Boot Polish and Blood in the Valley

Sometimes, the day begins with laughter... and ends in silence.

             The scent of inked pages and platform chai hadn’t quite faded from memory when I returned to Bona Devsar, boots on ground, brush in hand, the war never too far from the doorstep. The laughter from Jacob’s boot-chase seemed almost misplaced in this valley where even joy felt like a borrowed moment. But that’s the soldier’s curse - we carry yesterday’s love, today’s duties, and tomorrow’s fears in the same rucksack. Somewhere between jokes and drills, the valley whispered again. This time, not through bullets, but through a man who dared to speak in ideologies when silence was safer.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

            The Bona Devsar camp sat at the edge of the valley, where the mountains loomed like silent sentinels, casting long, shifting shadows across the landscape. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, carried an eerie stillness that only a soldier in a conflict-ridden zone could truly understand. 

             By day, the camp was a flurry of disciplined movements - soldiers training, vehicles rumbling in and out, intelligence officers piecing together the intricate web of terror networks. By night, it was different. The darkness felt heavier, the wind whispering in hushed tones as if it carried secrets. 

            While the regiment went on operations when I was not part of them, I often found a brief respite from the chaos by sitting at the Main Gate of the camp for half an hour. It was during these moments of stillness that I first met Ghulam Rasool Dar, a frail-looking, middle-aged man who carried himself with an air of quiet defiance. 

             Dressed in a simple pheran, a woolen cap pulled low over his forehead, and eyes that flickered with intelligence, he was an anomaly in the village. Terrorism was at its peak, and yet he called himself ‘Comrade’, title that, in those times, could get a man killed. 

             I often wondered how he had managed to survive this long in a place where mere suspicion was enough for a death sentence. 

             "Maybe the terrorists think why waste a bullet on a man who can’t dig out a mountain?" I thought.

             The first time we spoke, he had approached me cautiously, hands folded behind his back, the wind playing with the loose ends of his pheran. 

             "You sit here every day, soldier," he observed. 

             "And you walk past here every day, Comrade," I replied with a smile. 

             He chuckled softly, his laughter barely audible over the rustling leaves. There was something intriguing about him - his demeanor, his unshaken confidence despite living under the shadow of death. 

             One day, curiosity got the better of me. 

             "Uncle! Why do you call yourself Comrade?"  He stiffened, his expression momentarily unreadable. Then, his lips curled into a knowing smile. 

             "Don’t call me ‘Uncle’, soldier. Call me ‘Comrade’," he said calmly, his voice steady. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he was a little shaken out of his mind, but as I observed him, I realized perhaps he was not. 

             I leaned in slightly. "Then tell me, Comrade, why do you call yourself that?" 

             He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "Because members of the Communist Party address each other as Comrade, it signifies equality, fraternity, and ideological commitment. It reflects the spirit of collective struggle against capitalism and social injustice. Whether it’s a worker or a leader, we are all the same in this fight." 

             His words carried a passion that was rare in these parts. I was intrigued. 

             "But Comrade, there are many communist parties in India," I pointed out. 

            He smiled, the lines on his face deepening. "You have a lot of information… and you want more!" 

             I shrugged. "I want to know why they exist separately." 

             "The CPI was the first communist party in India," he began, his voice steady, almost professorial. "It played an important role in labour movements, peasant struggles, and national politics. My ideology aligns with this party." 

             I nodded. "Then how did the other parties come into being?" 

             "Ideological differences. In 1964, the CPI split, leading to the formation of CPI (Marxist), which later ruled West Bengal for over three decades." 

             "And the others?" 

             His expression darkened slightly. "The CPI (ML) Liberation emerged from the Naxalite movement, focusing on radical peasant struggles and armed revolution. Then there are the Maoist and Naxalite factions, including the Communist Party of India (Maoist), which is actively involved in an armed struggle against the state." 

             Before I could ask anything more, my wireless radio crackled to life. A message from the office, duty called. 

             "I’ll see you another day, Comrade," I said, standing up. 

             He nodded. "The struggle never ends, soldier. You’ll have more questions, and I will have more answers." 

             A few days later, I saw him again. The air that evening was colder than usual, as if the mountains knew something I didn’t. 

             I found him sitting on a stone bench near the camp's entrance, staring at the road that led out of the village. 

            "You look troubled today, Comrade," I observed. 

             He exhaled slowly, his breath forming a ghostly mist in the cold air. "Soldier, tell me, do you ever feel like a mere pawn in someone else's war?" 

              I was caught off guard. "We serve the nation, Comrade. We fight to protect." 

             He nodded. "But at what cost?" 

             Silence stretched between us. I decided to shift the conversation, "What is the real agenda of your party?" I asked. 

             For the first time, he hesitated. His fingers traced invisible patterns on the bench, "Advocating labour rights, land reforms, state-controlled industries, nationalization, and redistribution of wealth. Opposing capitalism, foreign influence on our economy and polity… and many more things," he said, his voice quieter than usual. 

             Then, without another word, he stood up and walked away. 

             I watched him go, a strange unease settling over me.  Three days later, as I was sipping my evening tea, a fellow soldier rushed in. His face was grave. 

             "You remember that man… that Comrade you spoke to?" he asked.  A chill ran down my spine. "Yes. What happened?" 

             He swallowed hard. "He was found dead in Kulgam today. Shot multiple times. The terrorists suspected him of being an army informer." 

             I felt as if the earth had been pulled from under my feet. The cup in my hands trembled. "Why… Why would they think that?" 

             "Who knows?" The soldier shook his head. "Suspicion is enough for them." 

             I sat there for a long time, staring at the rising mist beyond the camp walls. It wasn’t just his answers that were lost that day - it was a life, a mind, a soul that had dared to think differently. 

             Ghulam Rasool Dar had fought a silent war of ideology in a place where wars were fought with bullets, not beliefs. 

            And in the end, the fog of war had swallowed him whole.  That night, as I stood at the gate once more, the wind carried whispers of his voice. 

             "The struggle never ends, soldier." 

             But for him, it had. 

             And all that remained was the silence.

 

In a land where bullets silence belief, a man who spoke in ideas died without a whisper.

             A week later, our 2IC summoned me with a register clutched in his calloused hand and gravity in his voice. “This book will hold names,” he said, “of those we’ll face… and those we may lose.” I didn’t know then that the ink I’d pour into that register would dry barely before blood stained the valley again. The pages were meant to document the enemy - but by the time the operation ended, they’d also echo the requiem of the very hand that assigned me the task. The fog was thickening again, this time not around borders, but around grief.