Some nights the past returns - not as regret, but as rehearsal for strength
The sniper’s bullet in Bona Devsar had not just shattered a window, it had pierced the silence of sleep for nights to come. Three days had passed since that jarring shot, but the echoes hadn’t faded; they had simply travelled inward. I lay in my tent, wide-eyed and unmoving, hearing the wind murmur through canvas like distant commands from forgotten drills. But insomnia didn’t always descend from terror. Sometimes, sleeplessness became a badge of honour, a rehearsal space where strength was reassembled from memory. That night, the fog outside mirrored the fog within, and into that haze wandered an old, forgotten ache in my back: the gravel rolls from Ahmednagar. Pain has a strange compass, it often points us to where our true spine was first forged.
The incident had etched itself into my mind, the echo of the bullet and the shattering of glass replaying in terrifying clarity. As I lay in my sleeping bag, my face turned toward the dimly lit tent, my eyes traced the triangular roof above me. The sharp edges of the canvas seemed to form shifting patterns in the low light, mirroring the restless memories swirling in my mind. The silence of the night was heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind against the tent flaps and the distant hum of the generator. It was a night that seemed to stretch endlessly, each minute dragging like an hour.
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. In the silence of that sleepless night, I found myself reliving those moments, the memories vivid and alive.
Training in the Automotive Regiment was a whirlwind of activity, filled with the buzz of engines, the clang of machinery, and the sharp, commanding voices of our superiors. It was grueling, but it was also exhilarating. Amidst the rigorous schedule came an announcement that sparked excitement and hope: an inter-regiment basketball tournament. Basketball had been my passion since childhood, a love that had carried me through the challenges of basic training and earned me a place on the Automotive Regiment team.
The days leading up to the tournament were a blur of practice sessions. My specialty was the straight throw, a skill I had honed over countless hours on the court. During the tournament, though we didn’t emerge victorious, my technique earned respect and admiration from both players and spectators. The memory of that applause, the energy of the game, still brought a smile to my face, even on nights like this.
The week of the tournament was a whirlwind, and we were granted a rare privilege: tank training was postponed until 10 a.m. each day to accommodate our practice sessions. It was a welcome reprieve, a chance to immerse ourselves in the game without the usual demands of our training schedule.
One morning, after an intense practice session, a group of us decided to relax in the stadium shed instead of returning to the barracks. The shed was a shady refuge, a cool shelter under the scorching sun. From there, the road leading to the regimental gate was clearly visible. We sprawled on the floor, some chatting idly, others drifting into light naps. The camaraderie between us was palpable, a shared sense of purpose and solidarity unique to soldiers in training. But we were blissfully unaware that our decision to rest there, instead of in the barracks, had not gone unnoticed.
An officer passing by saw us, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than usual before he moved on. We thought nothing of it at the time, oblivious to the storm brewing on the horizon. When we returned to the barracks, we were abruptly stopped. Our Regimental Dafedar Major, a towering figure whose voice could silence an entire parade ground, was waiting for us. His expression was stern, his eyes scanning each of us with an intensity that made my heart sink.
“What were you doing in the stadium?” he demanded, his voice sharp and cutting. There was a despair in his tone that stung more than anger.
We remained silent, knowing full well that we had lapsed in discipline, breaking the strict code that defined military life. Our punishment was immediate and severe: we were to walk in front of our barracks for an hour with backpacks full of gravel, performing two front rolls on one side and two on the other. The weight of the gravel pressed heavily on our spines, each step a struggle. Getting up after every front roll was an ordeal, our backs threatening to buckle under the strain.
The punishment was brutal, but it was more than just physical exertion. It was a lesson in discipline, responsibility, and the importance of adhering to the rules. The military was not just about individual excellence; it was about collective effort, about every soldier upholding the values that defined the regiment.
Lying in my sleeping bag, staring at the tent roof, the memory of that morning felt both distant and immediate. I could almost feel the weight of the backpack, hear the harsh commands of the Dafedar Major. The memory of that punishment, though painful, brought a sense of clarity and strength. It reminded me of the resilience I had built during those early days of training, a resilience that had carried me through countless challenges since.
As the night wore on, the echoes of the sniper shots began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of my memories. The past and present blended together, each experience a thread in the fabric of my journey. I thought about the lessons I had learned, the bonds I had forged, and the trials I had overcome. The sleeplessness that had once been a source of frustration now felt like a testament to my growth, a reminder of how far I had come.
I didn’t know when I finally fell asleep, but when I awoke, the morning light was streaming through the tent flaps. The camp was already alive with activity, the sounds of soldiers preparing for the day ahead filling the air. I lay there for a moment, savoring the quiet before the storm, before rising to face whatever challenges the day might bring.
The memory of that sleepless night stayed with me, a reminder of the resilience and determination that defined my journey. It was a testament to the strength of the human spirit, to the ability to find clarity and purpose even in the midst of chaos. And as I stepped out into the morning light, I knew that I was ready -,ready to face the fog of war, the uncertainty of the future, and the endless nights that lay ahead.
The gravel once crushed me, but it taught me to walk with a spine unbent, even through the fog.
The gravel that jarred our backs became the forge of our resolve. Pain, like the terrain, was unyielding, but so were we. What didn’t break us carved steel into our souls, one silent scream and clenched jaw at a time.
Some nights turn your body into a diary. Gravel wrote its lessons into my spine, and the punishment that once seemed cruel became a watermark of identity, etched deeper than ink or insignia. But that was only the prelude. In Ahmednagar, beneath the shadow of Nehru’s forgotten fort, initiation was more than a drill, it was a firewalk for the soul. As I now prepare to share that midnight memory, I realise that tank-driving wasn’t about mastering steel beasts; it was about mastering yourself in their roaring belly. The story of that initiation, and what unfolded one eerie night under a coal-dusted sky, is a tale unto itself - one of fear, fire, and the strange, prophetic dream that haunted me ever since.
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