The Fog Between the Lines

"Words once shared never truly vanish; they wait in the quiet for a voice to find them again."

    The golden sun cast a shimmering glow over the rippling waters of the Beas, as I sat on its grassy banks, the pages of my book fluttering in the gentle breeze. The scent of the river, mixed with the earthy fragrance of the surrounding trees, created a calming aura - a perfect setting to lose myself in thoughts. My pen glided across the pages of a letter, not to a superior officer or a family member, but to Toshi, the girl whose presence in my life had turned mere words into poetry. 

     The letter was filled with half-written sentences, scratched-out phrases, and emotions I couldn’t fully express. Love, longing, and uncertainty interwove in my mind like the currents of the Beas. Would she read between the lines? Would she understand the soldier’s heart, caught between duty and desire? 

     The river had become my silent confidant, a witness to my struggles - not just of love, but of ambition. I had enrolled in a correspondence B.A. course, determined to educate myself while serving in the Indian Army. The dream of becoming an officer was within reach, but something else had begun to take root within me, writing. Stories no longer remained simple thoughts; they demanded to be shaped, given form, and sent out into the world. 

     After my training, I was transferred to Jammu, a land where the mountains stood tall like silent sentinels, watching over the shifting tides of conflict. It was here that my journey took a turn, leading me to the Army Cadet Course (A.C.C.), a golden opportunity to rise in rank. My officers saw my potential, recommending me for the course with the hope that I would embrace the path of leadership. But even as I attended classes, another fire burned within me, the passion for storytelling. 

     The barracks were a strange mix of discipline and chaos, the sounds of marching boots blending with the hushed voices of soldiers sharing letters from home. Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, one stood out, Tarsem Singh Bhangu. He was the motorcycle rider, the Dak Runner, responsible for carrying letters and official documents between our unit and the divisional headquarters. He was two years older than me, his eyes filled with the wisdom of someone who had seen more than he let on. 

     It began with a simple request. One evening, as he prepared for his daily ride, I handed him an envelope. "Veere, put a two-rupee stamp on this and drop it in the civil post box." 

     Tarsem frowned, eyeing the envelope suspiciously. "No censor stamp?" he asked. "I can’t post it like this. If the security officer catches me, what do I say?" 

     I smiled, knowing his caution came from years of experience. "It’s just a story," I assured him. "Nothing military. Just words meant for a newspaper." 

     His brows lifted in surprise. "You write stories?" 

    That night, he read my file of published works. When he returned, there was a new light in his eyes. "Bhai, if I write a story and send it, will it also get published?" 

    "Why not?" I said. 

    That night, Tarsem sat under the dim glow of a barrack light, scribbling furiously. His pen raced across the pages, as if he were afraid the words would escape him. By morning, he placed the draft before me. "Read this," he said, his voice laced with hesitation. 

    It was a love story - raw, unpolished, but filled with genuine emotion. The words carried weight, though some parts meandered without direction. I edited the piece, adding a crucial line of dialogue from the female protagonist’s perspective. "Call it The Death of a Relationship," I suggested. 

    He nodded, rewriting the story with renewed confidence. From that day, we were inseparable. Each morning, he would deliver official letters, and each evening, he would return with stories - some real, some imagined. We made a promise to stay in touch, even when duty would send us down different paths. 

    Months later, as I flipped through a freshly delivered newspaper, my eyes landed on Tarsem’s name. His story had been published. With a grin, I cut out the article, placed it in an envelope, and sent it to him with my best wishes. 

 

Scribbled Between Marches

 

"In the army, we’re trained to shoot, march, and obey. But some of us also learn to write between the lines, between rumblings of duty and the silences of longing. A pen doesn’t lessen the weight of a rifle, but sometimes it helps carry the burden."

 

                        - From a soldier’s forgotten notebook

     Time moved forward relentlessly. The Army became our world, and with it came new postings, new duties, and new challenges. Letters became scarce, then stopped altogether. The fog of life had consumed our friendship, leaving only a memory of shared dreams and hurriedly written manuscripts. 

    Years turned into decades. Retirement came, bringing a slower rhythm to life. I had settled into a teaching position at Akal University in Talwandi Sabo, guiding young minds while still weaving stories in my free time. The past seemed distant, until one evening when a message blinked in my Facebook inbox. 

    "Are you Kanwaljit Bhullar, the Wazir Bhullar who revised my first story?" 

    The name beneath the message made my heart pause, Tarsem Bhangu. The fog had lifted. 

    A flood of emotions surged through me as I stared at the screen. Memories of that barrack, the dim light, the sound of his pen scratching against paper, it all came rushing back. 

    Our first phone call lasted for hours. His voice, now older but still filled with that same warmth, carried stories of his own journey. "You were my first guide," he said, his tone sincere. "I kept writing. I became a poet, Bhullar. You never knew, but you were always the beginning of it all."  

    I laughed, shaking my head even though he couldn’t see me. "The disciple has surpassed the teacher." 

    "Not at all," he replied. "A soldier is remembered at home, but a mentor is never forgotten." 

    Life had come full circle. Our friendship, once lost in the fog, had found its way back through words, the very thing that had connected us in the first place. And in that moment, I knew that stories, like friendships, never truly fade. They simply wait for the right time to be rediscovered.

And just like that, through the static of time, an old friendship crackled back to life,  not by chance, but by the ink that had always connected us.