“On roads where saints once walked and serpents now slither, every step is a silent negotiation with fate.”
The fog of Tral never truly lifted; it simply took new shapes. One night it roared from the muzzle of a terrorist's rifle; the next, it curled quietly around our boots as we marched toward another unknown. After our brutal baptism in Tral, most of us believed we had witnessed the worst Kashmir had to offer. But the Valley has a cruel way of reminding you that what lies ahead can always be more unpredictable than what’s been left behind. Just as we were beginning to understand the rhythm of insurgency, the orders arrived, protect the Amarnath Yatra. This wasn’t just a mission. It was a sacred balancing act, safeguarding divinity in a land where blood and belief so often run together.
In the military, life is often an unexpected journey, a tapestry woven with threads of endurance, resilience, and moments that test not just the body but the very core of one’s spirit. My time in the Rashtriya Rifles was a vivid panorama of such experiences - intense, vibrant, and deeply humbling. One such chapter unfolded during our deployment to provide security for the Amarnath Yatra, a pilgrimage steeped in spirituality but fraught with peril. It was a mission that demanded not just physical readiness but an unyielding mental fortitude, a lesson I would learn in ways I could never have anticipated.
The orders came one evening, crisp and clear: we were to move to Pahalgam early the next morning to secure the Amarnath Yatra. The pilgrimage, a sacred journey for thousands of devotees, was also a magnet for danger, and our role was to ensure its safe passage. That night, as we prepared for the move, an unexpected visitor brought a moment of eerie reflection. I was lying on the ground, rolling up my bedding, when a tremor ran through my body. Beneath my pillow was a small, pillow-like hollow, and nestled within it was a large snake. The sight sent a jolt through me, and the others in the camp were equally startled.
As I watched the snake slither quietly into the underbrush, I remembered something my old drill instructor in Ahmednagar once shouted during a jungle survival course: “Respect the jungle, it's older than your bullets.” Back then, I laughed it off. Now, standing still as death, watching fate pass inches from my neck in serpentine silence, I finally understood what he meant.
Someone fetched a stick, ready to
kill the intruder, but I stopped them. “It was here all night,” I said, my
voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. “It didn’t harm me.
When I slept, it wasn’t there. It could have entered my sleeping bag, but it
didn’t. It’s not my enemy.” Reluctantly, they agreed, and the snake, my
unexpected companion, slithered away into the night. The incident left us in
silent awe, a fragile reminder of the delicate coexistence between man and
nature. The snake, about five feet long, became a symbol of the
unpredictability that defined our lives.
Before the first rays of the sun could pierce the horizon, we set off in a convoy toward Pahalgam. The sky was a canvas of deep blues and purples, the air crisp with the promise of a new day. By mid-morning, our ‘D’ Company had reached the dense Batakot forest, where we were to set up camp. The rest of the battalion continued toward Pahalgam, their vehicles disappearing into the winding roads. Batakot was a place of raw beauty, its towering trees and thick undergrowth a stark contrast to the tension that hung in the air. We worked tirelessly to establish our camp, the sounds of hammers and shovels echoing through the forest. By afternoon, the camp was ready, a temporary haven in the heart of the wilderness. My office was housed in a wooded rest house, its large glass walls offering a tranquil view of the street outside. It was a serene setting, but the calm was short-lived.
As we began to settle in, a deafening explosion shattered the silence. The blast, about 100 meters away on the road to Pahalgam, was an IED targeting a vehicle of the Engineer Regiment. The tremors rippled through our camp, jolting us into high alert. Within moments, we were back in our bunkers, our eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement. The incident was a grim reminder of the volatility of the Valley - a rousing welcome to Batakot. That night, we stayed vigilant, the weight of the day’s events pressing heavily on our shoulders. Danger lurked in every shadow, and sleep was a luxury we could not afford.
In the days that followed, we were tasked with Road Opening Party (ROP) operations, ensuring the safe passage of Amarnath Yatra pilgrims. The work was grueling, the roads fraught with hidden threats, but our resolve remained unshaken. Each day was a test of endurance, a dance with danger that demanded unwavering focus. The pilgrimage, a symbol of faith and devotion, was also a beacon for those who sought to disrupt peace, and our role was to stand as a bulwark against chaos.
With the Yatra complete, new orders directed us to Bona Devsar, a remote village in the Kulgam district. The journey was a testament to the resilience of both man and machine. The roads were little more than dirt tracks, their bridges blown up by terrorists. The engineering regiment had erected temporary military bridges, their flimsy structures a lifeline in this rugged terrain. As our convoy navigated the treacherous path, disaster struck. An improvised explosive device (IED) exploded beneath a 1-ton truck, the blast reverberating through the valley like a thunderclap. Five soldiers were killed instantly, and two others were seriously injured. The scene was one of chaos and despair, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal and rubber.
I was in my office truck, two vehicles behind the ill-fated one. The explosion had shaken us all, its force a brutal reminder of the fragility of life. My driver, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, was in shock, his face pale. Fear coursed through my veins, but there was no time to dwell on it. We had to move forward, to tend to the wounded and secure the area. Surprisingly, the terrorists did not follow up with gunfire, as was their usual tactic. Perhaps our fate would have been far worse otherwise. After an hour of gathering the wounded and assessing the damage, we resumed our journey, the weight of loss heavy on our hearts. The soldiers we had lost were not just comrades; they were brothers, their absence a void that could never be filled.
By the time we reached Bona Devsar, the sun had sunk below the horizon, casting long shadows over the wooden huts built by the engineering regiment. These makeshift shelters became our temporary home, their thin walls offering little protection against the elements or the dangers outside. The night was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the violence we had witnessed just hours earlier. Despite our exhaustion, we knew that our challenges were far from over. Bona Devsar was an unfamiliar terrain, its dense forests and narrow lanes potential sanctuaries for terrorists. The wooden huts, though a welcome respite, were a constant reminder of our vulnerability. Every rustle of leaves, every distant sound, kept us on edge, our senses heightened to the slightest disturbance.
Life in Bona Devsar settled into a delicate rhythm. During the day, we patrolled the rugged roads, our eyes scanning for any sign of danger. The nights were a blend of restless sleep and heightened alertness, the thin walls of the huts amplifying every sound. Yet, amidst the tension, there were moments of humanity - an old man offering us tea, children peering curiously from behind doors, their laughter a brief respite from the grim reality. These interactions, though cautious, were a reminder of the people we were there to protect, their lives intertwined with ours in this fragile dance of survival.
Looking back, the journey to Bona Devsar and the incidents that unfolded there remain etched in my memory. The snake under my pillow, the explosions on the road, the wooden huts in the heart of rebel territory - every moment was a lesson in resilience, a testament to the unpredictability of life in the Army. The fog, both literal and figurative, became a constant companion, blurring the lines between safety and danger, friend and foe, life and death. Yet, it was in this fog that we found our purpose, our resolve hardened by the challenges we faced.
When I pen these memories, I am reminded of the resilience of the human spirit. The journey through the fog may have been fraught with challenges, but it also revealed the strength that lay within - service, sacrifice, and an unwavering resolve to protect not just the borders of the nation but its heart. The Amarnath Yatra, the explosions, the wooden huts - they were not just events but chapters in a story of courage and camaraderie, a story that continues to shape who I am. In the end, it is not the fog that defines us, but how we navigate through it, finding light even in the darkest of moments.
The road to Bona Devsar didn’t just carry our boots
- it carried our prayers, our questions, and a strange belief that even in war,
the divine sometimes walks beside us.
By the time we had adapted to the echo of explosions and the lullabies of distant gunfire, sleep had become a rare, indulgent luxury, more myth than necessity. In Bona Devsar, we didn’t count hours of rest; we counted minutes between moments of calm and chaos. The haunting silence of its nights, broken only by the crack of dry leaves or the groan of wooden walls, trained our minds to never fully switch off. We had crossed into a new mental frontier where vigilance was survival and weariness was a badge. What came next wasn’t just another posting or patrol - it was the birth of a mindset, a transformation of soul and spirit. The night no longer signaled rest. It whispered: stay awake, stay alive. And so began the chapter where sleeplessness wasn’t just tolerated. It was earned.
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