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.