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Friday, September 5, 2025

The Bucket, the Bully, and the Bus Ride Home

 When obedience is demanded without respect, silence becomes the noblest rebellion

             They say every soldier remembers his first bullet, his first snowfall, his first letter from home. But me, I also remember a bucket. Not the battlefield kind, not some poetic metaphor either. Just a steel bucket, dented at the rim, rusted at the bottom, and powerful enough to spark a memory that still stings sharper than shrapnel. That morning, the fog hadn’t fully lifted, and neither had my mood from the previous patrol. My boots were still caked with slush, but the Troop Dafadar’s tone was even colder than the mud. All I asked was for hot water for a quick wash. What I got instead was a lesson in rank, routine, and the silent war that unfolds between seniors and juniors, not with weapons, but with attitude.

             The sun was just beginning to rise over the camp, casting long shadows across the tents. The cool morning air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint murmur of the nearby river. Our OC had left early with the Regiment Commanding Officer for a reconnaissance of the area, leaving a vacuum of authority that the Troop Dafedar was quick to exploit.

             This wasn’t the first time he had tried to undermine me, but this day would test my patience like no other. Without preamble, he marched up to me, his voice sharp and commanding. “Bhullar, the Transport Officer needs water for his barrels. Go fill them from the river. Now.”

             I nodded silently, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing any resistance. Slinging two empty buckets over my shoulders, I trudged toward the river, the weight of his condescension heavier than the buckets themselves.

             The river was a shimmering ribbon of silver, about 200 meters from the camp. The journey to and fro was a grueling trek over uneven ground, and with each trip, my muscles burned a little more. By the time I had filled three barrels, 16 rounds of relentless back-and-forth, the sun was high in the sky, and sweat dripped from my brow.  When I returned to report to the TO, I was ready to rest, but fate had other plans.

             The TO’s orderly intercepted me with a smirk. “Not done yet. Follow me.”

             I followed him into the tent, my boots leaving faint imprints on the dry ground. Inside, a smaller tent served as a makeshift washroom, and there, piled high, was a mountain of greasy, unwashed utensils. The orderly pointed to them with a grin that made my blood boil.

             “Wash these,” he ordered, crossing his arms.

             I stared at him, incredulous. “What are you here for? Isn’t this your job?”

             His grin faltered, replaced by a glare. “You dare question me? I’ll report this to the TO.”

             “Go ahead,” I replied evenly, standing my ground.

             Moments later, the TO appeared, his face a mask of authority. “So, you refuse to wash the dishes?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

             “Sir,” I replied, “I was sent to fetch water from the river, and I’ve completed that task. The orderly is here for such duties, not me.”

             The TO’s eyes narrowed. “Are you refusing to follow my orders?”  I stood silent, knowing my response could escalate the situation further.

             He leaned forward, his voice hardening. “Shall I call your Senior JCO?”  My silence was answer enough.

             The TO picked up his wireless set and issued the call. Within ten minutes, the Senior JCO arrived, his authoritative presence instantly shifting the atmosphere. We both saluted him as the TO launched into a tirade, accusing me of disobedience.

             “This soldier refused to carry out my orders,” he concluded. “Take him and punish him with a backpack full of sand.”  The Senior JCO nodded solemnly, his expression was unreadable.

             “Yes, Sir,” he simply said.

             We saluted again and exited the tent. As soon as we were out of earshot, the JCO’s demeanor changed. He chuckled softly, a rare sound in the otherwise disciplined environment.

             “Bhullar,” he said, “hand over your pistol.”  I hesitated but complied, handing him my 9mm sidearm.

             He patted my shoulder. “Listen, son. Go to your village for the day. Take some rest and come back tomorrow. I’ll handle everything here.”

            The JCO handed me some money for bus fare, a gesture that touched me deeply. My village was only an hour away, and I set off, taking the road that led to the bus stand. Along the way, a car slowed down, and the driver offered me a lift, a common courtesy extended to a soldier in uniform.

             As the car sped through the countryside, I allowed myself a moment of peace, the wind cooling my face. The black uniform of an armored regiment often drew respect, but today, it felt like a shield against the frustration and humiliation of the morning.

            At the bus stand, I caught a bus that would take me the rest of the way home. The familiar sights of my village brought a sense of comfort, and as I stepped off the bus, I was greeted by the warm embrace of home.

             My parents welcomed me with smiles and questions, eager to know about my unexpected visit. I avoided mentioning the incident, not wanting to burden them with my troubles. Instead, I focused on the joy of being home, even if just for a short while.

             My father, a retired army man and farmer, shared stories of the harvest, while my mother fussed over me, insisting I eat more than I could handle. Their simple, unassuming lives were a stark contrast to the complexities of the camp, and for a few hours, I allowed myself to forget the morning’s events.

             As I lay on my cot that night, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling, I replayed the day’s events in my mind. The humiliation of being ordered to wash utensils, the TO’s disdain, and the JCO’s unexpected kindness all swirled together, leaving me with a mix of emotions.

             I realized that the military wasn’t just about tanks and battles; it was also about navigating the intricate web of human relationships and power dynamics. The Troop Dafedar’s harassment and the TO’s arrogance were tests of my character, and I had passed, not by retaliating, but by standing my ground with dignity.

             As the bus rattled back to camp, I stared out the cracked window, watching the fields blur into shadows. Somewhere behind us, the village faded into silence; somewhere ahead, the camp loomed like a waiting question. I had left my anger on that roadside, along with the bucket and the humiliation, but the army was not done asking tests that didn’t come with instructions. By the time we moved to deserts of Rajasthan for further war training, the wind had picked up. The tiffins clinked in their carrier, and the sky, thick with cloud and something else, warned of a storm not just in the weather. That night, under a faulty bulb flashing with a Generator power and a jittery silence, we would meet that storm face-first - with steel plates, startled searchlights, and a lesson in alertness we would never forget. This incident, like so many others, was a reminder that resilience wasn’t just about enduring physical challenges, it was about maintaining integrity and strength of will in the face of adversity. And in that, I found a quiet triumph.

             True strength isn’t always loud; sometimes, it’s the quiet walk back to self-respect.

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