Whistles, Warnings, and Warm Liquor

I want to turn you into iron!!

             Coming home was not just about touching the soil or hugging familiar faces - it was about navigating the spaces between who I was and who I had become. In the village, the laughter hadn’t changed, the lanes still echoed with memories, but I now carried the quiet of mountains and the fire of survival in my blood. I didn’t come back with medals; I came back with silences. And so, on a dusky evening, drawn by the scent of wheat and warmth, I found myself walking toward Binder’s house - the one place that hadn’t changed, the one corner where stories flowed freer than time.          

            The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the village as I walked down the familiar dirt path toward Binder’s place. The air was thick with the scent of ripe wheat from the fields and the faint tang of smoke from the evening fires. Binder’s house was a modest structure, tucked away at the edge of the village, but it was a sanctuary for us - a place where we could shed the weight of our daily lives and simply be. The small room at the back, with its dim lighting and rickety wooden chairs, was our haven. It was here that we gathered, three or four of us, to soothe our souls with the local liquor and lose ourselves in the comfort of camaraderie.

             On this particular evening, the room was alive with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Lali, Binder, and a couple of others were already there when I arrived, their faces lit by the warm glow of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. I took my usual seat next to Lali, who greeted me with a grin and a hearty slap on the back. The local liquor, strong and pungent, flowed freely, and soon the room was filled with laughter and the easy banter of old friends.

            It was Lali who broke the rhythm of the evening. He leaned in, his hand resting casually on my thigh, and said, “Come on Soldier! Let’s talk about the military today!” His voice was teasing, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. The others chimed in almost immediately, their voices overlapping in a chorus of encouragement. “Oh no, please tell us something,” they said, their faces eager.

             I hesitated, the memories of my time in the Army still fresh in my mind. “Leave it,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. But they wouldn’t let it go. “Come on, tell us,” they insisted, their voices rising in unison. Reluctantly, I gave in, the liquor loosening my tongue and the warmth of their company easing my reservations.

             “Alright,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Listen to this. Once, during morning PT, there was a rule: after the first whistle, we had to come out, and if anyone came after the second whistle, they’d be punished. So, we’d always get ready ahead of time and wait for the first whistle. On this particular day, we all came out at the first whistle, but one of our companions was missing. The instructor blew the second whistle, and just as it echoed across the grounds, our friend came running out, still tying his PT shoes. He stood in front of the instructor, his posture cautious, his face a mix of fear and determination.”

             I paused, taking a sip from my glass, the sharp taste of the liquor grounding me. The room was silent now, all eyes on me. “The instructor looked at him and said, ‘Why are you late?’ Our friend started to explain, ‘Sir, I…’ But the instructor cut him off. ‘Don’t speak,’ he said. Our friend tried again, ‘I’m…’ But the instructor interrupted him again. ‘Do you know what that means?’ he asked. Our friend nodded and said, ‘Yes, I am!’ The instructor didn’t even let him finish. ‘Don’t talk, keep your mouth shut… tie up your boot laces and put on ten front rolls. Come on, begin!’”

             The room erupted in laughter, the sound echoing off the walls. Even I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “We were all surprised,” I continued. “The instructor was asking questions but not allowing him to speak. It was a lesson for us, a reminder that in the Army, you obey orders without question. You keep quiet and do as you’re told.”

             Binder leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “How are they?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. “They say that being in the Army means you only have to obey orders, but there’s nothing more to be said. Just keep quiet. Did you learn that?”

             I nodded, the weight of those lessons settling over me once again. “It’s true,” I said. “We stuck to that. Didn’t you learn?” Binder chuckled and picked up another stick, gesturing for me to continue. “Tell us some more,” he said, his voice eager.

            I emptied my glass and leaned forward, the memories flooding back. “Alright,” I said, my voice taking on a more serious tone. “Then there was the time during PT when we had to run five rounds of the ground. The instructor would say, ‘Fall in here,’ and we’d stand there, breathless, waiting for his next command. But instead of letting us catch our breath, he’d gesture with his hand and say, ‘No, no, no, no,’ three or four more times. It was brutal, but it was training. One day, one of our companions, exhausted and frustrated, stood up and said, ‘Sir, first of all, decide where you want us to stand.’”

             The room erupted in laughter again, but I held up a hand to quiet them. “The instructor didn’t get angry,” I continued. “He just laughed and said, ‘You will have more difficult times ahead, and even more difficult times when you’ll be on the verge of breaking down. How can you deal with that time? This is your preparation. I want to turn you into iron so that this fleshly body does not deceive you in difficult times.’”

             The room fell silent, the weight of the instructor’s words settling over us. “His words filled us with a new enthusiasm,” I said, my voice soft now. “Even the guy who had been stuck in one place felt it. It was a new lesson for us, a reminder that the training was meant to prepare us for the challenges ahead.”

            My friends were serious now, their earlier laughter replaced by a quiet respect. “Your training is so tough,” Binder said, his voice tinged with awe. I shrugged the memories of those grueling days still vivid in my mind. “I don’t know if it’s my story or your liquor effects that you all got serious,” I said, my voice trailing off.

             The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft clinking of glasses as we refilled them. The stories had stirred something in all of us - a mix of admiration, curiosity, and a deeper understanding of the life I had chosen. For me, it was a reminder of the lessons I had learned, the challenges I had faced, and the strength I had gained. And as I sat there, surrounded by my friends, I felt a sense of pride - not just in my journey, but in the bonds that tied us together, even as our paths had diverged.

             The evening wore on, the stories flowing as freely as the liquor. And as the night deepened, I realized that these moments, these shared stories and laughter, were just as important as the lessons I had learned in the Army. They were a reminder of where I had come from, of the people who had shaped me, and of the life I had built, one step at a time.

 

            As the last round settled in our bellies and the laughter began to taper, I felt as I am in Kashmir Valley and I noticed a pair of boots placed neatly by the tent’s entrance. They belonged to Rinku, the youngest in our batch, barely twenty. He had laughed with us last weekend too, teasing us with stories of his village girl who wrote him scented letters.

             But Rinku wasn’t at the party tonight. He wasn’t anywhere at all.

             A week ago, on routine patrol, a silent IED buried under dry leaves took his legs - and, eventually, his life. The fog had muffled the blast, but not the scream.

             Tonight, we laughed louder, not because we were happier, but because we didn’t want to remember how it ended for him.

             The warmth of rum often masks the cold reality of soldiering, but never for long.

 

 As the last of the rum warmed our veins and Binder’s laughter faded into the distance, my gaze drifted once again to those empty boots - Rinku’s boots - silent sentinels of stories left unfinished. I thought of the fog rolling in over the valley, the way it swallowed everything - footsteps, voices, even fear. And I knew, as surely as the dawn would break, that this peace was borrowed. That I’d soon be back amidst frostbitten mornings, unfamiliar terrain, and the kind of decisions that weighed heavier than our weapons. The next mission was waiting - one written not in orders, but in instinct - and it would begin in the shadowy hush of a valley where fog wasn’t just weather... it was a warning.

 

The fire we sat around gave warmth to our hands, but it was the stories, and sometimes their silences, that warmed our hearts, or broke them.