“Not all dangers arrive with gunfire;
some come draped in velvet, carried on the back of a bicycle.”
Even after the fire died down and
the last round of rum settled in our bellies, something lingered - not just
warmth, but a weight. The memory of Rinku’s empty boots outside the tent
haunted me through the night. His absence had left a hollow that even laughter
couldn’t fill. So when the routine resumed and the fog lifted into drills and
duties, I welcomed the monotony. But as soldiers, we know that routine is a
fickle shield - because trouble, temptation, and reckoning often arrive when
the uniform is off and our guard is down.
The sun dipped low over the Central
Headquarters in Ahmednagar, its golden rays casting a serene glow over the
sprawling training center. The vast expanse of the military base, with its
neatly aligned barracks and parade grounds, seemed to exhale after a long day
of rigorous drills and duties. The air was thick with the scent of dust and
sweat, mingling with the faint aroma of evening meals being prepared in the
mess halls. As the day’s work wound down, a peculiar harmony settled over the
barracks - a harmony only military soldiers could understand. It was a blend of
camaraderie, exhaustion, and the unspoken bond that tied us together.
In our six-bed room, the evening
rituals had begun. The tape recorder played old Hindi film songs, their
melodies weaving through the air like threads of nostalgia. Laughter echoed off
the walls, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the sweet, pungent
fragrance of rum. The room, usually a place of rest and discipline, had
transformed into a lively den of revelry. We had started the evening with our
daily routine Rum-Party, a tradition that never failed to lift our spirits. A
few pegs of sturdy, no-nonsense army rum set everyone’s mood in thrall, and the
room suddenly turned into a dance floor.
Patil and Laxman, my office mates,
were the life of the party. Patil, with his wiry frame and quick wit, and
Laxman, with his infectious energy, seemed to be great comedians tonight. They
tried their best to mimic my bhangra moves, their exaggerated steps sending
everyone into fits of laughter. The room was alive with the rhythm of
foot-tapping and the occasional roar of approval as someone nailed a particularly
tricky step. The fatigue of the day’s duties melted away, replaced by the
warmth of friendship and the heady buzz of alcohol.
As the night progressed, the
atmosphere grew more animated. Laxman, his cheeks flushed and his eyes gleaming
with mischief, came up with an idea that excited us all - a visit to the
infamous Chitra Gali, the red-light area in the heart of Ahmednagar. It was a
place forbidden to soldiers, a zone of temptation and danger. But in the fog of
friendship and alcohol, the idea seemed romantic, almost adventurous. The
thought of venturing into that forbidden territory, of breaking the rules and
embracing the unknown, was intoxicating.
The decision was made quickly, as
such decisions often are. The three of us, Patil, Laxman, and I, picked up our
bicycles and headed toward the city. The night was cool, the air crisp with the
promise of adventure. The city was four kilometers away, and the ride felt
exhilarating, the wind whipping through our hair as we pedaled furiously. But
as we approached the outskirts of town, the effects of the rum began to wear
off, and our bodies started to feel the strain. We stopped at a small, dimly
lit shop to replenish our spirits with a few more pegs of Maharashtra’s
indigenous liquor. The local brew was strong, its fiery taste burning a path
down our throats and reigniting the buzz in our heads.
By the time we reached Chitra Gali,
it was past 10 o’clock. The street was alive with activity, its narrow lanes
lit by the warm glow of lanterns and the occasional flash of neon lights.
Chitra Gali got its name from the Chitra Cinema, which stood at the bend where
the street turned into the lane. The area was a sensory overload - colorful
banners fluttered in the breeze, the air was thick with the scent of incense
and perfume, and the sounds of tabla beats and harmonium music spilled out from
the open doors of the buildings.
Two or four girls, women, and their
mistresses stood at every door, their eyes scanning the street for potential
customers. Inside one of the rooms, a mujra was in full swing. The rhythmic
beats of the tabla and the melodic strains of the harmonium filled the air,
accompanied by the hoarse yet captivating voice of a woman singing a Hindi film
song. I looked up and saw a beautiful girl dancing, her movements graceful and
hypnotic. The melody of the song, the energy of the crowd, and the allure of
the forbidden drew me in.
Patil and Laxman disappeared into
the darkened rooms, their laughter echoing behind them as they chose partners
to make their evening colorful. I, however, was drawn to the mujra. The girl,
dressed in a bright, flowing dress, danced with a grace that was mesmerizing.
Something about the scene captivated me - not the allure of the girl, but the
rhythm, the energy, and the excitement of the crowd watching her.
Without thinking, I entered the room
and joined her in the dance. My steps, honed by years of military discipline,
harmonized with hers, and the crowd erupted in applause. Even as my feet
matched hers beat for beat, a voice inside reminded me I was not just a dancer
tonight, I was a soldier, misplaced. Money
rained down as I matched her movements, the years of training translating into
an unexpected prowess on the dance floor. For a moment, it felt as though the
world beyond the dimly lit room had ceased to exist.
But the atmosphere suddenly turned
tense. A dispute broke out near the entrance of the mujra, drawing everyone’s
attention. The music stopped abruptly, replaced by a tense silence. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw Patil engaged in a heated argument with a local goon, a
short-statured man with a menacing glare. Their voices grew louder, and before
anyone could intervene, they came to blows.
I jumped down the stairs to
intervene, but the situation escalated quickly. The goon turned his attention
to me, his eyes narrowing as he assessed my six-foot frame. Driven by fear or
bravado, he pulled out a flashing knife. Time seemed to stand still as the
crowd screamed, their voices fading into the background. The flash of the blade caught the lantern’s
light, a glint of steel that cut through the haze like a warning shot.
Despite the haze of alcohol, I felt
a strange clarity. My military training kicked in, and I assessed the situation
quickly. I spotted the bicycles parked nearby and, without hesitation, grabbed
one and lifted it above my head. The weight of the bike felt reassuring in my
hands, a reliable weapon in a moment of chaos. I hurled it toward the goon with
all my might. He stumbled and fell, the knife slipping from his hand. Patil,
seizing the moment, pounced on him and pinned him to the ground. Laxman, who
had arrived safely, stepped on the knife, keeping it out of reach.
But our relief was short-lived. The
goon’s henchmen, ten or twelve strong, came running toward us, their voices
raised in anger. The situation had reached a critical stage. Just as we braced
ourselves for the inevitable, a 1-ton truck of the military police arrived for
its daily patrol. Recognizing the men in uniform, we didn’t think twice. We
loaded our bicycles onto the truck and jumped in, the smell of alcohol on our
breath but no sign of intoxication in our actions.
The ride back to the barracks was
quiet, the earlier euphoria replaced by a heavy silence. We knew the
consequences of our actions would be severe. The next morning, we were called
to the Officer Commanding’s office. We stood in a line, our heads bowed, as he
read the charges. His stern gaze seemed to pierce through us, reproachful and
disappointed. Being caught in an off-limits area was a serious offense, and our
actions had brought the regiment into disrepute.
His words didn’t shout, but they
struck harder than any parade-ground rebuke. The punishment was swift and
harsh: 14 days of pay cut, a red-ink entry in our annual confidential reports,
and a stern warning that any repeat offense would have very serious
consequences. The sting of the punishment was nothing compared to the weight of
the guilt we carried.
In the days that followed, I found
myself replaying the events of that night over and over again. The foggy
streets of Ahmednagar, the rhythmic beats of the mujra, the flash of the knife,
and the weight of the bicycle - it all felt like a surreal dream. As soldiers,
we were trained to face danger, to act decisively in the heat of the moment,
and to stand with our comrades. That night, these instincts had guided my actions,
but the atmosphere and circumstances were far removed from the battlefield.
The incident became a turning point
for me. It taught me the importance of discipline, not only in obeying orders
but in every aspect of life. It reminded me of the responsibility that came
with the uniform and the trust that others placed in us. The fog of that night,
literal and metaphorical, had lifted, and I saw clearly the path I needed to
tread.
Life in the army was full of
lessons, some taught in the classroom and others learned through experience. That
night in Chitra Gali wasn’t a battlefield, but it taught me more about courage,
clarity, and consequences than any drill ever could.. It was a reminder that
even in the fog of youth and sentimentality, clarity could be found, if only we
were willing to look.
The
punishment faded, but its lesson etched itself deep - discipline isn’t just
about standing straight in a parade, it’s about choosing your direction in the
dark. That night in Chitra Gali, we danced with danger not with bullets, but
with blurred judgement. I never returned there again, but its echoes followed
me into Kashmir. The very next month, I was posted back to the valley - to a
place where the fog didn't just shroud mujra music, but gunfire, ambushes, and
something far more silent: betrayal.
In
the theatre of war, even a mujra can become a mask,
and
a foggy alley, a corridor to judgement.
No comments:
Post a Comment