Operation Gulab: The Pre-Dawn Flower Heist

“In an army of iron routines, sometimes the softest missions bloom the loudest.”

             It had been just weeks since I’d returned from that snowy ravine and the fiery midnight inferno, but life in the regiment had already shifted back to its default setting - discipline, drills, and deadlines. The trauma of near-death encounters and the searing images of comrades being dragged from flame-scorched tents still clung to my mind like frost on boots. But army life is relentless. There’s no pause button. As the residue of terror dissolved into the tasks of ordinary duty, I found myself amidst a new kind of chaos - this time, not of bullets and bodies, but of brooms, brass polish, and blooming marigolds.

 

No one joins the Army to steal flowers, but then again, no one tells you not to.

             The regiment was a hive of activity, buzzing with a sense of urgency and purpose. It was only four or five months into my posting, and the annual inspection of our unit by the chief brigadier and his team from brigade headquarters was upon us. Every corner of the regiment was being cleaned, polished, and adorned with a military precision that was both impressive and exhausting.

          The tanks stood gleaming under the sun, their metal bodies reflecting the meticulous care poured into them by us soldiers. Every leaf of every file in the regiment’s office had been scrutinized, and every detail accounted for. The CO had conducted a pre-inspection two days prior, and his approving nods had filled us with pride. We felt ready, prepared to show the brigade the might and discipline of our regiment.

            But nothing could have prepared me for what unfolded the night before the inspection.

             At the evening roll call, the final instructions were being given. Our SDM’s voice rang out with authority, laying down the schedule for the following day. Everything seemed standard until he announced, almost casually,

             “Five jawans will report at 4 a.m. to the Vehicle Parking and proceed to the BSF headquarters. There, you will... procure fresh flowers. These flowers are to be blooming and fragrant after reaching here. Do not get caught.”

            A ripple of disbelief passed through the ranks. Flowers? From the BSF headquarters? It wasn’t an official requisition or a polite exchange - it was, quite literally, an order to steal them.

             The SDM's tone brooked no argument, and the absurdity of the task hung in the air, blending with the unspoken amusement among us. I couldn’t help but suppress a smile as my mind struggled to process the situation. It was the kind of order you’d never find in a manual or hear again in your military career.

             At 4 a.m., the five of us assigned to the task assembled at the Vehicle Parking. The vehicle waiting for us was a one-tonne truck, its engine rumbling softly in the pre-dawn silence. Among us was our unofficial team leader, whose wry smile and confident demeanor hinted that he had been through such escapades before.

             As the vehicle rolled out of the camp, the chill of the early morning air seeped through our PT dress. The sky was a deep navy, with stars twinkling faintly above. Our destination, the BSF headquarters, was a few kilometers away, and the drive was filled with a mix of nervous anticipation and suppressed laughter.

             The leader laid out the plan as the truck bounced along the uneven road -

             “We go in quietly, find the flowerbeds, and pick only the best blooms. No crushed flowers, no half-bloomed buds. And remember,” he added with a mischievous grin, “don’t get caught. If anyone asks, we’re admiring the BSF’s gardening skills.”

              The BSF headquarters was a sprawling compound, its entrance flanked by imposing gates and watchful guards. We parked the truck a short distance away, hiding it in the shadows of some tall trees. The plan was simple yet audacious: sneak in, locate the flowers, pluck them, and return before anyone noticed.

            The scent of freshly watered earth and blooming flowers greeted us as we crept along the perimeter. Flowerbeds lined the pathways, their vibrant colors barely visible in the dim light. Rows of marigolds, roses, and bougainvillea stretched out before us like a treasure trove.

             Heart pounding, I crouched near a bed of roses, their petals kissed by the dew of the early morning. Carefully, I plucked each flower, mindful not to damage the stems or leaves. Around me, the others worked silently, their movements quick and efficient.

             The thrill of the mission was undeniable. Here we were, soldiers trained to operate tanks and defend borders, engaging in what could only be described as a covert gardening operation. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

            Just as we were finishing, the distant sound of voices reached our ears. A patrol. My heart leapt into my throat as we ducked behind the flowerbeds, clutching our bounty tightly. The footsteps grew louder, the voices clearer.

             “Move slowly,” our leader whispered, his voice barely audible. “Don’t make a sound.”

             The patrol passed mere meters away, their flashlights sweeping the area but missing us entirely. We held our breath until the voices faded into the distance, then scrambled to our feet and hurried back to the truck.

             By the time we reached the vehicle, our arms were laden with flowers, their sweet fragrance masking the sweat and adrenaline coursing through us. As the truck roared to life and sped away from the BSF headquarters, a collective sigh of relief filled the cabin, followed by laughter that echoed into the morning air.

            Back at the regiment, we handed over the flowers to the concerned in charge of decorating the parade ground and office area. Bouquets were arranged, garlands strung, and every corner seemed to bloom with the fruits of our early morning adventure.

             When the brigadier and his team arrived later that day, they were greeted by a regiment that looked as disciplined as ever, with the added charm of floral decorations that seemed to embody perfection itself.

            The CO’s face betrayed nothing, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as the brigadier complimented the regiment’s presentation. The flowers, in all their stolen glory, had served their purpose.   

             As I look back on that incident, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It was a moment that blended the seriousness of army life with an unexpected touch of humor and creativity. The mission was absurd yet executed with the same precision and teamwork that defined our regiment.

             For us, it was more than just a task, it was a bonding experience, a story to tell and retell over countless cups of tea and campfire evenings. It reminded me that the army isn’t just about discipline and duty; it’s also about camaraderie, adaptability, and finding joy in the most unexpected moments.

             To this day, whenever I pass by a flowerbed or catch the scent of roses in the air, I am transported back to that pre-dawn heist, to the thrill of sneaking through the BSF headquarters, and to the laughter that followed us all the way home.

            For younger generations aspiring to join the army, I share this story as a testament to the multifaceted nature of military life. It’s not always about battles and borders. Sometimes, it’s about flowers, friendship, and the memories that make the journey worthwhile.

             We were soldiers by rank, gardeners by accident, and storytellers for life.

             In a land where every mission smelled of cordite and caution, that one morning bloomed with roses and rebellion. It wasn’t the flowers we stole - it was a moment of innocence in a soldier’s life, pressed forever between the pages of duty. And yet, as the scent of roses faded and routine marched on, we didn’t realize that the very next week would reintroduce us to steel - not polished for inspections, but brandished with intent. That Saturday afternoon, it wasn’t roses we would be cutting. It was a goat. But behind the laughter of that improvised curry and the swing of a borrowed machete, a lesson would simmer - one that would stain not just uniforms, but consciences.

 

In a land where every mission smelled of cordite and caution, that one morning bloomed with roses and rebellion. It wasn’t the flowers we stole - it was a moment of innocence in a soldier’s life, pressed forever between the pages of duty.