A Night in Kulgam

            The sky over Kulgam was a canvas of molten gold as the sun dipped behind the rugged peaks, casting long shadows across the valley. The evening air carried a crisp chill, a silent reminder that the mountains did not care for human conflicts. Yet, tonight, in a small village nestled between rolling hills and dense pine forests, war was about to unfold once more. 

             Our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had received intelligence—three terrorists were holed up in a house at the far end of the village. The information had come from an informer, a man whose face we had never seen, but whose whispers had often led us to the wolves hiding among sheep. The details were precise. They had weapons, possibly automatic rifles, and a good stock of ammunition. 

             Capt. S.K. Singh, the team leader, stood with his back against an old mud wall, scanning the narrow lanes ahead. His sharp eyes reflected the fading sunlight, his mind already calculating entry points, possible ambush zones, and the nearest escape routes. The mission was clear—QRT had to eliminate the threat before they could slip away into the dense wilderness beyond. 

             "Listen up," Singh said, his voice low but firm. "The house is the third one on the right. Single-story, small windows. We move in silent, take positions, and wait for my signal. No unnecessary noise, no mistakes." 

             A quiet nod passed through the team. Seven of the Team, dressed in combat fatigues, faces streaked with dust and determination, weapons ready. They moved like shadows, their boots barely disturbing the dust-covered path. The village was eerily silent, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Doors were shut, curtains drawn—either out of fear or silent allegiance to the men inside that house. 

             They reached the designated spot, pressing themselves against the walls of adjacent buildings. The house stood before them—modest, its wooden door slightly ajar, as if mocking the Team with false hospitality. A single bulb flickered above the entrance, casting weak light over the mud-caked walls. 

             Singh raised his hand, signaling the formation. Two men flanked the house from the left, another two from the right. The rest of them stayed at the front, rifles aimed, fingers steady on the triggers. The Team waited. 

 

            The silence was thick, stretching time like an iron chain. Then, in the distance, a dog barked—a sharp, startled sound that shattered the stillness. 

            And then, the first bullet came. 

            A sharp crack echoed as a muzzle flashed from a small window. The bullet hit the wall inches from Singh’s head, sending a shower of dust and debris into the air. Instinct took over. 

             "Take cover!" Singh roared as the Team scattered, diving behind whatever protection they could find. The firing intensified, bullets ricocheting off stone and wood, sending splinters flying. The terrorists knew that the army was here, and they were not planning to surrender. 

            Through the chaos, one could hear the distinct bursts of an AK-47—short, controlled, desperate. The team’s rifles responded in unison, hammering the walls of the house, forcing the men inside to retreat from the windows. 

            "Sniper, get the window," Singh commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. 

        Our designated marksman, Naik Hardeep, took position behind an overturned cart, adjusting his scope. His breath was slow, measured. A second later, his rifle cracked, and the window shattered as a bullet found its mark. 

            One is down. 

            The firing from inside momentarily ceased, replaced by the anguished cry of a wounded man. But the fight wasn’t over. 

            From the back of the house, a door burst open. Two figures darted out, moving fast, rifles clutched in their hands. They were making a run for the tree line. 

            "Cut them off!" Singh ordered. 

            The Team moved instantly. Two of the team men shifted position, their rifles tracking the fleeing figures. A burst of gunfire split the air, and one of the terrorists stumbled, his body twisting before collapsing into the dirt. The other kept running, bullets whizzing past him. 

            Then, a sharp cry was listened from our side. 

            "Lakhan was hit!" 

            Balwinder turned to see one of our men, Sepoy Lakhan, clutching his leg, blood seeping through his uniform. He had taken a bullet to the right thigh, and his face was contorted in pain. 

            "Keep pressure on it!" someone shouted as two men pulled him behind cover. 

            But there was no time to slow down. The last terrorist had made it to the alley between the houses, disappearing into the shadows. Balwinder followed, his rifle raised, heart pounding in his chest. 

        The alley was narrow, the scent of damp earth mingling with gunpowder. Balwinder moved cautiously, his ears straining for any sound. Then, the faintest shuffle of boots on dirt. 

                Before he could react, a figure lunged from the darkness, a knife glinting in his hand. 

            Balwinder barely had time to raise his rifle before the terrorist was on him. His weight slammed into Balwinder’s  chest, knocking him backward. They  hit the ground hard, Balwinder’s weapon slipping from his grasp. His knife came down, but Balwinder caught his wrist, muscles straining against his desperate force. His eyes were wild, filled with a mix of fury and fear. 

            With a sharp twist, Balwinder forced his wrist back, the knife dropping from his grip. Using the momentum, Balwinder rolled, pinning the terrorist beneath him. His hand found Balwinder’s sidearm, and before he could react, Balwinder pressed the barrel against his temple. 

            For a brief moment, he stared at Balwinder, his chest heaving. Then, in a final act of defiance, he spat, his lips curling into a twisted smile.  

            A single gunshot ended it. The alley fell silent once more. 

          When Balwinder emerged, Singh was already tending to our other injured man—Lance Naik Raghav, who had taken a bullet to the left shoulder. His uniform was slick with blood, but he was breathing, his jaw clenched against the pain. 

            "All clear?" Singh asked, his eyes searching Balwinder. 

           "All clear," Balwinder nodded, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours. 

            The battle had ended. Three terrorists neutralized. Two of our own wounded but alive. The village, which had stood in eerie silence before the encounter, was now even quieter, the weight of war settling into its bones once more. 

            As the Team secured the area, waiting for evacuation, Singh sat beside Lakhan, who was gritting his teeth against the pain. 

            "You’ll be back on your feet in no time," Singh assured him, squeezing his shoulder. 

            Lakhan managed a weak smile. "Next time, I’m wearing a steel plate on my leg." 

            A chuckle rippled through the team, a brief moment of levity amidst the violence. 

            The stars had emerged above them, indifferent to the bloodshed below. And as the cool wind swept through the valley, they knew that tonight would be another memory added to the ever-growing collection—a reminder that in the fog of war, there were no victors, only survivors.

Adani Profits as India Relaxes Border Security for Energy Park

The Indian government’s decision to relax national security protocols along the Pakistan border for a renewable energy project has sparked controversy, particularly due to the project’s allocation to billionaire Gautam Adani’s conglomerate, the Adani Group. The move, which has raised concerns among military experts and opposition leaders, highlights the intricate nexus of business, politics, and national security.

The Adani Group is constructing the Khavda renewable energy park in Gujarat, touted as the world’s largest such project. While this aligns with India’s renewable energy ambitions, the project has come under scrutiny for its strategic location—a mere kilometer from the India-Pakistan border. The decision to ease security measures to facilitate the project has drawn sharp criticism, with defense analysts questioning the implications for national security.

Official documents reveal that before April 2023, Gujarat officials lobbied the central government, urging amendments to defense protocols to enable large-scale solar and wind energy installations in the Rann of Kutch, a region with a history of military conflict between India and Pakistan. Previously, defense guidelines restricted significant infrastructure development within 10 kilometers of the border. However, following a confidential meeting in April 2023, attended by senior military officials and government representatives, the defense ministry relaxed these restrictions. The decision was formalized by May 2023, not only for the India-Pakistan border but also for territories adjoining Bangladesh, China, Myanmar, and Nepal.

Military experts have raised alarms about the repercussions of placing a key energy asset so close to the border. Colonel (Retd.) Ajai Shukla, a defense analyst, has warned of the strategic risks, stating that compromising border defense protocols for commercial gains places an additional burden on the military. Senior officers have expressed concern over how the army would mobilize forces in the event of an incursion, especially given past hostilities in the Rann of Kutch. Some have even questioned the claim by developers that solar panels could act as deterrents against enemy tanks.

The sequence of events leading to the project’s allocation to Adani also raises eyebrows. Initially, the 230 sq km land parcel closest to Pakistan was allotted to Solar Energy Corporation of India (SECI), a state-run enterprise. However, in May 2023, under the chairmanship of Renewable Energy Minister R.K. Singh, SECI was encouraged to surrender the land, citing a lack of commercial viability. By July, SECI returned the land to the Gujarat government, unaware that border protocols had been amended to make it significantly more valuable. However, the Adani Group, having been informed of the relaxed regulations, expressed interest in acquiring the land just weeks before SECI’s surrender.

By August 2023, the Gujarat government, under BJP Chief Minister Bhupendra Patel, reassigned 255 sq km of land to the Adani Group. This, combined with an earlier lease of 190 sq km, brought the company’s total landholding in Khavda to 445 sq km—an area larger than Paris. The project is expected to generate 30GW of renewable energy, making it central to India’s green energy transition. Among its anticipated clients is Google.

The Adani Group has refuted allegations of preferential treatment, asserting that its land allocation followed due process and regulatory compliance. In a statement, the conglomerate maintained that its credentials and past performance in India’s renewable sector justified its selection.

However, opposition leaders have accused the Modi government of crony capitalism, alleging that it has repeatedly favored Adani, particularly in Gujarat. Rahul Gandhi, leader of the opposition, accused Modi of shielding Adani from scrutiny and claimed that the billionaire had undue influence over India’s economic and political landscape. The controversy deepened in November 2023 when U.S. authorities indicted Adani and his executives for allegedly orchestrating a $265 million bribery scheme to secure lucrative solar energy contracts in India. The indictment, which linked several corrupt deals to the Khavda plant, led to financial setbacks for Adani. The Andhra Pradesh government is now reconsidering a 7GW power purchase agreement with Adani, while French energy giant TotalEnergies has suspended further investment in the conglomerate.

The political fallout extended to India’s Parliament, where opposition leaders demanded answers regarding the land acquisition process, the relaxation of border protocols, and allegations of corruption. Despite repeated calls for an inquiry, the Modi government has remained silent on the matter, fueling suspicions of high-level collusion.

The controversy surrounding the Khavda energy park underscores the broader debate over the intersection of corporate interests, political influence, and national security. While India’s push for renewable energy is essential for its economic and environmental goals, the decision to override long-standing defense protocols in favor of a private conglomerate raises fundamental questions about governance and accountability. As military experts continue to voice concerns over the strategic implications, and opposition leaders intensify their criticism, the Khavda project remains a focal point of India’s evolving political and economic landscape.

Tycoon Profited After India Relaxed Border Security Rules For Energy Park

Exclusive: Military experts raise concerns over change to protocols on Pakistan border to allow project that was handed to billionaire Gautam Adani.

The Indian government relaxed national security protocols along the Pakistan border to make way for a renewable energy park, a project ultimately handed to one of India’s richest men, Gautam Adani, official documents reveal.

The Adani Group is constructing the Khavda plant, the largest renewable project in the world, in the state of Gujarat. The conglomerate is controlled by Adani, whose close relationship with the prime minister, Narendra Modi, has recently been under intense scrutiny.

In November, the US government charged the billionaire with fraud for his alleged involvement in a multimillion-dollar bribery scheme involving renewable power from the Khavda complex. He has denied the claims.

The Adani Group has dominated India’s growing green energy sector and Khavda is at the heart of the conglomerate’s ambitions for renewable energy. The plant is seen as sufficiently important to India’s energy self-reliance and renewable pledges for it to be launched by Modi himself in 2020.

Now, national security concerns have been raised over the project after private communications and confidential government minutes seen by the Guardian showed the defence ministry amended security protocols on behalf of developers to make sensitive territory on the India-Pakistan border commercially viable.

The Adani Group is constructing solar panels and wind turbines 1km (0.6 miles) from the border with Pakistan in the Rann of Kutch, on land leased out by the government of Gujarat. The Rann of Kutch was targeted in past India-Pakistan conflicts and is adjacent to Sir Creek, a disputed territory with Pakistan. The two countries have gone to war four times.

Previous national defence protocols did not allow any major construction beyond existing villages and roads up to 10km from the border with Pakistan, preventing any large-scale installation of solar panels.                       

But documents show that the Gujarat government, which is controlled by Modi’s Bharatiya Janata party (BJP), lobbied at the highest levels for the protocols to be relaxed to make land in the Rann of Kutch available for both solar and wind construction.

According to official communications, a letter was written prior to April 2023 by Gujarat officials to the prime minister’s office, requesting the matter be raised with the ministry of defence.

A confidential government meeting was then convened in Delhi on 21 April 2023 to discuss the solar proposal from the Gujarat government. It was attended by the director general of military operations and officials from Gujarat and from the ministry of renewable energy.

“Apprehensions” around the implications of solar panels for tank mobilisation and security surveillance along the international border were raised by senior military officials, according to the confidential minutes of the meeting. However, the developers gave assurances “that solar platforms would be adequate in mitigating any threats from enemy tank movements”.

Other requests made by military officials for adjustments to solar panel size were rejected by developers on the basis they were not “financially viable”.

At the end of the meeting, the defence ministry agreed with a “mutual consensus” to allow for solar panels and wind turbines to be built as close as 1km to Pakistan, in order to make the land economically viable for renewable energy. 

By 8 May 2023, the Modi government had formalised this decision. A notification was issued to all ministries confirming a relaxation of the guidelines around infrastructure development, which applied not only on the India-Pakistan border, but also on land adjoining Bangladesh, China, Myanmar and Nepal. It signalled a significant alteration in India’s strategic posturing along its entire volatile border.

Military experts have raised concerns about the security implications of the decision to relax the border regulations and build one of India’s most valuable private energy assets so close to Pakistan.

Ajai Shukla, a retired Indian army colonel and defence analyst, said: “It is strategically unwise to create a hybrid wind and solar power generation asset within easy striking distance of the India-Pakistan border.

“By changing border defence norms and protocols to make cheaper land available for commercial exploitation, the military is effectively taking on even more expansive defence responsibilities for private commercial benefit.”

According to a senior serving officer, the policy change was met with surprise and concern among army ranks. The Guardian understands that senior army officials overseeing operations in the area were not consulted about the decision.

Two senior officers, who were not authorised to speak to the media, questioned how the military could mobilise in the event of any security threat or incursion from Pakistan, as has taken place in the Rann of Kutch in the past.

“What happens if there is the need to lay mines, anti-tank and anti-personnel? What about the concept of space and surprise in offensive and defensive operations?” asked one officer.

Another questioned the assurance given by developers that solar panels would be enough to stop enemy tanks. “We have compromised the professional requirements to defend Indian territory,” he said.

How the deal was done

At the time that the meeting in Delhi was convened in April 2023, the 230 sq km (90 sq miles) of land closest to Pakistan had been allotted to a state-run enterprise, Solar Energy Corporation of India (SECI). But by August, after the ministry of defence agreed to relax the border rules – making the land 10 times more valuable for renewable construction – it was in the hands of the Adani Group.

Confidential communication states that SECI was encouraged to “surrender” the land at a meeting chaired by Modi’s renewable energy minister, RK Singh, in early May. SECI handed back the land to the Gujarat government in a letter dated 17 July 2023, clearly stating it had not been made aware of beneficial changes to border protocols and maintaining it was not “commercially viable”.

The Adani Group, however, had been informed. Two weeks before SECI had agreed to give up the land, the company wrote to Gujarat officials expressing interest in acquiring it, in light of the “revised” border protocols, in a letter seen by the Guardian.

It was a Gujarat government committee, led by the BJP chief minister, Bhupendra Patel, that reallocated the land in August. Several state-run entities put in bids, but ultimately another 255 sq km was given over to the Adani Group, on top of the 190 sq km it had already leased.

The decision was highly lucrative for the Adani Group. Khavda now occupies 445 sq km, an area four times the size of Paris, and at its peak, the company claims the park will generate 30GW of renewable energy – enough to power entire nations such as Belgium, Chile or Switzerland. Google will be among its customers.

In a statement, an Adani spokesperson said: “We are fully compliant with all the state and central government laws and regulations and have secured all the necessary approvals from the relevant competent authorities.

“The land allocation for the project adheres to policy guidelines and is based on the credentials and performance of Adani Green Energy, India’s largest renewable energy company.”

The Indian government did not respond to request for comment.

Opposition politicians have repeatedly accused the Modi government, and BJP state governments, of entering into corrupt deals and favouring the Adani Group. This has been particularly prevalent in Adani’s home state of Gujarat, where the allegations go back decades to when Modi was chief minister. The Adani Group denies any special treatment by the Modi government.

In November, a US indictment accused Adani and his executives of involvement in an alleged scheme to pay $265m (£215m) in bribes to Indian government officials between 2020 and 2024 in an attempt to obtain lucrative solar energy supply contracts.

The majority of these “corrupt” deals cited by US investigators related to renewable energy that would allegedly be generated at Adani’s Khavda plant and sold to state governments at inflated prices.

The Andhra Pradesh state government is looking to cancel one of the biggest deals, to buy 7GW of solar power from Adani’s Khavda plant, while France’s TotalEnergies, which paid $444m for a stake in the project, said it was suspending all further investment in the conglomerate. The Adani Group has denied all allegations as “baseless” and said it was seeking all “possible legal recourse”.

In December, India’s parliament was brought to a standstill when Rahul Gandhi, the leader of the opposition, accused the prime minister of handing over the country to Adani.

“The prime minister is protecting Mr Adani and the prime minister is involved in corruption with Mr Adani,” said Gandhi. “Adani has hijacked India … The country is in Adani’s grip.”

Courtesy : The Guardian, 12^th Feb 2025

 

Dominique Strauss-Kahn and Nafissatou Diallo: A Scandal That Shook the World

On May 14, 2011, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, then the Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and a leading contender for the French presidency, was arrested in New York City. The arrest was based on allegations of sexual assault made by Nafissatou Diallo, a housekeeper at the Sofitel hotel. What followed was a legal and political storm that led to Strauss-Kahn’s resignation from the IMF and dramatically altered his political career. This article explores the scandal’s background, legal proceedings, public reaction, and its lasting impact.

 Dominique Strauss-Kahn: The Powerhouse of Global Finance

Dominique Strauss-Kahn (DSK), a French economist, lawyer, and politician, was widely regarded as one of the most influential figures in global finance. Born in 1949, he held several key positions in French politics, including Minister of Economy, Finance, and Industry. In 2007, he was appointed as the Managing Director of the IMF, where he played a crucial role in handling the global financial crisis.

By 2011, Strauss-Kahn was seen as a leading contender for the French presidency, with polls suggesting he could defeat incumbent Nicolas Sarkozy. His economic expertise and international reputation positioned him as a strong candidate. However, his political aspirations came to an abrupt halt due to the allegations made by Nafissatou Diallo.

Nafissatou Diallo: The Accuser

Nafissatou Diallo, a Guinean immigrant working as a housekeeper at the Sofitel New York, accused Strauss-Kahn of sexually assaulting her in his hotel suite on May 14, 2011. Diallo claimed that Strauss-Kahn had emerged naked from the bathroom and forced her into non-consensual sexual acts. She managed to escape and reported the incident to her supervisors, who then informed the authorities.

The Arrest and Initial Legal Proceedings 

Within hours of the alleged assault, Strauss-Kahn was apprehended at John F. Kennedy International Airport, where he was preparing to board an Air France flight to Paris. He was taken into custody by the New York Police Department (NYPD) and charged with multiple counts, including attempted rape, criminal sexual act, and unlawful imprisonment.

The case immediately captured global attention. Strauss-Kahn was denied bail initially, leading to his confinement at Rikers Island, a notorious New York City jail. His legal team, led by prominent attorneys Benjamin Brafman and William Taylor, vehemently denied the allegations, arguing that any sexual encounter was consensual.

The Media Frenzy and Public Reaction

The arrest of one of the world’s most powerful financial figures triggered an intense media frenzy. French and international press outlets covered the scandal extensively, with reactions divided between outrage and skepticism. In France, where attitudes toward personal and political scandals differ from those in the U.S., many viewed the arrest as a humiliation for Strauss-Kahn and questioned the American judicial system’s treatment of high-profile suspects.

The case also ignited debates about power, privilege, and gender dynamics. Supporters of Diallo framed the case as a fight for justice against an elite figure, while Strauss-Kahn’s defenders suggested that he was a victim of a political conspiracy or media overreach.

The Collapse of the Criminal Case

In July 2011, the criminal case against Strauss-Kahn began to unravel. Prosecutors from the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, led by Cyrus Vance Jr., raised concerns about Diallo’s credibility. They disclosed that she had provided inconsistent statements regarding her actions after the alleged assault. Additionally, she had misrepresented her background in asylum applications, which cast doubt on her reliability as a witness.

Although forensic evidence confirmed that a sexual encounter had taken place, the inconsistencies in Diallo’s account led the prosecution to drop the criminal charges in August 2011, stating that they could not prove the case beyond a reasonable doubt.

The Civil Lawsuit and Settlement 

Despite the dismissal of the criminal case, Diallo pursued a civil lawsuit against Strauss-Kahn, seeking damages for the alleged assault. Unlike a criminal case, a civil lawsuit requires a lower burden of proof, meaning that Diallo did not need to prove Strauss-Kahn’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt but only establish his liability based on a preponderance of evidence. 

In December 2012, Strauss-Kahn reached a financial settlement with Diallo, reportedly worth $1.5 million. While the settlement did not constitute an admission of guilt, it effectively ended the legal battle between the two parties.

Impact on Strauss-Kahn’s Career 

The scandal had profound consequences for Strauss-Kahn. Prior to his arrest, he was widely considered the frontrunner in the 2012 French presidential election. His downfall cleared the path for François Hollande to become the Socialist Party’s candidate and ultimately the President of France.

Strauss-Kahn resigned as IMF Managing Director on May 18, 2011, just days after his arrest. Although he attempted to re-enter public life in subsequent years, his reputation never fully recovered. He became involved in financial consulting and international economic forums but remained largely absent from French political life. 

The Broader Implications of the Scandal

The case had significant social and political ramifications. It highlighted the vulnerabilities of domestic workers, the complexities of prosecuting sexual assault cases, and the role of media in shaping public perceptions of justice.

• Power and Privilege.   The case underscored how powerful figures can sometimes evade justice due to legal technicalities, resources, and influence.

• Media Influence.  The extensive coverage played a crucial role in both condemning and defending Strauss-Kahn, shaping public opinion and the legal proceedings.

• Impact on Women’s Rights.   The scandal sparked discussions about workplace sexual harassment, particularly in industries where power imbalances are stark.

• French vs. American Legal Culture.  The case exposed differences in how France and the U.S. handle allegations of misconduct among political figures. While American media and legal systems acted swiftly, many in France saw the treatment of Strauss-Kahn as excessive and damaging to his dignity.

 Conclusion

The Dominique Strauss-Kahn and Nafissatou Diallo scandal was one of the most sensational legal and political sagas of the 21st century. It marked the dramatic fall of a powerful global figure, raised complex questions about justice, credibility, and media influence, and contributed to shifting attitudes toward sexual misconduct and power dynamics. While Strauss-Kahn’s political career was effectively over, the case remains a landmark moment in discussions about legal accountability for the elite and the broader fight against sexual violence.

  

Acknowledgements - A Soldier in the Fog

Writing A Soldier in the Fog has been a journey through the echoes of the past, reliving moments of valor, sacrifice, and survival. I extend my deepest gratitude to my fellow soldiers, whose unwavering courage and camaraderie shaped these stories. Their sacrifices deserve more than words can ever express.

I am especially thankful to my wife, Dalbir Kaur Bhullar, whose unwavering support and strength helped me navigate both the battlefield and life’s personal struggles. Her faith in me kept me going.

I also extend my heartfelt thanks to my friends, mentors, and readers who encouraged me to share these experiences. Their belief in the importance of these stories has been my motivation.

Lastly, I dedicate this book to every soldier who has walked through the fog of war, knowing that even in the darkest moments, the spirit of a warrior never fades.

Closing Chapter: A Soldier in the Fog

War is not just about guns, explosions, and enemy lines. It is an ever-present fog that shrouds a soldier’s life, a mist of uncertainty, fear, and moments that test the very fabric of human endurance. In the labyrinth of war, where death and survival often walk hand in hand, there exist stories—some written in blood, some etched in memory, and some too painful to be spoken aloud. The battlefield is not just a place of strategy and combat; it is a theater where every soldier plays a role that demands more than just physical strength. It demands an iron will, an unyielding spirit, and, at times, the acceptance of fate’s cruel hand.

As I sit back and reflect on my years in the service, the faces of those who walked with me through the fog of war come rushing back—some laughing, some screaming, some frozen in time. Every incident, every operation, and every moment of triumph or loss has shaped me in ways beyond comprehension. These stories are not just about war; they are about the humanity that exists within it—the moments of camaraderie, the depths of sacrifice, and the echoes of voices that never left me, even long after I stepped away from the battlefield.

The Steel Cup and the Unforgettable Bet

There are moments that seem insignificant to the world but become legendary in the lives of those who lived them. One such memory is tied to my steel cup—small in appearance but capable of holding far more than expected, much like a soldier’s endurance. When my dear friend Darshan Darvesh visited me during my posting at Army Headquarters in Delhi, I took him to our camp after duty. It was a Saturday evening, the time for our routine two pegs of rum.

Darshan, curious about army life, insisted on witnessing the distribution. I stood in line, and when my turn came, I made an unusual request—five pegs instead of two. The distributor laughed at my demand, but I placed my steel cup before him. "Try once," I challenged. Darshan, too, chuckled, shaking his head.

A wager was set. If the cup held all five pegs, I would win; if not, I would pay double. One by one, the pegs were poured in, and each time, the distributor peered inside with disbelief. When the fifth peg disappeared into the cup without spilling over, laughter erupted. The soldiers cheered, and Darshan could do nothing but shake his head, smiling at my triumph.

It was a simple bet, yet it remained with Darshan until his last days. He narrated the incident on many occasions, and I, too, never forgot the evening when a steel cup became a legend.

The Tral Trap and the Unseen Enemy

Not all memories are filled with laughter. Some are laden with the weight of close encounters with death. In Tral, where we were stationed, the enemy lurked not just in the shadows but often in plain sight.

One afternoon, around a hundred people from the town stormed towards us, shouting, "Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!" The scene was unsettling—not because of the protest, but because women led the march, with men hidden behind them. It was a well-orchestrated deception, meant to exploit the soldiers’ hesitation to attack women.

Our officers warned us to stand by, recognizing the possibility of a hidden threat. We did not retaliate, and after half an hour, the crowd dispersed without incident.

Two days later, the real plan was revealed when a grenade attack was launched on our vehicles. A one-ton truck was hit, but our soldiers managed to escape with minor injuries. Enraged, the men stormed into the streets, searching for the culprits. It was then that one of our soldiers identified the woman who had led the previous protest. She was dragged before the officer and interrogated.

Trembling, she revealed the truth—her family was under threat, and the protest had been staged under duress. The terrorists had been among the male group, blending seamlessly into the crowd. It was a revelation that reinforced the lesson we had learned time and again—war is not just fought with weapons; it is fought with deception, manipulation, and the ever-present fog of uncertainty.

The Crack Team’s Victory and the Miraculous Bullet

In another operation, our crack team was combing through a sensitive area, hunting down terrorists reported to be hiding in the region. As we neared a village, we were once again met with a familiar sight—women at the front, men behind, all shouting slogans.

Before we could react, a woman lunged at one of our guards, attempting to snatch his AK-47. In the struggle, a burst of bullets was fired, striking a man in the crowd. The woman fled, but her wrist was still in the soldier’s grasp. She was trembling as she revealed that the dead man was a terrorist.

Instead of confirming the kill ourselves, the officer ordered her to check. As she cautiously approached, the “dead” terrorist sprang to life and shot her in panic, mistaking her for one of us. In that split second, our officer gunned him down.

The villagers later disclosed that the woman had been his lover, and he had been hiding in her house for months. The bullet that found him amid the chaos was nothing short of miraculous—destiny’s way of delivering justice in the battlefield’s haze.

The Sandstorm and the Lost Soldiers

Sometimes, the enemy is not human. Sometimes, it is nature itself. During a war exercise in Rajasthan’s unforgiving deserts, a sudden sandstorm swallowed our camp in blinding fury.

A group of soldiers returning from the mess lost their way. In the desert, even a single misstep can turn into an irreversible detour. Unable to see beyond a few feet, they wandered aimlessly, inching closer to the international border without realizing it.

With no mobile phones in those days and no way to establish contact, they were at the mercy of fate. The rest of the crew, sensing something was wrong, used every possible means to locate them. After desperate attempts—shouting their names, flashing torches—the beam of a powerful searchlight finally pierced through the storm, guiding them home.

It was a reminder that, in war, survival does not always come from the barrel of a gun. Sometimes, it comes from sheer luck and the unwavering determination of one’s comrades.

The Engineer's Tragic End

Not all stories end in victory. Some leave behind scars too deep to heal.

One day, men from a nearby village approached our camp with grim news—a soldier’s body had been found in a ditch. When we arrived, we saw the horrifying truth.

The soldier, a Sikh from the engineering regiment, had been tortured before his death. His turban lay beside him, his uniform bore the insignia of his regiment, and his body was mutilated beyond belief. Two English letters—HM, for Hizbul Mujahideen—had been carved into his chest with nails. His penis had been severed.

We later learned that he had attempted to flee, having been denied leave. He had planned to change into civilian clothes along the way, but in his uniform, he had fallen into the hands of the terrorists.

I did not sleep for many nights after that. His suffering haunted me. War is brutal, but some acts of cruelty transcend even the battlefield.

The Pursuit of the Terrorist

In an operation in Tral, our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) encountered three terrorists, one armed with a rocket launcher. Unlike the well-trained fighters we had expected, they were cowards, relying on hit-and-run tactics.

A rocket was fired at us but missed. Our officer signaled, "Now we will get them down!" The rocket launcher wielder, perched on a rooftop, was eliminated instantly.

As we advanced, a villager silently pointed toward the remaining terrorists’ hideout. We waited, patience sharpening our edge. When the door finally creaked open, two men stepped out, scanning the surroundings. It was their last mistake.

One was shot down, but the other fled, firing backward as he ran. We needed him alive, and then, in an act of sheer madness, our soldier Som Bahadur Thapa from the Gorkha Rifles sprinted after him. Dropping his rifle mid-run, he lunged, tackling the terrorist like a tiger pouncing on prey.

It was a scene straight out of a movie, but we saw it unfold in reality. The officer, initially enraged at Thapa’s recklessness, broke into laughter upon seeing him sitting triumphantly atop the bound terrorist.

The Fog Never Lifts

Each of these stories, woven together by fate, is a testament to the life of a soldier. We fight in the fog of war, never knowing what awaits us. Sometimes, it is victory. Sometimes, it is tragedy. But always, it is the unwavering spirit of the soldier that carries us forward, through every battle, every storm, and every loss.

The fog never truly lifts. But perhaps, in remembering, we find our way through it.

Gorkha Regt Soldier

The mountains stood in eerie silence, their jagged peaks piercing the sky like ancient sentinels. The cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant gunpowder. Our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had received intelligence about three terrorists hiding in a far-flung village from our Tral camp. This was no ordinary mission. The enemy was reportedly equipped with a rocket launcher, a rarity among the militants we usually encountered. There was tension in the air, but also a grim determination.

As we moved in formation, our boots sinking into the moist forest floor, the sun had already begun its descent behind the mountains. The golden light cast long shadows, painting a hauntingly beautiful picture of the impending battle. Every step was taken with caution, every rustle of leaves scrutinized for danger. We had been trained for this—for the silent hunt, the deadly precision, and the chaos that was bound to follow.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion shattered the stillness. A rocket screeched through the air, missing us by a significant distance and striking the rocks far below. The blast echoed like thunder in the valley. The terrorists had fired first, but their lack of precision told us something vital—they were not as well-trained as they wanted us to believe.

Our team took their positions swiftly, identifying the source of the attack. The terrorists were positioned at a lower altitude from where we stood, a tactical disadvantage they seemed oblivious to. Our QRT in-charge, a battle-hardened officer, assessed the situation with the calm of a seasoned warrior. His voice was firm, unwavering.

"Now we will get them down!"

The order was clear, and the execution was immediate. The man handling the rocket launcher was spotted on the roof of a house, his head barely visible over the parapet. Without hesitation, our Light Machine Gun (LMG) operator took aim, his finger steady on the trigger. A controlled burst of gunfire cut through the air. The terrorist’s body jerked violently before he slumped forward, lifeless.

The rest of the team descended the mountainside with the stealth of panthers, using the thick vegetation as cover. We knew the other two terrorists were still inside, hiding like rats in a burrow. The village at the foot of the mountain was eerily silent, its mud houses standing as silent witnesses to the conflict.

As we reached flat ground, our eyes scanned the area carefully. A handful of houses stood clustered together, their wooden doors closed tight, their windows barely revealing the fear-stricken faces within. One of the villagers, an elderly man with sunken cheeks, dared to peek through his window. Our officer caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

The old man hesitated, then slowly raised his hand, pointing toward the house next door. His fingers trembled slightly, whether from fear or cold, we couldn’t tell.

Our officer signaled for absolute silence. We waited. The minutes stretched endlessly, each second a battle against impatience and the rush of adrenaline. Our fingers hovered over triggers, eyes locked on the door that stood between us and our prey.

Twenty-five minutes passed. Then, the wooden door creaked open.

Two figures emerged cautiously, their heads darting left and right like nervous animals surveying their surroundings. Finding no immediate threat, they stepped out, walking toward the left side of the alley.

Four of our soldiers were hidden in the darkness there, their rifles trained on the terrorists. Our team had clear orders—to capture at least one alive. The moment the terrorists came into range, the ambush was executed with textbook precision. A single shot took down one of them, his body collapsing with a dull thud onto the dirt path.

The remaining terrorist bolted forward with surprising agility, his AK-56 slung over his shoulder. He ran while firing blindly behind him, the bullets tearing through the air without aim or purpose. It would have been easy—too easy—to shoot him down. But orders were orders.

Then, in an act of reckless heroism, one of our own broke formation.

Som Bahadur Thapa, a fierce soldier from the Gorkha Rifles, launched himself into pursuit. The officer’s voice rang out in warning.

"Thapa, stop!"

But Thapa ignored the command. His legs pumped furiously, his breath coming in short bursts. The weight of his Self-Loading Rifle (SLR) was slowing him down. Without hesitation, he let go of the rifle mid-run, tossing it aside in favor of raw speed.

The terrorist, realizing he was being chased, increased his pace, weaving through the narrow alleys in desperation. But Thapa was relentless. His boots barely seemed to touch the ground as he closed the distance between them.

And then, in an act so audacious it belonged in a movie, Thapa leaped.

It was a sight that none of us would ever forget. He sprang forward like a frog, his body soaring through the air before colliding with the terrorist’s legs. The impact sent them both crashing to the ground, a cloud of dust rising around them.

The terrorist struggled, kicking and clawing, his hands reaching for his rifle. But Thapa was quicker. He twisted the terrorist’s arm behind his back, forcing him onto his stomach. In a swift motion, he snatched the man’s own turban from his head and used it to bind his wrists.

By the time we reached the scene, Thapa was sitting triumphantly atop the subdued terrorist, a wide grin splitting his dirt-streaked face.

Our officer, who had been furious moments ago, now stood shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"You madman," he muttered before breaking into a chuckle. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

Thapa simply shrugged. "But I didn't, sir. And we have him alive."

The terrorist lay beneath him, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with a mix of hatred and fear. He knew his fate was sealed.

As we secured the prisoner and regrouped, the significance of what had just happened settled in. The terrorists were not the fearless warriors they pretended to be. They relied on ambush tactics, on fear, on deception. But when faced with real combat, their courage crumbled like sandcastles before the tide.

We had won. Not just because of our weapons, but because of our training, our discipline, and the sheer audacity of a soldier who refused to let his prey escape.

That night, as we returned to camp, our victory felt like more than just another mission accomplished. It was a reminder that courage was not just about facing the enemy with a rifle in hand. Sometimes, courage was chasing a terrorist down with nothing but bare hands and the will to see the fight through to the end.

Engineering Regt. Soldier

 The wind carried a strange stillness that morning, a silence that felt unnatural, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. The men from Bona Devsar arrived at our camp with expressions that spoke of horrors before they even uttered a word. Their voices trembled as they explained that a body—a soldier’s body—was lying in a ditch not far from the village, a bag discarded nearby like an afterthought. The moment those words left their lips, a cold weight settled in my chest.

Havildar Major was immediately sent with a small contingent—four or five guards, no more. I was among them. As we moved through the rugged terrain, the morning mist clung to our skin like a shroud. There was no need for conversation; we knew what we would find would not be pleasant. The villagers led us in uneasy silence, their eyes darting around, afraid of who might be watching from the shadows.

And then we saw him.

He lay twisted in the ditch, his body contorted unnaturally as if he had fought against death itself. He was dressed in military uniform, the flaps on his shoulders unmistakably belonging to an engineering regiment. His hair, long and disheveled, revealed his Sikh identity, but his turban had been ripped from his head. It lay a few feet away, crumpled beside the bag he had tried to escape with.

I forced myself to move closer. His face was swollen, bruised beyond recognition, his hands stiff and curled as if they had once been clenched in agony. But nothing could prepare me for what I saw next.

A thick iron nail had been driven into his chest, deep enough to pin flesh to bone. It was not just an act of murder; it was a message. Two English letters—H M—were crudely carved into his skin, the mark of Hizbul Mujahideen. My stomach churned, and a cold fury coiled in my gut. These weren’t just men who killed; they were butchers, reveling in cruelty.

The horror did not end there. As we lifted his body carefully, our eyes fell upon another gruesome discovery. His genitals were missing. Cut off. Discarded somewhere like trash. It was a savagery beyond war, beyond hatred—it was a statement.

My hands trembled as I adjusted his uniform, attempting, in some small way, to restore the dignity that had been stripped from him. The guards remained silent, their faces pale, their jaws clenched so tight they might shatter.

Later, we pieced together the tragic truth.

He had been desperate to go home, but his leave had not been approved. Unable to bear the thought of staying, he had chosen to escape. He must have planned to remove his uniform along the way, to blend in with civilians before reaching safety. But the uniform betrayed him. It marked him, made him a target, and in a cruel twist of fate, delivered him into the hands of monsters.

For days after, I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his body in that ditch, his vacant eyes staring at nothing, his mouth slightly open as if he had died mid-scream. I imagined the fear he must have felt, the desperation in his final moments. The pain. The humiliation.

The earth had swallowed his screams, but I heard them still. And I knew I always would.

Lost in Desert

The desert was a vast, unending expanse of golden sand, stretching beyond the limits of sight. By day, it burned under the ruthless gaze of the sun, and by night, it shivered in the cold embrace of the wind. We were stationed deep in Rajasthan, engaged in a war exercise designed to test the limits of endurance, strategy, and survival. The tanks and armored vehicles were scattered across the dunes, their forms hidden under the deceptive layers of desert camouflage. At the heart of our temporary encampment was the mess tent, a beacon of warmth and nourishment amidst the stark emptiness.

Life in the desert had its own rhythm. The sand was relentless, slipping into boots, eyes, and even the cracks of rifles. Water was rationed carefully, every drop accounted for. Meals were collected from the mess in steel tiffins, carried back to the individual tents where the soldiers ate in quiet camaraderie.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the world in a molten glow, a group of soldiers from one of the tank crews set off toward the mess tent to collect their dinner. The air was still, almost too still, as if the desert itself was holding its breath. They chatted lightly, their laughter mingling with the faint clang of utensils in the mess.

Then, without warning, the storm came.

The wind howled like a living beast, tearing through the camp with furious intent. Sand lifted in great swirling clouds, turning the world into a thick, blinding fog of gold and brown. Within seconds, visibility was reduced to nothing. It was the kind of storm that stripped flesh raw, the fine grains of sand stinging like needles against exposed skin.

The soldiers, their tiffins filled with steaming food, instinctively ducked, shielding their eyes. The mess tent, once a comforting presence, disappeared behind the churning curtain of dust. The storm had swallowed the entire camp whole.

They tried to move forward, relying on instinct rather than sight. The desert was treacherous; one misstep, one wrong turn, and what should have been a short walk could stretch into an endless march. The wind distorted sound, making their shouts to each other seem distant and hollow.

Through sheer determination, they pressed on, believing they were walking toward their tents. But the desert played cruel tricks. Without visible landmarks, their sense of direction betrayed them. Unknowingly, they had veered off course, slipping past their own tents and into the unknown.

They walked for what felt like eternity, their boots sinking into the loose sand, their torches barely illuminating more than a few feet ahead. The food in their tiffins grew cold, but hunger was the least of their concerns. Fear began to creep in. The desert was a vast and indifferent master, and the international border was not far. To cross it unknowingly would mean stepping into a perilous unknown, where enemy patrols would not ask questions before opening fire.

Back at the camp, their crewmates waited. Initially, they thought nothing of the delay—perhaps the storm had slowed them down. But when an hour passed, unease settled like a heavy stone in their chests.

A wired telephone call to the mess confirmed their worst fears—the team had left the mess 45 minutes ago.

The camp came alive with urgency. Soldiers rushed out into the storm, their shouts swallowed by the roaring wind. They called their names, flashing torches wildly in every direction, their beams pitifully small against the vast darkness. No answer.

Panic threatened to creep in, but soldiers were not trained to succumb to it. They thought fast. A stronger searchlight was fetched—one powerful enough to cut through the suffocating haze of the storm.

The beam of light sliced through the fog of sand, its intense glare a beacon of hope. It moved in wide arcs, scanning the desert like an all-seeing eye. And then—there! A faint glimmer in the distance.

The lost soldiers, exhausted and disoriented, saw it too. The bright, unwavering light was unmistakable, standing like a lighthouse guiding lost sailors home. They turned, now certain of their direction, and with renewed energy, they stumbled forward, following the lifeline that had been cast for them.

Minutes later, shadowy figures emerged from the storm, covered in dust, their eyes red from the biting sand. They were pulled into the safety of the camp, their comrades clapping their backs, relief evident on every face.

The storm raged on, but inside the tents, where warm food awaited, the atmosphere was different. There were no grand speeches, no dramatic retellings—only quiet understanding. The desert had tested them, as it always did, but that night, they had won.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges. But for now, they were together, safe within the glow of flickering lanterns, soldiers in the fog who had found their way home.

Weapon Snatching incident

The morning mist curled around the high mountains like a restless spirit, shrouding the village in an eerie stillness. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, mingled with the faint scent of wood smoke drifting from unseen homes. The silence was deceptive—too quiet, too measured. It was the kind of silence that weighed heavy, a silence that knew something before anyone else did.

Our crack team moved cautiously, their boots crunching against the loose gravel as they navigated the rugged terrain. Information had come in—two terrorists were spotted in the area, moving through the shadows of the village that nestled like a secret in the valley. Every villager was a potential witness, but also a potential shield for the intruders. Experience had taught us to read faces, to find truth in hesitation and fear.

A shepherd, his turban pulled low over his forehead, shifted uncomfortably when asked about the strangers. His eyes darted toward the village, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing across his face. That was all the confirmation we needed.

The village was a cluster of mud-and-stone houses, their rooftops caving inward under the weight of time and hardship. As we reached the outskirts, a sudden movement caught our attention. From the narrow alleys emerged a group of villagers, their voices rising in a familiar chant—"Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!" The pattern was one we had seen before, in Tral. Women in the front, men in the background, their faces unreadable, their purpose clear.

Our officer-in-charge, standing tall amidst the tension, didn’t flinch. The soldiers guarding him moved instinctively, forming a protective barrier between him and the protestors. The air vibrated with a dangerous energy, like the static before a storm.

Then, it happened.

One of the women broke formation, stepping forward with quick, precise movements. Her hands lunged for the AK-47 of a nearby guard, her grip strong, her intent unmistakable. But the guard was no ordinary soldier—years of training had forged his reflexes into steel. He held firm, his fingers locked around the weapon. The struggle lasted only seconds, but in those seconds, the impossible happened.

A sudden crack of gunfire split the air.

The burst of bullets found their mark, and a man in the crowd staggered, his body convulsing as he crumpled to the ground. The woman gasped, her face twisting in shock as she tried to pull away. The villagers scattered like frightened birds, their chants dying in their throats. But the soldier’s grip was unrelenting. Her wrist remained caught in his iron hold.

The officer’s gaze locked onto her, cold and unyielding. "Who was he?" His voice carried no emotion, just the weight of command.

She trembled, her body betraying her. "He... he was a terrorist," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the ringing silence that followed the gunfire.

A lesser officer might have accepted her answer at face value. But not ours. He had learned from the mistakes of others, from stories that had ended in tragedy. The memory of Lt. Col. S.K. Razdan haunted many—how a terrorist, presumed dead, had risen like a specter and changed everything in a blink.

He turned to the woman, his expression unreadable. "Check him," he ordered.

Her eyes widened in terror. She shook her head, taking a small step back, but the soldier holding her did not let go. "Go," the officer repeated, his voice firm.

With reluctant, trembling legs, she moved toward the fallen man. Each step felt like a journey through fire, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She knelt beside him, her hands hovering hesitantly over his chest.

And then—

A flash of movement. A glint of metal.

The ‘dead’ man surged up, his pistol already raised.

The explosion of gunfire was deafening.

The woman barely had time to scream before the bullets tore through her. She collapsed, her blood staining the dust beneath her, eyes frozen in an expression of betrayal. The terrorist had mistaken her for one of us.

But the officer had been faster. His rifle spoke, a single shot cracking through the suffocating silence. The terrorist’s body jerked once before falling back, truly lifeless this time.

The air settled, thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. The villagers, peering cautiously from behind broken walls and half-closed doors, did not move.

Later, when the village elders finally emerged, their voices were hushed, their eyes cast downward. They confirmed what had already become evident—the woman had been the terrorist’s lover, his safe haven in this labyrinth of deception. For two months, he had moved like a ghost through these streets, hidden in plain sight, protected by her silence.

Yet, in the end, fate had played its hand. He had been standing among a crowd, shielded by chaos, but the bullets had found him. It was as if destiny itself had chosen that moment to tip the scales in our favor.

No injuries were reported on our side. No soldier had fallen. It was a rare thing, in war, to walk away unscathed.

That night, as the mist crept back into the valley, I thought of the woman, of the man who had clung to the illusion of invincibility until the very last breath.

War was never just about guns and grenades. It was about choices, about the weight of loyalty and the cost of silence. It was about the fog that blurred the lines between friend and foe, making everything uncertain—until, in a single gunshot, the truth was revealed. 

Tral Attack

The air in Tral always carried a certain weight, thick with the scent of damp earth and lingering gunpowder. The fog clung to the valley like an old, tattered cloak, swallowing everything beyond a few meters. It was a place where silence spoke in whispers of unseen dangers, and every shadow hid a potential enemy. Our battalion headquarters was set up in Tral Rest House, a building that bore scars of past violence—walls chipped away by bullets, windows shattered, leaving gaping holes like wounds refusing to heal. Our ‘D’ Company, along with another unit, was stationed on the outskirts of the town, near a sluggish canal that cut through the terrain like an old wound.

One afternoon, without warning, a large group of civilians emerged from the town, their voices rising in a rhythmic chant that echoed against the hills. "Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!"—a slogan we had heard before, one that reeked of provocation. But what caught us off guard was the composition of the crowd. At the forefront were women, their faces set with grim determination, their eyes filled with something between defiance and fear. Behind them, the men followed, silent, their expressions unreadable.

Our instincts bristled. This wasn’t a spontaneous protest—it was calculated. A trap, perhaps. Women leading meant they were counting on our hesitation, our reluctance to use force. But this was not the same battalion that had previously occupied Tral. We were Rashtriya Rifles—a composite force drawn from different regiments, hardened by conflict, trained not just in combat but in understanding the psychology of war.

Our officers observed keenly, warning the soldiers not to react impulsively. "Hold your positions. This could be a cover for something bigger. Watch the men in the back." Their voices were calm, but beneath the surface, tension ran like a taut wire.

For half an hour, the protesters continued their chants, waiting for a reaction that never came. And then, just as suddenly as they had arrived, they began to disperse. The women lowered their fists, turned on their heels, and walked back toward the town, their silent male counterparts following suit. No gunfire, no attack—just an eerie retreat into the mist.

Two days later, the real attack came.

As part of routine duty, a small convoy from our unit had to visit Tral Rest House daily to collect rations, soldiers' inland letters, and official orders. It was a predictable pattern—our Achilles’ heel in a place where predictability meant vulnerability. The terrorists knew exactly when and where we would be.

That morning, the valley was cloaked in a heavier fog than usual, swallowing the landscape in a murky grey. Our convoy—a single 1-ton truck—traveled along the narrow, uneven road leading to headquarters, its tires crunching over loose gravel. Birds took sudden flight from the rooftops, an ominous sign we had learned to recognize. And then, from above, the explosion.

A grenade, lobbed from the top of a house, arced through the mist like a burning ember before landing with a dull thunk onto the truck’s roof. There was barely a second between its landing and the deafening blast that followed. Flames erupted, shrapnel tearing through metal and flesh alike. Soldiers jumped from the vehicle just in time, rolling onto the dusty road as the truck rocked violently. Smoke curled into the sky, a black scar against the pale fog.

Chaos erupted. Civilians screamed, some running for cover, others frozen in place. The wounded driver groaned, gripping his bleeding arm, while the vehicle’s commander, his face streaked with soot, staggered out of the wreckage. Anger surged through our ranks like wildfire.

Our soldiers stormed into the house from where the grenade had been thrown, boots thudding against wooden stairs, rifles raised. But the enemy had vanished, leaving behind only an empty rooftop and the echo of our heavy breaths. Down on the street, amidst the scattering of frightened locals, one of our men’s eyes locked onto a familiar face—the woman who had led the protest two days ago.

She stood frozen, her hands trembling slightly, her eyes darting between us and the smoldering truck. Without hesitation, she was pulled from the crowd, her arm seized by a soldier whose rage simmered just beneath the surface. When our officer arrived, his uniform slightly dusted from the explosion, his patience had already worn thin.

"Who were they?" he demanded, his voice sharp as steel. "You knew them. You knew what they were planning."

Her lips quivered, but she did not cry. Fear and defiance waged war within her. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke. "My family is under threat. I did not want this."

Her words cracked the air like dry leaves underfoot. A confession, a plea, a betrayal all in one.

She revealed that the protest two days ago had been orchestrated under duress. The men who had walked silently behind the women were not just protesters—they were militants in disguise, blending into the crowd, studying our responses, setting the stage for an attack. The terrorists had been among them that day, lurking in the background, watching how we would react. They had counted on us letting our guard down, thinking it was just another demonstration. And when we hadn’t taken the bait, they had planned something far worse.

The truth landed like a punch to the gut. Our suspicions had been correct all along. The grenade attack wasn’t an act of random violence—it was a calculated strike, planned days in advance. And now, as the woman stood before us, a reluctant informant trapped between two sides, we faced a grim reality.

This war was not just fought with guns and bombs. It was fought in the minds of the people, in the silent coercion that turned civilians into shields, in the whispered threats that forced women to lead protests they did not believe in. It was a war of deception, of blurred lines, where enemy and victim often wore the same face.

As the fog thickened, wrapping Tral in its suffocating embrace, we realized something else—the true battle was not just in the streets but in the very hearts of those caught in between. And in that war, there were no easy victories. Only moments of clarity, brief and fleeting, before the mist swallowed them whole again.

Book Review: "Meena Kumari Ki Diary" (Transliterated in Punjabi by Joginder Pal Maan)

Introduction

"Meena Kumari Ki Diary", transliterated into Punjabi by Joginder Pal Maan and published by Kuknus Parkashan, Jalandhar, offers readers an intimate glimpse into the life of the legendary Bollywood actress Meena Kumari. Priced at ₹150, the 87-page paperback is a poignant collection of her personal thoughts, experiences, and struggles, revealing a stark contrast between her on-screen glamour and real-life sorrows.

Through her diary, Meena Kumari unfolds the lesser-known chapters of her life—her childhood, love affair and marriage with Kamal Amrohi, her father’s objections, and the heartbreaking decisions she had to make. More importantly, the diary sheds light on the physical and emotional wounds she endured, including the tragic incident of losing her fingers, which she tried to conceal during film shoots. The diary also touches upon her fondness for Dharmendra and an instance where, despite being a renowned actress, she found herself unable to financially help a girl in need.

Joginder Pal Maan’s transliteration allows Punjabi readers to experience Meena Kumari’s raw emotions in their own language, making this diary a valuable literary addition.

A Star’s Journey: From Dreams to Despair

The diary provides an account of Meena Kumari’s childhood, marked by struggles and dreams of a better future. Born Mahjabeen Bano, she was pushed into films at a tender age due to her family's financial hardships. Despite achieving superstardom, her diary reveals how she remained a fragile, lonely soul burdened with emotional turmoil.

One of the most significant portions of the diary revolves around her love for Kamal Amrohi. Their relationship was filled with passion but also rife with complications. Her father strongly opposed their marriage, and she eventually left her parental home without permission to be with Amrohi. This act of rebellion speaks volumes about her determination to carve her own destiny, even if it came at a heavy price.

However, marriage did not bring her the happiness she had hoped for. Amrohi’s possessiveness and the restrictions he imposed led to further isolation. The diary unveils the pain she endured behind closed doors—her sense of suffocation despite being deeply in love.

The Hidden Pain: A Tragic Incident with Lifelong Consequences

One of the most shocking revelations in the diary is the incident in which Meena Kumari lost the fingers of her hand. Although she tried to keep this hidden from the public eye, it was a wound that went beyond the physical—it was a deep scar on her soul. The diary does not merely recount the event but also highlights how she coped with it in her personal and professional life.

While watching her films, audiences were mesmerized by her graceful performances, unaware of the fact that she carefully positioned her hands to hide her missing fingers. This incident is symbolic of her life as a whole—always concealing her pain beneath an elegant facade.

Loneliness in the Midst of Stardom

Despite being one of the most celebrated actresses of her time, Meena Kumari’s diary reveals her profound loneliness. Stardom came with its own set of challenges, and while the world admired her for her beauty and talent, few understood the emptiness she carried within.

One particularly heart-wrenching entry describes an incident at a film studio when a struggling girl asked Meena Kumari for financial help. The actress was helpless—she had only ₹15 in her purse. This moment of helplessness left a lasting impact on her, highlighting the stark contrast between public perception and personal reality. People assumed she lived a life of luxury, but in truth, she often found herself trapped in financial and emotional constraints.

Her Affection for Dharmendra

The diary also sheds light on Meena Kumari’s affection for Dharmendra. While their relationship has been the subject of speculation, her writings reveal an emotional connection beyond what the media portrayed. She admired Dharmendra’s simplicity and kindness, and their bond provided her a rare sense of comfort.

However, Meena Kumari’s life was never free from sorrow. The diary suggests that while she may have found solace in Dharmendra’s company, happiness always seemed to elude her. It is evident that she longed for genuine love and companionship, something she rarely found despite the adoration of millions.

A Different Perspective: Meena Kumari Beyond the Silver Screen

"Meena Kumari Ki Diary" is not just a collection of personal notes; it is a mirror reflecting the struggles of a woman trapped between stardom and solitude. Through her own words, Meena Kumari comes across as more than just a tragic heroine of Indian cinema—she is a vulnerable, complex individual searching for love, respect, and peace.

Joginder Pal Maan’s Punjabi transliteration does justice to the emotional depth of her writings. He maintains the rawness of her words, ensuring that her pain, longing, and reflections remain as impactful as they were in the original diary. The simplicity of the language makes it accessible to a wide range of readers, particularly those who may not have engaged with her life beyond her films.

Conclusion

"Meena Kumari Ki Diary" is an essential read for anyone interested in understanding the real Meena Kumari—the woman behind the melancholic eyes and poetic dialogues. It offers an unfiltered glimpse into her joys, disappointments, and innermost thoughts.

Joginder Pal Maan’s effort in bringing this diary to Punjabi readers is commendable, as it allows a new audience to connect with one of Bollywood’s most enigmatic figures. This book is not merely a diary; it is a testimony to a life lived in contradictions—adored by millions yet abandoned by happiness.

For those who have admired Meena Kumari on screen, this diary serves as a reminder that behind the cinematic brilliance was a soul yearning for love, acceptance, and peace. Her words continue to resonate, long after the lights of the studio have dimmed.