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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