted by the bleating of goats from a nearby village, which would descend the hill to graze near the ammunition dump.

The guards before us had committed an act that was both audacious and foolish, leading to their immediate replacement. I was part of the new guard sent to take over the duty while the OC was on leave. What we learned upon arrival left us in fits of laughter, tempered by disbelief.

It turned out that one of the previous guards had developed a craving for mutton. Spotting a lamb among the grazing goats, they decided to take matters into their own hands. The lamb was stealthily taken to their tent, where preparations for a feast began. But there was a problem—they didn’t have anything to cut the lamb.

One of the soldiers, either too naive or too confident, ventured into the village to borrow a machete. Unbeknownst to him, the house he approached belonged to the very owner of the lamb. The owner, unsuspecting at first, handed over the machete, curious about its intended use.

The Discovery

The lamb owner grew suspicious when he noticed his lamb was missing and smoke wafting from the direction of the guards’ tents. He decided to investigate and approached the guards. They denied any knowledge of the missing lamb, their faces betraying nothing. However, the owner’s attention was drawn to the crackling fire and the tantalizing aroma of cooking meat.

His suspicions were confirmed when another soldier, returning from a distant washroom, was recognized. The owner exclaimed, “This is the man who borrowed my machete! What was it used for?”

The guards hesitated, their silence speaking volumes. Realizing the gravity of the situation, the owner sought help from the guards of a neighboring unit, who immediately contacted our regiment. The duty officer rushed to the scene, and the truth unraveled.

By the time the incident came to light, the lamb was already on the stove, its meat simmering in a makeshift curry. The guards had no opportunity to enjoy their ill-gotten meal as they were promptly reprimanded and removed from their post.

Our Arrival

When we arrived to replace the disgraced guards, the tale of the stolen lamb was the talk of the camp. Despite the seriousness of the matter, it was impossible not to see the humor in the situation.

That night, as the fresh bread arrived with our meal, we were served the lamb curry. The aroma was irresistible, and the taste was divine. While we silently thanked the guards for their culinary efforts, a pang of guilt lingered. The poor lamb had paid the price for their folly.

As we sat around the campfire, sharing the meal and laughter, I couldn’t help but marvel at the peculiarities of army life. It was a world where discipline and mischief coexisted, where even the most absurd incidents became cherished memories.

Reflection

The lamb slaughter case was a testament to the unpredictability of life in the regiment. It was a reminder that, beyond the drills and duties, we were a group of individuals with our quirks and flaws, bound together by camaraderie and shared experiences.

For me, these incidents added color to the otherwise rigorous routine of military life. They taught me that even in the most disciplined environment, there was room for humor and humanity.

To this day, the memory of that lamb curry brings a smile to my face. It was a meal seasoned not just with spices but with the stories and laughter of my comrades. And it reinforced a truth that has stayed with me throughout my life: in the army, every moment—no matter how unusual—is an opportunity to learn, grow, and connect.

The jungle, the tank, the lamb, and the bonds we forged—they all became part of a tapestry that defined my journey as a soldier. It was a journey marked by pride and adventure, where every challenge, big or small, became a stepping stone to something greater.

Operation Bloom

The regiment was a hive of activity, buzzing with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was only four or five months into my posting, and the annual inspection of our unit by the chief brigadier and his team from brigade headquarters was upon us. Every corner of the regiment was being cleaned, polished, and adorned with a military precision that was both impressive and exhausting.

The tanks stood gleaming under the sun, their metal bodies reflecting the meticulous care poured into them by us soldiers. Every leaf of every file in the regiment’s office had been scrutinized, and every detail accounted for. The CO had conducted a pre-inspection two days prior, and his approving nods had filled us with pride. We felt ready, prepared to show the brigade the might and discipline of our regiment.

But nothing could have prepared me for what unfolded the night before the inspection.

The Unusual Order

At the evening roll call, the final instructions were being given. Our SDM’s voice rang out with authority, laying down the schedule for the following day. Everything seemed standard until he announced, almost casually, “Five jawans will report at 4 a.m. to the Vehicle Parking and proceed to the BSF headquarters. There, you will... procure fresh flowers. These flowers are to be blooming and fragrant after reaching here. Do not get caught.”

A ripple of disbelief passed through the ranks. Flowers? From the BSF headquarters? It wasn’t an official requisition or a polite exchange—it was, quite literally, an order to steal them.

The SDM's tone brooked no argument, and the absurdity of the task hung in the air, blending with the unspoken amusement among us. I couldn’t help but suppress a smile as my mind struggled to process the situation. It was the kind of order you’d never find in a manual or hear again in your military career.

The Early Morning Mission

At 4 a.m., the five of us assigned to the task assembled at the Vehicle Parking. The vehicle waiting for us was a one-tonne truck, its engine rumbling softly in the pre-dawn silence. Among us was our unofficial team leader, whose wry smile and confident demeanor hinted that he had been through such escapades before.

As the vehicle rolled out of the camp, the chill of the early morning air seeped through our PT dress. The sky was a deep navy, with stars twinkling faintly above. Our destination, the BSF headquarters, was a few kilometers away, and the drive was filled with a mix of nervous anticipation and suppressed laughter.

The leader laid out the plan as the truck bounced along the uneven road. “We go in quietly, find the flowerbeds, and pick only the best blooms. No crushed flowers, no half-bloomed buds. And remember,” he added with a mischievous grin, “don’t get caught. If anyone asks, we’re admiring the BSF’s gardening skills.”

The Heist

The BSF headquarters was a sprawling compound, its entrance flanked by imposing gates and watchful guards. We parked the truck a short distance away, hiding it in the shadows of some tall trees. The plan was simple yet audacious: sneak in, locate the flowers, pluck them, and return before anyone noticed.

The scent of freshly watered earth and blooming flowers greeted us as we crept along the perimeter. Flowerbeds lined the pathways, their vibrant colors barely visible in the dim light. Rows of marigolds, roses, and bougainvillea stretched out before us like a treasure trove.

Heart pounding, I crouched near a bed of roses, their petals kissed by the dew of the early morning. Carefully, I plucked each flower, mindful not to damage the stems or leaves. Around me, the others worked silently, their movements quick and efficient.

The thrill of the mission was undeniable. Here we were, soldiers trained to operate tanks and defend borders, engaging in what could only be described as a covert gardening operation. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

The Close Call

Just as we were finishing, the distant sound of voices reached our ears. A patrol. My heart leapt into my throat as we ducked behind the flowerbeds, clutching our bounty tightly. The footsteps grew louder, the voices clearer.

“Move slowly,” our leader whispered, his voice barely audible. “Don’t make a sound.”

The patrol passed mere meters away, their flashlights sweeping the area but missing us entirely. We held our breath until the voices faded into the distance, then scrambled to our feet and hurried back to the truck.

By the time we reached the vehicle, our arms were laden with flowers, their sweet fragrance masking the sweat and adrenaline coursing through us. As the truck roared to life and sped away from the BSF headquarters, a collective sigh of relief filled the cabin, followed by laughter that echoed into the morning air.

The Grand Display

Back at the regiment, we handed over the flowers to the jawans in charge of decorating the parade ground and office area. Bouquets were arranged, garlands strung, and every corner seemed to bloom with the fruits of our early morning adventure.

When the brigadier and his team arrived later that day, they were greeted by a regiment that looked as disciplined as ever, with the added charm of floral decorations that seemed to embody perfection itself.

The CO’s face betrayed nothing, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as the brigadier complimented the regiment’s presentation. The flowers, in all their stolen glory, had served their purpose.    

A Memory to Cherish

As I look back on that incident, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It was a moment that blended the seriousness of army life with an unexpected touch of humor and creativity. The mission was absurd yet executed with the same precision and teamwork that defined our regiment.

For us, it was more than just a task—it was a bonding experience, a story to tell and retell over countless cups of tea and campfire evenings. It reminded me that the army isn’t just about discipline and duty; it’s also about camaraderie, adaptability, and finding joy in the most unexpected moments.

To this day, whenever I pass by a flowerbed or catch the scent of roses in the air, I am transported back to that pre-dawn heist, to the thrill of sneaking through the BSF headquarters, and to the laughter that followed us all the way home.

For younger generations aspiring to join the army, I share this story as a testament to the multifaceted nature of military life. It’s not always about battles and borders. Sometimes, it’s about flowers, friendship, and the memories that make the journey worthwhile.

The Return to Roots

Arriving at the gates of my father’s Regiment felt surreal, a full-circle moment connecting my past to my present. This was no ordinary military unit to me; it was my parent Regiment, my father’s home for 28 long years, a place he often spoke of with pride and nostalgia. Now, I was here to carry forward his legacy, a responsibility that weighed heavily yet filled me with an immense sense of pride.

The Arrival

It was a warm afternoon when our auto-rickshaw rolled up to the gates of Bhaur Camp near Jammu. My companion and I, freshly minted soldiers, were returning from our post-training leave in Amritsar. The eyes of every passerby scanned us curiously as we entered, dragging our bags and our hopes behind us.

We had been trained together at the DMR and Auto Regiment, and fate had landed us in the same unit. Despite the familiarity, the atmosphere was intimidating. The camp buzzed with activity, with soldiers going about their duties. To them, we were newcomers, unknown entities yet to prove our worth.

A sense of belonging was the first thing that greeted us, not just because of my personal connection but because of the warm welcome. As we stepped inside, a soldier approached us with a smile and directed us to a shaded area where tea and pakoras were being served. The savory aroma mingled with the chatter of soldiers on their tea break, instantly making us feel at ease.

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The First Night: Anticipation and Anxiety

We were temporarily lodged in a barrack with neatly arranged cots and footlockers. This was to be our home for the night until the official allotment of squadrons the next day. The evening passed in a haze of introductions and minor instructions, but as night fell, a restless energy filled the air.

That night, sleep was a distant dream. My thoughts were consumed by the next day’s interview. The Commanding Officer and Adjutant were formidable figures in our minds, the ultimate arbiters of our immediate future. The mere idea of meeting them in person felt like an ordeal.

Lying on the cot, I stared at the ceiling, replaying every instruction from training, every drill, every lesson, as if preparing for an unseen examination. My heart raced with anticipation, and even the comforting whispers of my father’s legacy couldn’t quiet the storm within.

Preparing for the Interview

Morning came early, as it always does in the army. At 4 a.m., bed tea was brought to us—a welcome relief from the sleepless night. The hot, strong brew worked wonders, infusing me with a sense of readiness I had lacked a few hours earlier.

We had been briefed the previous evening about the importance of presentation. Our uniforms needed to be spotless, our shoes gleaming, and our demeanor impeccable. A junior soldier, slightly senior to us, offered to help. He ensured our uniforms were impeccably ironed, taking them to the unit’s washerman for a final touch.

While we waited, we focused on shining our DMS boots until they reflected like mirrors. The repetitive motion of the brush against leather was almost meditative, calming my nerves and instilling a sense of control.

Facing the Regiment’s Legacy

By 8 a.m., we were dressed and ready, standing stiffly as the Squadron Dafedar Major (SDM) inspected us. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and his approval was the first hurdle crossed. He reminded us to be vigilant about every detail—dust-free shoes, straight creases, and confident salutes.

The walk to the Regimental Office Area was nerve-wracking. The SDM’s stern warnings about maintaining our uniforms and avoiding even a speck of dust added to the pressure. Yet, as we walked past the familiar landmarks of the camp, I felt a strange comfort, as if the place itself was welcoming me.

We reached the office area well before the interviews began, only to wait until noon. Standing in our perfectly ironed uniforms, we dared not sit for fear of ruining the hard-earned creases. Despite the long wait, we didn’t feel fatigued—a testament to the endurance drilled into us during training.

The Interview: A Simple Welcome

Finally, the time came. The SDM rehearsed our marching and saluting one last time before ushering us into the Adjutant’s office. The moment felt monumental, but the interview itself was surprisingly brief.

The Adjutant and the Commanding Officer greeted us warmly, their expressions more welcoming than intimidating. They asked us a few simple questions about our training and family backgrounds, nodded approvingly, and officially welcomed us to the Regiment.

For all the anticipation, the interview was a breeze—a formality, it seemed, to affirm our readiness to join the unit. As we marched out, the weight of nervousness lifted, replaced by a sense of belonging.

The First Assignment

After the interviews, the SDM directed us back to the barracks to change into our PT kits and report to the garages. The transition from the polished formality of the office to the practical realities of Regimental life was swift.

At the garages, we were introduced to the vehicles and tanks we would soon be handling—a blend of awe and responsibility coursed through me. This was the heart of the Regiment’s operations, and we were now a part of it.

Reflections on the First Day

That evening, as I lay on my cot, exhaustion finally caught up with me. The day had been a whirlwind of emotions, from nervous anticipation to the satisfaction of acceptance. The Regiment already felt like home, not just because of my father’s connection but because of the camaraderie and shared purpose that permeated every corner.

The journey from a raw recruit to a member of this illustrious unit had been arduous, but it was only the beginning. I felt a renewed sense of determination to uphold the values my father had embodied and to make my own mark in this proud lineage.

A Message to Aspirants

Joining the army, especially a Regiment steeped in history and tradition, is more than a career—it’s a calling. For those dreaming of this life, remember that the journey demands not just physical endurance but mental fortitude and an unwavering commitment to discipline.

There will be moments of doubt and fear, as I experienced on my first night. But there will also be moments of triumph and belonging, where the weight of your uniform feels lighter because of the pride it carries.

This chapter of my life taught me that every challenge is an opportunity, every moment of nervousness a step toward growth. To those who aspire to follow this path, embrace the journey with an open heart, for it will shape you into someone you’ll be proud to see in the mirror.

Tank Driving Training: From Theory to the Battlefield

Though we had officially become soldiers, the transition from recruit to a seasoned member of the Indian Army was still incomplete. The final phase of our training awaited us: Tank Driving Training. It was a step into the unknown, a challenge that both thrilled and intimidated us. This phase demanded technical understanding, physical resilience, and mental sharpness, pushing us beyond anything we had experienced before. 

Theoretical Foundations: Knowing the Beast 

The first two weeks of the training focused on theory. In a large, echoing classroom, our instructors introduced us to the fascinating world of tanks. Diagrams adorned the walls, showcasing cross-sections of these mechanical beasts. We learned about the types of tanks, their components, and their functionality. Words like "armament," "armor," and "engine torque" became part of our daily vocabulary. 

Our regiment at the time used T-55 tanks, a powerful Soviet-era machine with an intimidating presence. We studied their mechanisms—hydraulics, electronics, and wireless communication systems. The complexity of these machines left us awestruck, but also a bit apprehensive. How could we, mere humans, command such formidable beasts? 

I distinctly remember the armament classes, where we were taught about the tank's primary weapon, its aiming systems, and the precision required to fire accurately. Maintenance sessions were equally grueling, detailing the cleaning and care needed to ensure the tank operated flawlessly in the field. The instructors emphasized that a malfunctioning tank could spell disaster in battle, making our understanding of these systems critical. 

Driving the Beast: The Practical Phase 

The real excitement began in the third week when we finally got to drive the tanks. My first close encounter with a T-55 was unforgettable. The sheer size of the machine, with its thick armor and massive gun, was intimidating. Climbing into the driver's seat, I felt a mix of fear and exhilaration. The controls were complex, and every movement required precise coordination. 

The tank training ground was vast, with rugged terrains, steep inclines, and water obstacles designed to test our skills. The moment the engine roared to life, vibrations reverberated through my body. Handling the tank felt like taming a wild animal, but with every session, I grew more confident. 

For me, the training held a personal significance. My father had served in the same regiment I was to join after completing the course. The thought of following in his footsteps filled me with pride and determination. 

Basketball Glory and Discipline 

In the midst of tank training, an inter-regiment basketball tournament was announced. Having played basketball since my school days, I was selected for our Automotive Regiment's team. The selection felt like a badge of honor, and I threw myself into practice with the same dedication I gave to my training. 

The tournament was a fierce competition. Though our team didn’t clinch victory, my performance caught everyone’s attention. My ability to make direct throws to the basket from the centr-line earned applause and recognition. It was a moment of personal triumph, a reminder that discipline and hard work extended beyond the battlefield. 

However, one incident during the tournament taught us the cost of bending the rules. After a grueling practice session, we decided to rest in the stadium shed instead of returning to our barracks. The shed was visible from the main road, and an officer spotted us lounging there. He reported the matter to the Regimental Dafadar Major (RDM). 

As soon as we returned to the barracks, the RDM was waiting. His stern expression left no room for excuses. Our punishment was immediate and harsh: an hour of walking with backpacks filled with crushed stones, combined with front rolls—five on the way up and two on the way back. The weight of the stones pressed against our spines, making every step a struggle. Getting up after each front roll was an ordeal, as if our backs would break under the load. 

The punishment was grueling, but it reinforced a vital lesson: discipline was the backbone of a soldier's life. Any deviation, no matter how minor, had consequences. 

Completion and Departure 

The final weeks of training passed in a blur of activity. By the time we completed our course, we were no longer the same raw recruits who had arrived months earlier. We were skilled, disciplined, and prepared to serve our nation. 

Our movement orders arrived with our posting details. Alongside them came a free railway warrant and 45 days of leave. For me, the excitement of joining my regiment was matched by the anticipation of seeing my family. It was the same train journey that had brought me here over a year ago, but now I was returning as a soldier. 

As we prepared to leave, we received the balance of our salary, accumulated over the training period. The amount, handed to us in cash, felt like a fortune. We joked about being millionaires, though deep down, we knew that wealth was not measured in money alone. The discipline, skills, and resilience we had gained were treasures far greater than any monetary reward. 

The Oath of a Soldier 

The culmination of our training was the passing-out parade, where we took our solemn oath to serve the nation. Standing tall in our immaculate uniforms, we repeated the words with conviction, pledging to uphold the honor of the Indian Army. 

In that moment, a profound transformation took place. We were no longer mere individuals; we were part of something much larger—a brotherhood bound by duty, loyalty, and sacrifice. The journey from raw recruits to complete soldiers was complete. 

As we marched past our instructors, the pride in their eyes mirrored our own. It was a day of triumph, of fulfillment, and of a new beginning. We were ready to face the challenges ahead, to protect and serve, to live and, if necessary, to die for our nation. 

The sound of our boots hitting the ground in unison echoed the unbreakable bond we shared. We were soldiers—no longer just in name, but in spirit. 

And so, with our heads held high and hearts full of determination, we stepped into the future, ready to uphold the legacy of the Indian Army.  

The End of Vehicle Training

As the final weeks of driving training wrapped up, a sense of achievement filled the air. We had not just learned to drive; we had learned responsibility, teamwork, and perseverance. Each punishment, each reprimand, and each small victory had shaped us into better soldiers and individuals.

The next phase awaited us: Tank Driving Training, a specialized 12-week course designed for my professional trade as a Driver-Gunner. The thought of handling armored beasts brought a mix of excitement and trepidation. But as I looked back on the journey so far, I knew I was ready. Every challenge, every lesson, and every experience had prepared me for what lay ahead.

The Passing Out Parade: From Recruits to Soldiers

The culmination of our training was the grand passing-out parade, an event that marked our transformation from raw recruits to complete soldiers. As we stood in perfect formation,  a profound sense of pride engulfed us. During the oath ceremony, we pledged our unwavering allegiance to the nation, vowing to serve with honor and integrity. In that moment, we were no longer individuals from diverse backgrounds—we were one unit, united by our mission to protect and serve our country. The journey from recruits to soldiers was complete, and the weight of that responsibility filled us with a newfound sense of purpose.

Driving Training: From Wheels to Wisdom

After the grueling rigors of our basic training, the next chapter of our transformation was driving and vehicle maintenance training. It was a 22-week phase, though it was eventually shortened to 20 weeks when we reached the 11th week. This new phase brought a mix of challenges, excitement, and lessons that would stay with me for life.

First Five Weeks: Mastering the Simulator

The initial five weeks were spent on vehicle simulators. These devices were akin to the modern car-racing games, though far less forgiving. The simulators gave us our first feel of controlling a vehicle without the real-world risks. Every beep, every jerk, and every red light felt like a judgment on our reflexes and focus. While the learning curve was steep, it was thrilling to maneuver virtual terrains, dodge imaginary obstacles, and stay within prescribed speed limits.

We treated the simulator sessions as both training and competition. With every session, we aimed to outperform each other, laughing at blunders and celebrating small victories. Yet, every mistake was a reminder that driving wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, patience, and decision-making under pressure. These lessons, though imparted in a playful environment, would become crucial when we transitioned to real vehicles.

Next Eight Weeks: On the Driving Court

The simulators soon gave way to real vehicles. From towering 3-ton trucks to nimble 1-ton vehicles, we got our hands on every type of military transport. Our training ground was a meticulously designed driving court, a mini-world of road signs, obstacles, and terrains. Hills, bridges, narrow passages, and even a self-made water crossing tested our skills. Every bump and curve was a teacher.

Speed breakers, however, were our nemesis. Forgetting to slow down over them often led to our instructors barking orders for push-ups or running laps. One particularly memorable punishment involved us pushing the very truck we were driving around the course. Despite the harshness, these moments bonded us as a team. We would laugh about our mistakes later, the camaraderie softening the sting of reprimands.

On the Open Roads: Five Weeks of Convoy Driving

After mastering the court, it was time for road training. For the next five weeks, we drove as part of convoys on various routes. The real roads brought new challenges—unexpected traffic, sharp turns, and the sheer responsibility of navigating military vehicles in public spaces. Despite the challenges, this phase was incredibly enjoyable. The thrill of maneuvering a massive truck on bustling roads, the sense of purpose as part of a convoy, and the sheer joy of watching the world roll by made these weeks unforgettable.

One of the most exciting parts of convoy driving was the communication. Our vehicles were equipped with basic radio systems, and the chatter—often serious, sometimes humorous—kept us connected. “Truck Number Three, maintain distance!” an instructor’s voice would crackle, followed by a mischievous reply from a fellow trainee: “Sir, Truck Number Three is following your lead, so don’t stop suddenly!” Such moments lightened the intensity of the training.

The Final Two Weeks: Passing Out Drill Practice

The last two weeks were dedicated to passing out drill practice. Our vehicles gleamed with fresh polish, and our uniforms were immaculate. Every movement, every command had to be executed with precision. This phase was less about learning and more about showcasing what we had mastered. The sense of accomplishment was palpable as we prepared to demonstrate our skills to our instructors and peers.

A Lesson for Life: The Night That Changed Me

Amidst the structured training, one night etched itself deeply into my memory. It was during the simulator phase when I was assigned the first shift of night duty, starting at midnight. Exhausted, I slept until 11:45 PM, relying on the guard before me to wake me up. True to protocol, he did, and I reported for duty on time. But fatigue got the better of me.

Sitting in one of the simulator seats, I rested my head on the front table. Sleep took over before I realized it. The next thing I felt was a sharp slap on my back. Startled, I shot up to see a Junior Commissioned Officer (JCO) standing before me, his expression a mix of anger and authority. Instinctively, I saluted him, but he raised his hand again, stopping short of another slap.

“Bewakoof, raat ko salute maarta hai,” he barked. “Savdhan khada ho... Aur apni belt baandho.”

I fumbled to buckle my belt, stammering, “SssSorry Sir!”

His anger flared. “Galti karke angrezi bolta hai... Chal, dus front-roll laga.”

The punishment was swift and exhausting, but his parting words haunted me: “Subah second parade se pehle milna, teri raat ki neend udaata hoon tab.”

Sleep eluded me that night. The anticipation of facing him again kept me restless. When morning came, I reported to him promptly at the parade ground. Standing at attention, I braced myself for more punishment. Instead, he simply asked, “Teri neend acchi lagi raat ko?”

“Nahi, Sir,” I admitted.

To my surprise, he smiled. “Achha hai. Ja training join kar le. Bas yahi teri saza thi.”

Relief washed over me, but the lesson stayed. From that day forward, I never let sleep or negligence interfere with my duty. It was a moment of humiliation turned into lifelong discipline.

The End of Vehicle Training

As the final weeks of driving training wrapped up, a sense of achievement filled the air. We had not just learned to drive; we had learned responsibility, teamwork, and perseverance. Each punishment, each reprimand, and each small victory had shaped us into better soldiers and individuals.

The next phase awaited us: Tank Driving Training, a specialized 12-week course designed for my professional trade as a Driver-Gunner. The thought of handling armored beasts brought a mix of excitement and trepidation. But as I looked back on the journey so far, I knew I was ready. Every challenge, every lesson, and every experience had prepared me for what lay ahead.

And so, with renewed determination, I stepped into the next chapter of my military life, ready to face the roaring engines and formidable machines that would soon become an extension of myself.

From Civilians to Soldiers: A Journey of Transformation

The 20 weeks of rigorous training etched an indelible transformation in us. With each passing day, we began to grasp the stark difference between the life we left behind and the life we were preparing to embrace. Civilian life, we realized, was largely about self-management and living for personal comfort and goals. Military life, on the other hand, was a calling—a pledge to dedicate oneself entirely to the nation, to live and die for others without hesitation. This profound understanding reshaped our perspectives, altering not just how we viewed the world but also how we viewed ourselves.

The diversity among the recruits was a revelation. We came from various corners of India, representing Hindu, Sikh, Muslim, and Christian faiths, and spanning castes such as langris (cooks), cobblers, washermen, and sweepers. Yet, as the days turned into weeks, these differences began to fade into insignificance. What stood out was our shared identity as soldiers of India, united under a single creed: to protect the nation with unwavering commitment. Our religion, caste, and personal backgrounds melted into the collective spirit of the Indian Army, and the bonds we formed transcended societal barriers.

In the barracks, this camaraderie became our foundation. Initially, the challenges of military life felt overwhelming. The drills were relentless, the physical exertion punishing, and the discipline unyielding. Yet, amidst the sweat and toil, a sense of unity emerged. Slowly, we began to shed our inhibitions and embraced the diversity around us.

One of the turning points was when I watched Shade, a fellow recruit from a completely different cultural background, struggle to adjust to the rigid regimen. He was younger and less robust than some of us, but his determination was inspiring. During an arduous obstacle course, Shade tripped and fell, injuring his knee. Without hesitation, we rallied around him, helping him finish the course despite his pain. It was in moments like these that we realized the true essence of our training—it wasn’t just about physical endurance but about building a bond of mutual reliance and trust.

Every meal in the mess hall became a gathering of stories, laughter, and shared struggles. The langri, with his quick wit, often lightened the mood, cracking jokes even as he served us steaming plates of food. The cobbler, a quiet man with a knack for storytelling, shared tales from his village that transported us momentarily back to simpler times. The washerman, with his tireless dedication, ensured that our uniforms were spotless, while the sweeper, often underestimated, reminded us of the dignity in every task, no matter how small.

The strict hierarchy of training also instilled a deep respect for discipline and responsibility. The moments of levity—jokes shared during brief breaks, or the rare evenings when we were allowed to relax—became cherished respites in an otherwise demanding routine.

By the end of those 20 weeks, a profound change had taken root within me. I began wearing my uniform with a sense of pride and purpose. It was no longer just an outfit—it was a symbol of the commitment we had made, a visible reminder of our shared mission. Similarly, the recruits around me underwent similar transformations.

The bonds we formed extended beyond the training grounds. In times of difficulty, whether it was a personal struggle or a particularly challenging drill, we stood by each other. We learned to understand and empathize with one another’s problems. The Hindu recruit from Rajasthan lent his hand to the Christian from Kerala; the Sikh from Punjab encouraged the Muslim from Uttar Pradesh. In this melting pot of diversity, we found strength.

Perhaps the most significant achievement of our basic training was the realization that life as a soldier is not just about personal endurance but about shared resilience. It’s about recognizing that no one stands alone in the Army. We fight together, suffer together, and succeed together.

As the final week of training approached, our instructors began to prepare us for the next phase of our journey. We would soon leave the safety of the training center and step into active service. The thought was both exhilarating and daunting. But as I looked around at my fellow recruits, I felt a deep sense of reassurance. These were not just comrades; they were brothers bound by a shared purpose and an unshakable belief in the ideals of service and sacrifice.

The day we graduated from training, we stood in formation, our uniforms crisp and our spirits high. The commanding officer addressed us, his voice steady and full of conviction: "You are no longer civilians. You are soldiers of the Indian Army. Your duty is not just to serve but to honor the trust this nation has placed in you. Remember, your strength lies not just in your individual skills but in your unity as a team."

As his words sank in, I felt a surge of pride and responsibility. It was a moment of culmination—a realization that the hardships we endured were not in vain but had forged us into something greater than ourselves.

That evening, as we packed our belongings and prepared to leave the training center, there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the air. We were stepping into a world of unknown challenges, but we were ready. The friendships we had forged, the lessons we had learned, and the transformation we had undergone would guide us in the days to come.

In hindsight, those 20 weeks of training were not just a phase but a crucible—a process of unlearning, learning, and relearning. They stripped away the superficial layers of our civilian lives and revealed the core of who we were meant to be. They taught us the value of discipline, the power of unity, and the significance of selflessness. Above all, they prepared us for the life of service that lay ahead, a life where every action was driven by the unwavering belief that we were not just individuals but soldiers of India.

And so, as we marched out of the training center, the words of our commanding officer echoed in my mind: "You are soldiers of India." It was not just a statement but a promise—a promise to serve, protect, and uphold the honor of our nation, no matter the cost.

The Start of Training

Basic Training Regiment, Ahmadnagar welcomed us with its bustling energy and the solemn promise of transformation. Within two days of our arrival, the process of turning raw recruits into disciplined soldiers began in earnest. We were issued our military kits, which contained everything essential for our new lives: khaki uniforms, knickers instead of full pants, blankets, boots, socks, utensils for eating, and more. Each item felt like a piece of the identity we were about to embody, but little did we know the journey ahead would test every fiber of our being.

The khaki uniform, unlike the iconic green associated with the military, marked the beginning of basic training. These uniforms symbolized our unpolished status, much like the raw recruits we were. The next 22 weeks were to be grueling, relentless, and transformative. Physical education took center stage, punctuated by drills on quick marching, the art of halting on command, and precise parades. Classes were interspersed to teach us the fundamentals of combat weapons, military etiquette, and discipline. Games in the evenings provided a fleeting escape, but even these were part of the larger training framework. Idleness was nonexistent. If there was time between activities, we would find ourselves pulling weeds or cleaning the premises. Nights offered no respite either, as we took turns on two-hour guard duty shifts, learning the importance of vigilance. 

Our meals were simple: tea and bread became staples. Hunger and exhaustion became familiar companions, yet they were overshadowed by the camaraderie growing among us.

The Lessons in Obedience

One morning, the sharp blast of a whistle signaled the beginning of our physical training. The rule was clear: be outside by the first whistle. The second whistle was reserved for those who were tardy, and with it came punishment. We had become adept at anticipating the first whistle, dressing and waiting to leap into action. That day, however, one of our comrades miscalculated. 

When the second whistle blew, our late comrade rushed out, his PT shoes untied. He stood before the instructor, attempting to explain. The exchange that followed remains etched in my memory:

“Why are you late?” the instructor barked.

“Master...!” he stammered.

“Don’t shut your mouth, speak!” the instructor demanded.

 “I was just...”

 “Shut up! Do you know the meaning of delay?”

 “Yes, but...”

“Silence! Lace up your boots and give me ten front rolls. Move!”

We were astonished by the interaction. Why ask if we were not meant to respond? Later, another instructor explained: “In the army, obedience is paramount. Orders are to be followed without question or argument. This lesson is crucial for survival.” We absorbed this with a mix of awe and apprehension.

Trials of Endurance

Another day, our PT session involved five laps around the training ground. Panting and gasping, we finally stopped, only for the instructor to play a seemingly cruel game. “Fall in here,” he commanded, pointing to a spot. As we moved to comply, he pointed elsewhere: “No, not there, here.” This cycle repeated several times until frustration bubbled over. One recruit finally blurted, “Teacher, decide where you want us!”

The instructor laughed, a sound that carried a mix of amusement and approval. “There will be times,” he said, “when everything around you will be chaotic, when you’ll feel on the verge of collapse. This is preparation for those moments. We’re forging you into steel so your body and mind won’t fail in the field.”

That revelation ignited a spark of determination in us. Each sweat-drenched lap, each aching muscle, became a testament to our transformation.

Humor Amid Hardship

Despite the intensity, moments of humor broke the monotony. One day, during a particularly grueling drill, a comrade’s voice cracked mid-command. The unintentional falsetto sent us into suppressed laughter, though we dared not show it. The instructors’ sharp eyes missed nothing, and we found ourselves ordered to do push-ups as punishment. Even then, the humor lingered, a shared joke that lightened the weight of the day.

The First Tests of Discipline

Night duties tested our stamina and focus. Holding a stick and patrolling in the dead of night, I battled both fatigue and the eerie silence. The darkness felt alive, every rustle amplifying my heartbeat. Yet, these nights taught vigilance and an unyielding sense of responsibility.

One unforgettable night, a comrade dozed off during his shift. The discovery led to a stern reprimand, but the lesson went deeper: lapses in vigilance could cost lives. It wasn’t merely about rules but about internalizing the weight of the uniform.

Bonds Forged in Sweat

Our shared experiences drew us closer. The laughter over coal-stained faces, the collective groans during endless drills, and the silent solidarity during punishments built bonds that words could not. We began as strangers, but these moments turned us into a brotherhood.

Conclusion

As the weeks progressed, our civilian identities faded, replaced by the disciplined ethos of soldiers. Each drill, each lesson, and each moment of exhaustion chipped away at our old selves, revealing individuals ready to serve with honor. The transformation was far from complete, but the foundation was solid. The start of training was more than a physical regimen; it was the beginning of a lifelong journey of discipline, resilience, and purpose.

 

Entry into the Disciplined Life

Ahmednagar station buzzed with the activity of arriving trains and departing passengers. As the sun cast its warm golden glow over the platform, the three of us stepped off the train with eager anticipation and nervous energy. Awaiting us was a sturdy army vehicle—a symbol of the structured life we were about to embrace. The vehicle roared to life as we were ushered in, its powerful engine a precursor to the discipline and rigors ahead. 

The ride to the Basic Training School was filled with mixed emotions. The vehicle navigated through the dusty roads, past stretches of barren land and occasional clusters of trees swaying gently in the breeze. Seated inside, we shared silent glances, each of us contemplating what awaited. As soon as we arrived, our civilian identities began to blur into the collective identity of recruits. We were arranged into three neat rows and faced a group of fellow recruits from various states, all of whom had arrived that same day. There were about twenty to twenty-two of us—young men from different walks of life, united by the call of duty.

The first order of business was a headcount. A burly instructor barked commands, his voice cutting through the warm air. “Raise your hand if you want to eat lunch first,” he shouted. Hunger gnawed at us after the long journey, so my companions and I eagerly raised our hands. About ten or eleven of us were singled out and directed towards the anchorage, a simple mess hall nearby, while the rest were sent to the barracks.

The meal was plain yet satisfying—freshly baked bread, dal, and steaming vegetables. As we ate, the chatter was subdued but laced with the anticipation of what lay ahead. We returned to the assembly area, where a rugged army truck awaited us. A pile of shovels lay ominously inside the vehicle, but none of us paid them much heed. The instructor climbed into the passenger seat and gestured for us to board.

With a grin, he announced, “We’re taking you to see the Ahmednagar Fort, where Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was once imprisoned.” Excitement rippled through the group. The thought of visiting a historical site filled us with pride and curiosity. The vehicle rumbled forward, and we embarked on what we believed would be an enriching experience.

The fort loomed in the distance, its imposing structure silhouetted against the pale blue sky. As we approached, the truck made a sudden turn and came to a halt near a massive pile of coal. The instructor’s demeanor shifted as he climbed out of the vehicle. “Alright, boys,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding, “grab the shovels and load this coal into the truck. You have fifteen minutes.”

We stood frozen, the enthusiasm for our “tour” evaporating in an instant. Dressed in our civilian clothes—I in my favorite bell-bottom pants and a crisp shirt—we hesitated, exchanging incredulous looks. Some of my companions wore new outfits, the fabrics fresh and bright. Now, these same clothes would face the harsh reality of manual labor. With a mix of disbelief and reluctant acceptance, we picked up the shovels and began. 

The first few shovels of coal felt manageable, but the novelty quickly wore off. Sweat trickled down our foreheads, stinging our eyes and soaking through our clothes. My hands, unaccustomed to the coarse grip of the shovel, began to ache. Yet, the pile seemed endless. Each scoop was a battle against fatigue, and our breaths grew heavier. We were city boys, unused to physical labor, and this task—though simple—felt like a monumental challenge.

By the time we filled the truck, we were drenched in sweat. Coal dust clung to our skin, painting our faces and clothes in shades of black and gray. My once-pristine bell-bottoms were now unrecognizable, and my shirt bore smudges that told the story of our toil. Despite the exhaustion, there was an odd sense of camaraderie. Looking at each other’s soot-covered faces, we couldn’t help but laugh—a laughter born of shared hardship and the absurdity of our predicament.

The truck roared back to life, and we clambered aboard, this time perched atop the coal we had just shoveled. The ride back was uncomfortable, with sharp edges pressing against us, but the fatigue numbed our complaints. As we returned to the anchorage, the task wasn’t yet complete. The coal had to be unloaded. With groans and weary determination, we emptied the truck, each shovel-full bringing us closer to the end of our first day’s ordeal.

This unexpected initiation taught us an invaluable lesson: in the army, volunteering was not always what it seemed. The simplicity of raising a hand for a meal had led to hours of grueling labor. We realized that our civilian naivety would be stripped away, replaced by the resilience and discipline demanded by military life.

Later, as we sat in the barracks, someone mentioned that Pandit Nehru had indeed been imprisoned in Ahmednagar Fort. But the fort also housed an Army Supply Corps depot. The irony wasn’t lost on us. We had been lured with the promise of history and instead confronted with the stark reality of our new lives.

As the days turned into weeks, the memory of that first task became a touchstone. It was a baptism by fire, an initiation into the disciplined life we had chosen. The fort, with its storied past, had served as a silent witness to our transformation—from young, naive recruits to soldiers in the making. It marked the beginning of a journey that would test our limits, forge our character, and redefine the meaning of duty.

 

Chapter 1 Paragraph

With a whirlwind of emotions swirling in our hearts, the three of us newly recruited soldiers stood at the Patiala bus stand, clutching our meager belongings—20 rupees each, a black blanket rolled under our arms, and the weight of an uncertain future. Patiala was only the first leg of our journey; the iconic Punjab Mail would take us further, through the vast expanse of plains, to Manmad, and finally to the Ahmednagar training center. As we waited for the bus, I noticed a humble kiosk stacked with books and magazines. My eyes caught the cover of the December 1978 edition of Nagmani, its vibrant colors promising stories and poems that felt like a distant echo of home. I bought it instinctively, craving a tether to the familiar world of words I was leaving behind.

The train journey began with the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the soft rumble of distant conversations. I found solace on the upper berth, where I stretched out with my precious Nagmani. The pages brimmed with voices from different corners of life, but one poem by Pramindrajit caught me off guard. It was a hauntingly beautiful ode to his mother, every line imbued with the raw, unfiltered emotion of separation and longing. His words painted vivid pictures: a mother’s hands, calloused but tender, the scent of earth after rain mingled with her sweat, and the quiet resilience in her eyes.

As I read, the images took on a life of their own, merging with memories of my own mother. Her hands, too, bore the marks of endless toil, kneading dough or planting in our modest field. Her voice, soft yet firm, calling out my name in the evening light, seemed to echo through the clamor of the train. Before I knew it, tears welled up and spilled over, blurring the ink on the page. The hum of the train seemed to recede into the background as I sat with the poem's weight on my chest, my emotions spilling onto the dusty floor of the compartment.

Moved beyond words, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote to my mother. My hands trembled as I copied Pramindrajit’s poem, each line feeling like a shared heartbeat between us. I added my own words, telling her how the poem had unraveled something deep within me, how much I missed her, and how her unwavering presence had been my strength.

Later, I learned from her that when she received my letter, she had asked the neighbor’s daughter to read it aloud. As the girl’s voice faltered, both of them dissolved into tears, the poem and my words binding us in a moment of shared grief and unspoken love. For me, that journey marked the beginning of a new chapter, but in the quiet company of Nagmani, I found a piece of home to carry with me into the unfamiliar terrain of soldiering. 

Chapter 1: A Call to Duty

At that time I was studying B.A. (Part I) at Doaba College Jalandhar. The meaning of life was beyond comprehension at that time, but life was beginning to look very beautiful. Because through love and love letters, I got connected with literature. The poetry of Shiv Batalvi became the adornment of my love letters. He also wrote short stories and poems. A dakiya who used to come to our village became my friend. Seeing my fascination with literature, he told me that there is a story writer in his bank, he gets a lot of magazines by post. I told him to show me the newspaper. He did just that. Whenever a magazine comes, he gives it to me and I return it after reading it. That is, I used to read every magazine that came to Nachhatar and then go to him. After reading all of them, I was very impressed. My writing style has changed. Then the caller called me to meet him. When I go back to school, I go straight to the bank. He used to share many things about literature, I used to be very impressed. He often took me to literary events. My interest in literature grew. I didn't have much money, so I had to pay for it. I was very familiar with Hindi and Punjabi literature.

As a result of this love affair and my preoccupation with literature, my B.Sc. (Part I) resulted in two compartments. My father was very upset. Angry that I was removed from the college and admitted to Punjabi University Patiala. Sit at home and read. Beas river passes near our village. There was a gloomy atmosphere. I pick up my correspondence course papers and go to the riverside to study. But there would be time to sit down and write a story or a love letter. One day, he followed me without telling me. I decided to sit in a secluded place and write. Tearing the paper from the copy, putting it on the copy, the first letter was still written - "My life! "And then I got hit in the leg. I fell into the mud in front of the chuphal. I didn't even know that Bapuji was standing on my head. I said, I'll get you out of there! ! And they took me home. My mother tells me to take care of my son. The next morning I was taken to bed. My mother thought maybe I should study there... I thought the same.

The next morning, they took me to the army recruitment office. There were ten boys. Back then, there was no running. The height was measured - at six feet I became fit but the required weight was reduced. A lot less than what I needed. Colonel Sahib laughed and said to Bapu - 'Bring him bananas and let's see again'. I was so happy to be saved. But where was the father? They took me out and fed me more than a dozen bananas. The weight was not full, but Bapu had an old acquaintance with Colonel Sahib, so after getting medical treatment, I joined the army on November 28, 1978. That moment was the peak of my sadness... not even to go home from there. In those days no one was allowed to return home after that. There thought was that if they go  home they can change their mind.

My Army Days (Through the Rearview Mirror)

The Present – The Life of a Veteran

By the time the train screeched to a halt at Jalandhar railway station, I was already at the coach door, eager to disembark. The cold March air brushed against my face, carrying with it a peculiar mix of freedom and nostalgia. My belongings—two black boxes stacked neatly, a bedroll, and a bag—symbolized the closure of one chapter and the uncertain beginning of another. Behind me, fellow passengers hesitated, eyeing my boxes as if their descent would create a domino effect. The urgency to exit mirrored my inner turmoil, a blend of excitement and apprehension.

The platform, alive with the cacophony of porters, vendors, and passengers, seemed to echo my internal chaos. My footsteps felt heavy yet purposeful as I navigated through the crowd, balancing the weight of my luggage and my thoughts. The chilly air, biting yet invigorating, felt like a strange welcome—a stark contrast to the regimented warmth of the army camps I had left behind.

I had just taken leave from the army after 19 years and 3 months of service. A service that had defined my identity, disciplined my spirit, and etched indelible memories on my soul. Now, as I stepped into the unfamiliar territory of civilian life, I was both exhilarated and uneasy. The joy of coming home was palpable, yet a gnawing uncertainty loomed over my future.

Settling into Civilian Life

I arrived at my rented house in Jalandhar’s Central Town, where my wife awaited me at the door. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of relief and pride. I had written her a letter about my arrival, but seeing her standing there, clutching the doorframe, felt profoundly grounding. The children were still asleep, their innocent faces untouched by the complexities of adulthood.

The first morning at home felt surreal. The routine I had adhered to for nearly two decades no longer dictated my day. No 5 a.m. reveille, no physical training under the stern gaze of a commanding officer, no meticulously polished boots or crisply ironed uniforms. It was a liberation I had long yearned for, yet it left a vacuum.

For a few days, I reveled in the simplicity of domestic life—waking up to the aroma of parathas, sipping chai in the veranda, and basking in the laughter of my children. Yet, the novelty wore off quickly. The pension, though steady, was insufficient to meet the dreams I had nurtured—building a house, securing my children’s education, and ensuring a comfortable life for my family. Reality nudged me, and I found myself scanning newspapers for job opportunities.

 The First Steps into Civilian Employment

My first job was as a clerk at Cargo Motors in Jalandhar, located conveniently near the bus stand. It was a modest start, but it provided a sense of purpose. The daily grind was starkly different from the rigor of the army. The familiarity of hierarchy and camaraderie was replaced by transactional interactions and mundane paperwork. I adjusted, but not without longing for the disciplined chaos of my previous life.

After a short stint, I moved to Army Public School in Beas as an LDC Secretary. The environment, though civilian, retained a semblance of military structure, offering a comforting middle ground. Yet, I yearned for more. A position at Bharat Box Factory in Ludhiana as a Security Officer followed, where I managed logistics and personnel, drawing parallels to my army responsibilities. 

Then came an opportunity that would take me far from home—a position as a clerk at Akal Academy, Baru Sahib, nestled in the serene Himachal hills. The tranquility of the mountains was a balm to my restless spirit. Over time, I was transferred to Akal Academy in Bhadaur, Punjab, as an admin officer. This role introduced me to the intricacies of educational administration, a field I grew to appreciate.

The Call from Abroad

Out of the blue, a phone call offered me a job in Dubai as a Security Superintendent. It was an irresistible opportunity, promising financial stability and international exposure. Dubai’s glittering skyline and Abu Dhabi’s bustling streets were a world apart from the barracks and fields of my past. Yet, amidst the towering skyscrapers and desert heat, I often found myself reminiscing about the simplicity and camaraderie of army life.

After two years, I returned to India, drawn back by my connection to Baru Sahib. The academy, now expanding its horizons, entrusted me with a pivotal role at the newly established Akal University in Talwandi Sabo. As the Superintendent of Accounts, I was among the first staff members, witnessing the institution’s growth from its inception. Over the years, I was promoted to Assistant Registrar, a role that allowed me to mentor young minds and share the values instilled in me by the army.

The Weight of Memories

Despite the new roles and responsibilities, the memories of my army days remained vivid. Every time I saw a military vehicle or a soldier in uniform, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I would recall the disciplined mornings, the camaraderie during challenging missions, and the quiet pride of serving the nation. The contrast between my past and present often left me melancholic yet grateful for the experiences that shaped me.

In moments of reflection, I realized that my civilian journey, though vastly different, was a continuation of the lessons learned in the army. Leadership, resilience, and adaptability became my guiding principles, whether managing a school’s administration or navigating the complexities of life abroad.

The Stories Yet to Be Told 

The life of a veteran is a tapestry woven with threads of pride, sacrifice, and longing. It is a journey marked by the transition from regimented service to civilian uncertainty, from shared camaraderie to solitary reflection. Through this book, I hope to share the stories that define my journey—stories of courage, humor, hardship, and hope.

As I sit at my desk, pen in hand, I feel the weight of these memories pressing against my chest. Each tale is a window into a world that, though left behind, continues to shape who I am. These are not just my stories but fragments of a collective legacy that binds every soldier who has ever served.

So, come along as I take you on a journey through time—a journey that begins here, in the quiet of my study, and winds its way back through the annals of my army life. Let us revisit the barracks, the battlefields, and the bonds that defined an era. Let us honor the past and find meaning in the present.