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.
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