“Some places don’t just test your training - they test your faith, breath by breath.”
Some nights mark the end of innocence, others the beginning of war. What began as a fog-drenched misadventure in Chitra Gali would, within months, be overshadowed by a far more sinister fog - one not perfumed by mujra melodies, but heavy with gunpowder and uncertainty. That reckless night taught me that danger wears many disguises. But nothing - absolutely nothing - prepared me for the silent terror of Tral. The frivolity of forbidden escapades in Ahmednagar soon gave way to the relentless reality of counter-insurgency, where the battlefield was no longer bars and brothels, but valleys and villages where shadows shot back.
The creation of the Rashtriya Rifles (RR) in 1990 marked a pivotal moment in India’s counter-insurgency efforts. It was a force born out of necessity, a response to the growing insurgency in Jammu and Kashmir that demanded a unique approach. Unlike conventional warfare, where the enemy is visible and the battlefield defined, counter-insurgency is a shadow war. The enemy is invisible, blending seamlessly into the fabric of everyday life, and the battlefield is everywhere - the streets, the markets, the homes. This was the reality I confronted when I was transferred from the Armoured Corps to the newly formed Rashtriya Rifles in the twilight years of my service. It was a transition that filled me with both excitement and trepidation. I was finally going to war, but this was a war unlike any I had trained for. It was more dangerous, more insidious, because here, the enemy could be anyone - a neighbor, a guide, a stranger passing by. The uncertainty was the greatest challenge, and it was a lesson I learned firsthand in the rugged terrain of Jammu and Kashmir.
The morning we arrived in the Tral area
to take over from the Rajputana Rifles was crisp and clear, the sun rising in
full splendor over the snow-capped peaks. The valley stretched out before us, a
breathtaking panorama of lush green fields and winding rivers, its beauty
belying the danger that lurked within. The Rajputana Rifles had left behind a
small contingent to brief us on the area of operations, handing over vital
information about the terrain, potential hotspots, and insurgent movements. By
afternoon, they were gone, leaving us to settle into our new reality. The first
night was to be our initiation, a baptism by fire in the volatile rhythm of
life in the valley.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, painting the sky in hues of amber and red, we prepared for the night ahead. The valley’s beauty was deceptive, for as darkness fell, it brought with it an eerie silence, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional gust of wind. I was assigned as the guard commander for our company mess, a task that took me out of my usual clerical duties and thrust me into the heart of the action. Here, in the Rashtriya Rifles, every man was a soldier first, and there was no room for specialization. The mess was located near the camp’s barbed wire fence, a vulnerable point that required constant vigilance.
Dinner was a simple affair - dal and chappatis, the aroma mingling with the cool mountain air. I shared the meal with a few guards and a Junior Commissioned Officer (JCO), the conversation light but tinged with an undercurrent of tension. We were still adjusting to our new surroundings, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on our shoulders. Before we could finish our meal, the night was shattered by the unmistakable roar of machine-gun fire. The Medium Machine Gun (MMG) post on the mountain above the camp had opened fire - a clear indication that terrorists were advancing.
We abandoned our food and scrambled to our positions, the adrenaline surging through our veins. The camp, strategically located near the highway leading to Srinagar, was a prime target. The darkness beyond the barbed wire was impenetrable, but the flashes of gunfire from the other side of the camp lit up the night like brief, fiery spectacles. Our side seemed safe for the moment, but we could see the terrorists retreating, their movements swift and deliberate. They fired back, the muzzle flashes from their guns visible in the distance. We returned fire, the sound of our rifles echoing through the valley. The terrorists changed direction, veering away from the highway and disappearing into the shadows.
That night marked our welcome to the valley - a harsh initiation into the realities of counter-insurgency. The attack was not just a tactical move; it was a message, a grim reminder of the constant threat that loomed over us. As the chaos subsided, the silence that followed was almost oppressive. The operation teams, deployed elsewhere, returned only after peace was restored. Their arrival brought a sense of relief, but it was tempered by the sobering realization that this was only the beginning.
In the days and weeks that followed, the routine of the Rashtriya Rifles began to shape our lives. Every step, every decision, was underscored by the awareness that the enemy could be anywhere, watching, waiting. The lines between friend and foe blurred in the fog of rebellion, where trust was both a necessity and a liability. The valley, with its stunning beauty, had become a paradoxical backdrop for constant tension. The snow-capped peaks and lush green fields were a stark contrast to the danger that lurked in every shadow. Every operation, every patrol, was a step into the unknown, a test of courage and resolve.
The diversity of our unit, with personnel drawn from various infantry regiments, became our greatest strength. Each man brought his own unique experiences and perspectives, and together, we forged a bond that transcended our differences. We were a community, united by a common purpose and the shared understanding that our survival depended on each other. The valley tested us in ways we had never imagined, pushing us to the limits of our physical endurance, tactical acumen, and mental resilience.
One operation, in particular, stands out in my memory. It was a routine patrol, or so we thought, in a remote village nestled in the foothills. The villagers, wary and reserved, watched us with guarded eyes. We moved cautiously, our senses heightened, aware that danger could be lurking around any corner. As we approached a narrow alley, a sudden burst of gunfire erupted from a nearby house. We took cover, returning fire as the insurgents retreated into the maze of narrow streets. The firefight was intense, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the walls deafening. In the chaos, one of our men was hit, a bullet grazing his shoulder. We managed to extract him and retreat to safety, but the incident left a lasting impression. It was a stark reminder of the unpredictability of our mission and the ever-present threat of ambush.
Through it all, what kept us going was the camaraderie we shared. The long nights spent on guard duty, the shared meals in the mess, the moments of levity that broke the monotony, they were the threads that bound us together. We found solace in each other’s company, drawing strength from the knowledge that we were not alone in this fight. The valley, with all its contradictions, became a part of us, its beauty and danger etched into our memories.
Looking back, my time with the Rashtriya Rifles was more than just a chapter in my military career; it was a crucible that shaped me as a soldier and as a human being. The first night in Tral, with its chaos and surging heartbeats, was a microcosm of the larger journey, a glimpse into the thin line between order and chaos, between life and death. The fog that enveloped the valley was a metaphor for the fog of war, where clarity was a rare commodity and every decision carried weight. Yet, it was in this fog that we found our purpose, our resolve, and our humanity.
The valley, with its breathtaking beauty and ever-present danger, remains etched in my memory. It was a place of contradictions, a battlefield that tested the limits of courage and friendship. As I reflect on those days, I am reminded not only of the lessons of war but also of the stories of the men who stood with me, the moments that defined us, and the indelible mark of a journey through the fog. It was a journey that taught me the true meaning of resilience, camaraderie, and the unyielding spirit of a soldier.
We came to Tral expecting resistance; what we found was a haunting intimacy with fear. Yet the valley had only begun to unveil its layered hostility. The patrols grew riskier, and the faces around us, whether smiling villagers or silent stone walls, blurred between friend and threat. As we packed up for our next move deeper into South Kashmir, a name whispered through the ranks like a chill draft through canvas flaps: Bona Devsar. A village infamous not for its guns, but for its ghosts, both the living and the long gone. What lay ahead was not just the peril of insurgents, but of vipers, saints, and shrapnel alike.
In Tral’s shadowed silence, we weren’t just dodging bullets - we were shedding illusions, one heartbeat at a time.
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