Chapter 31 - The Cup That Held Five Pegs 

"Some memories age like rum - stronger, sweeter, and more intoxicating with time."

        Life is a collection of moments, and some of them remain etched in our memories forever, growing more vivid each time we recall them. They become stories that bring laughter, warmth, and sometimes even nostalgia. No one can take away our memories; they are the treasures of our past, the echoes of time that make life richer.

       When I was posted at the Army Headquarters in Delhi, I had a steel cup, small in appearance but surprisingly capacious. It could hold two and a half cups of tea, a fact that never ceased to amuse my colleagues. It was a relic of my service days, a silent witness to countless conversations, brief respites, and moments of camaraderie.

        One such memory involves my dear friend, the celebrated poet Darshan Darvesh. He had come to meet me one evening, and after my duty hours, I took him to our army headquarters camp. The sun had dipped below the horizon, cloaking the city in twilight. It was a Saturday, a day of quiet indulgence for us soldiers, two pegs of rum were issued as part of our weekend tradition.

    As the moment approached, I asked Darshan if he would join me in a drink. He nodded enthusiastically but expressed a peculiar request. "Can I come with you to see how it all happens?" he asked, his curiosity piqued by the workings of our military life. I chuckled and agreed, leading him toward the distribution point.

       We joined the queue, our boots crunching softly on the gravel. As our turn neared, I turned to the distributor and made an unusual request. "I have a guest with me today. Instead of two, I want five pegs."

      The man behind the counter glanced at my steel cup, then back at me. "That little thing?" he laughed, shaking his head. "It won’t hold five pegs!"

           Darshan Darvesh chuckled too, shaking his head. "No, Kanwaljit. That’s impossible."

       I merely smiled and placed the cup before them. "Try once," I said, my voice laced with confidence.

            The distributor smirked, entertained by my audacity. "Fine," he said, "but let’s make a bet. If your cup holds five pegs, you get them for free. If it doesn't, you pay double."

            I nodded. "Deal."

            The first peg was poured in, the golden liquid swirling inside the cup. The distributor peered in and shrugged, it still had space. The second peg followed, then the third. By now, the spectators had gathered around, watching with interest. With the fourth peg, the distributor hesitated, leaning closer to check the level.

            "There’s still space," he admitted, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

            When the fifth peg went in without spilling a drop, the entire queue erupted into laughter and applause. Darshan Darvesh was laughing the loudest, clapping me on the back. "You are unbelievable, Kanwaljit!" he said, shaking his head in amazement.

            The distributor threw up his hands. "You won!" he exclaimed. "I don’t know how, but you did."

            I grinned and reached for my wallet. "A bet is a bet," I said, paying for all five pegs. "I won’t let you lose money over a trick of volume."

            That night, as we sat under the open sky, sipping our drinks, Darshan couldn’t stop revisiting the moment. His laughter rang through the air, his poetic soul delighted by the absurd yet brilliant spectacle. That story became one of his favorites, one he would often narrate at gatherings, his eyes twinkling with the same amusement he had felt that day.

            Years passed, but Darshan never let go of that memory. Even in his last days, he would recount it, chuckling at the sheer mischief of the moment. And even now, as I sit reminiscing, the laughter of that evening rings in my ears, warm and undying. Some memories never fade; they live on, forever cherished in the heart.

 

“And long after the pegs were gone, the laughter stayed - echoing through the corridors of memory.”

            When I awoke that morning, I couldn’t recall when sleep had embraced me, somewhere between the fatigue of memory and the warmth of old thoughts from Army Headquarters. I had drifted off, mid-reminiscence, with a half-smile curled on my lips, not of joy, but of quiet acceptance. The valley, for a fleeting hour, felt still… almost kind. After the routine morning drill and a modest breakfast, I resumed my seat in the office. By afternoon, the unit vehicles returned from Corps Headquarters, carrying their usual load of dispatches, official files bundled with personal hopes. Among them was a letter and a Punjabi newspaper, sent by Dalbir Kaur Bhullar, my wife, scented faintly of home. Her words were tender, as always, but what caught me off guard was the printed page - a short story I had penned, now nestled in the folds of ink and newsprint. As I read it, her words and mine mingling across the margins, a memory stirred gently - the tale behind that story, and the man who had once inspired it. His name was Tarsem Singh Bhangu - the motorcycle-borne Dak Runner, once just a courier of letters… until life, loss, and literature transformed him into one of Punjab’s quietly rising writers.

 Chapter 30 - Silent Villages and Loud Gunfire

"Sometimes silence screams louder than bullets."

-  Anonymous Frontline Soldier 

            Thapa’s dust-caked leap had barely settled in our memories when another message crackled through the static - a different village, same menace. This wasn’t pursuit anymore. It was persistence. Each trail we chased down seemed to birth another, like fire jumping from tree to tree. From the thud of fists to the roar of rifles, the battlefield was morphing - faster, bolder, deadlier. And this time, they weren’t hiding behind women or children. They were armed to the teeth and waiting. Kulgam wasn’t far. But that night, it felt like we were walking into the heart of silence that would soon explode.       

            The sky over Kulgam was a canvas of molten gold as the sun dipped behind the rugged peaks, casting long shadows across the valley. The evening air carried a crisp chill, a silent reminder that the mountains did not care for human conflicts. Yet, tonight, in a small village nestled between rolling hills and dense pine forests, war was about to unfold once more. 

            Our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had received intelligence, three terrorists were holed up in a house at the far end of the village. The information had come from an informer, a man whose face we had never seen, but whose whispers had often led us to the wolves hiding among sheep. The details were precise. They had weapons, possibly automatic rifles, and a good stock of ammunition.

            Capt. S.K. Singh, the team leader, stood with his back against an old mud wall, scanning the narrow lanes ahead. His sharp eyes reflected the fading sunlight, his mind already calculating entry points, possible ambush zones, and the nearest escape routes. The mission was clear, QRT had to eliminate the threat before they could slip away into the dense wilderness beyond.

            "Listen up," Singh said, his voice low but firm. "The house is the third one on the right. Single-story, small windows. We move in silent, take positions, and wait for my signal. No unnecessary noise, no mistakes."

            A quiet nod passed through the team. Seven men, dressed in combat fatigues, faces streaked with dust and determination, weapons ready. They moved like shadows, their boots barely disturbing the dust-covered path. The village was eerily silent, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Doors were shut, curtains drawn, either out of fear or silent allegiance to the men inside that house.

            They reached the designated spot, pressing themselves against the walls of adjacent buildings. The house stood before them - modest, its wooden door slightly ajar, as if mocking the team with false hospitality. A single bulb flickered above the entrance, casting weak light over the mud-caked walls. 

            Singh raised his hand, signaling the formation. Two men flanked the house from the left, another two from the right. The rest stayed at the front, rifles aimed, fingers steady on the triggers. The team waited.

            The silence was thick, stretching time like an iron chain. Then, in the distance, a dog barked - a sharp, startled sound that shattered the stillness.

And then, the first bullet came.

            A sharp crack echoed as a muzzle flashed from a small window. The bullet hit the wall inches from Singh’s head, sending a shower of dust and debris into the air. Instinct took over.

            "Take cover!" Singh roared as the team scattered, diving behind whatever protection they could find. The firing intensified, bullets ricocheting off stone and wood, sending splinters flying. The terrorists knew that the army was here, and they were not planning to surrender.

            Through the chaos, one could hear the distinct bursts of an AK-47 - short, controlled, desperate. The team’s rifles responded in unison, hammering the walls of the house, forcing the men inside to retreat from the windows. 

            "Sniper, get the window," Singh commanded, his voice cutting through the noise.

            Our designated marksman, Naik Hardeep, took position behind an overturned cart, adjusting his scope. His breath was slow, measured. A second later, his rifle cracked, and the window shattered as a bullet found its mark.

One down.

            The firing from inside momentarily ceased, replaced by the anguished cry of a wounded man. But the fight wasn’t over.

            From the back of the house, a door burst open. Two figures darted out, moving fast, rifles clutched in their hands. They were making a run for the tree line.

            "Cut them off!" Singh ordered.

            The team moved instantly. Two men shifted position, their rifles tracking the fleeing figures. A burst of gunfire split the air, and one of the terrorists stumbled, his body twisting before collapsing into the dirt. The other kept running, bullets whizzing past him.

            Then, a sharp cry.

            "Lakhan was hit!"

            Balwinder turned to see one of our men, Sepoy Lakhan, clutching his leg, blood seeping through his uniform. He had taken a bullet to the right thigh, and his face was contorted in pain.

            "Keep pressure on it!" someone shouted as two men pulled him behind cover.

            But there was no time to slow down. The last terrorist had made it to the alley between the houses, disappearing into the shadows. Balwinder followed, his rifle raised, heart pounding.

            The alley was narrow, the scent of damp earth mingling with gunpowder. Balwinder moved cautiously, his ears straining for any sound. Then, the faintest shuffle of boots on dirt. 

            Before he could react, a figure lunged from the darkness, a knife glinting in his hand.

            Balwinder barely had time to raise his rifle before the terrorist was on him. They slammed into the ground, Balwinder’s weapon slipping from his grasp. The knife came down, but Balwinder caught his wrist, muscles straining.

            With a sharp twist, Balwinder forced his wrist back, the blade clattering to the dirt. Using the momentum, he rolled, pinning the terrorist beneath him. His hand found his sidearm, and without pause, he pressed the barrel against his temple.

            For a moment, they locked eyes.

            The terrorist spat in defiance.

            A single shot ended it.

            When Balwinder emerged, Singh was already tending to another injured man - Lance Naik Raghav, shot in the shoulder.

            "All clear?" Singh asked.

            "All clear," Balwinder nodded.

            Three terrorists neutralized. Two of our own wounded but alive. The village, which had stood in eerie silence before the encounter, was now quieter still. War had passed through again.

            As the team secured the area, waiting for evacuation, Singh sat beside Lakhan.

            "You’ll be back on your feet in no time," he said, squeezing his shoulder.

            Lakhan grinned weakly. "Next time, I’m wearing a steel plate on my leg."

            A brief chuckle. A sliver of humanity amid brutality.

            The stars shone cold above, watching with distant indifference. And in that breath of night, we added another tale to the ledger of memory.

 

“In the shadows where silence screams, it’s not medals that matter - it’s the men who walk back into the dark, again and again.”

            We returned from Kulgam bruised but breathing, our boots heavy with silence. The following days dissolved into the mechanical rhythm of paperwork, debriefs, and bandages - some wrapped in gauze, others buried beneath silence. War, I had come to realize, doesn’t end with the last bullet; it lingers - in the eyes of frightened villagers, in the soil that refuses to forget, and in the hearts of those who must carry on. That night, as I slid into my sleeping bag, the cold creeping in like memory itself, my mind slipped - not forward, but back. Back to a time before the fog of fear and fatigue, to the polished corridors of Army Headquarters. There, among quieter evenings and kinder hours, life had a different flavor - one of unhurried laughter, old friendships, and cups filled not just with rum, but with warmth.

 

Some nights, when the war outside rages loudest, it’s the gentler memories that rise - stronger, steadier, reminding us of who we were before we learned to sleep beside our own ghosts.

 Chapter 29 - The Chase Beyond the Barrel

“Sometimes, the fiercest weapon is not in your hands, but in your resolve.”

 

            The woman’s blood had barely dried when the next trail lit up. Her death wasn’t the end, it was a spark. In these valleys, every bullet echoed into the next ambush, every fallen terrorist left behind a brother, a cousin, or a commander hell-bent on revenge. We hadn’t even debriefed the last operation when new intel came in. Another cell, another hideout, only this time, it wasn’t love shielding the fugitive. It was firepower. They had a rocket launcher. That alone shifted the air. In war, you don’t always get time to mourn or reflect. Sometimes, you just chase the next gun before it turns on you.      

            The mountains stood in eerie silence, their jagged peaks piercing the sky like ancient sentinels. The cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant gunpowder. Our Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had received intelligence about three terrorists hiding in a far-flung village from our Tral camp. This was no ordinary mission. The enemy was reportedly equipped with a rocket launcher, a rarity among the militants we usually encountered. There was tension in the air, but also a grim determination.

            As we moved in formation, our boots sinking into the moist forest floor, the sun had already begun its descent behind the mountains. The golden light cast long shadows, painting a hauntingly beautiful picture of the impending battle. Every step was taken with caution, every rustle of leaves scrutinized for danger. We had been trained for this, for the silent hunt, the deadly precision, and the chaos that was bound to follow.

            Suddenly, a deafening explosion shattered the stillness. A rocket screeched through the air, missing us by a significant distance and striking the rocks far below. The blast echoed like thunder in the valley. The terrorists had fired first, but their lack of precision told us something vital, they were not as well-trained as they wanted us to believe.

            Our team took their positions swiftly, identifying the source of the attack. The terrorists were positioned at a lower altitude from where we stood, a tactical disadvantage they seemed oblivious to. Our QRT in-charge, a battle-hardened officer, assessed the situation with the calm of a seasoned warrior. His voice was firm, unwavering.

            "Now we will get them down!"

            The order was clear, and the execution was immediate. The man handling the rocket launcher was spotted on the roof of a house, his head barely visible over the parapet. Without hesitation, our Light Machine Gun (LMG) operator took aim, his finger steady on the trigger. A controlled burst of gunfire cut through the air. The terrorist’s body jerked violently before he slumped forward, lifeless.

            The rest of the team descended the mountainside with the stealth of panthers, using the thick vegetation as cover. We knew the other two terrorists were still inside, hiding like rats in a burrow. The village at the foot of the mountain was eerily silent, its mud houses standing as silent witnesses to the conflict.

            As we reached flat ground, our eyes scanned the area carefully. A handful of houses stood clustered together, their wooden doors closed tight, their windows barely revealing the fear-stricken faces within. One of the villagers, an elderly man with sunken cheeks, dared to peek through his window. Our officer caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

            The old man hesitated, then slowly raised his hand, pointing toward the house next door. His fingers trembled slightly, whether from fear or cold, we couldn’t tell.

            Our officer signaled for absolute silence. We waited. The minutes stretched endlessly, each second a battle against impatience and the rush of adrenaline. Our fingers hovered over triggers, eyes locked on the door that stood between us and our prey.

            Twenty-five minutes passed. Then, the wooden door creaked open.

            Two figures emerged cautiously, their heads darting left and right like nervous animals surveying their surroundings. Finding no immediate threat, they stepped out, walking toward the left side of the alley.

            Four of our soldiers were hidden in the darkness there, their rifles trained on the terrorists. Our team had clear orders, to capture at least one alive. The moment the terrorists came into range, the ambush was executed with textbook precision. A single shot took down one of them, his body collapsing with a dull thud onto the dirt path.

            The remaining terrorist bolted forward with surprising agility, his AK-56 slung over his shoulder. He ran while firing blindly behind him, the bullets tearing through the air without aim or purpose. It would have been easy…too easy, to shoot him down. But orders were orders. 

            Then, in an act of reckless heroism, one of our own broke formation.  Som Bahadur Thapa, a fierce soldier from the Gorkha Rifles, launched himself into pursuit. The officer’s voice rang out in warning.

            "Thapa, stop!"

            But Thapa ignored the command. His legs pumped furiously, his breath coming in short bursts. The weight of his Self-Loading Rifle (SLR) was slowing him down. Without hesitation, he let go of the rifle mid-run, tossing it aside in favor of raw speed.

            The terrorist, realizing he was being chased, increased his pace, weaving through the narrow alleys in desperation. But Thapa was relentless. His boots barely seemed to touch the ground as he closed the distance between them.

            And then, in an act so audacious it belonged in a movie, Thapa leaped.  It was a sight that none of us would ever forget. He sprang forward like a frog, his body soaring through the air before colliding with the terrorist’s legs. The impact sent them both crashing to the ground, a cloud of dust rising around them. 

            The terrorist struggled, kicking and clawing, his hands reaching for his rifle. But Thapa was quicker. He twisted the terrorist’s arm behind his back, forcing him onto his stomach. In a swift motion, he snatched the man’s own turban from his head and used it to bind his wrists.

            By the time we reached the scene, Thapa was sitting triumphantly atop the subdued terrorist, a wide grin splitting his dirt-streaked face.

            Our officer, who had been furious moments ago, now stood shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

            "You madman," he muttered before breaking into a chuckle. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

            Thapa simply shrugged. "But I didn't, sir. And we have him alive."

            The terrorist lay beneath him, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with a mix of hatred and fear. He knew his fate was sealed.

            As we secured the prisoner and regrouped, the significance of what had just happened settled in. The terrorists were not the fearless warriors they pretended to be. They relied on ambush tactics, on fear, on deception. But when faced with real combat, their courage crumbled like sandcastles before the tide.

            We had won. Not just because of our weapons, but because of our training, our discipline, and the sheer audacity of a soldier who refused to let his prey escape.

             That night, as we returned to camp, our victory felt like more than just another mission accomplished. It was a reminder that courage was not just about facing the enemy with a rifle in hand. Sometimes, courage was chasing a terrorist down with nothing but bare hands and the will to see the fight through to the end.

 

“Thapa’s leap wasn’t just across mud and dust, it was across every line the enemy thought we wouldn’t cross.”

            As we hauled the captured terrorist back toward camp, a new message crackled through the radio - another village, another den. This time, they weren’t running. They were waiting. Three terrorists, well-armed and barricaded in a house at the far edge of a village we’d marked before but never breached. The name of the informer was missing, his voice anonymous, but his information rang with the sharpness of truth. There was no rest for the brave. What Thapa had finished with his bare hands, we would begin again with loaded rifles. Next chapter wouldn’t be a pursuit. It would be a siege, and the quiet of the village would speak only in gunfire.

 Chapter 28 - When the Dead Rise Firing`

“She loved a ghost who only lived to kill - and died before he could love her back.”

            The protest in Tral had bled resolve from all sides, but it was only the prelude to something stranger. Protests could be silenced, mobs dispersed. But what do you do when death itself lies? In the shadowed valleys of South Kashmir, just days after the slogans died down, we faced a moment that rewrote every rule of engagement. It wasn’t the volume of bullets that shocked us, but the haunting calm before, and after. The dead, we believed, couldn’t shoot. But that day, in a village wrapped in mist and betrayal, even that certainty was shattered.           

            The morning mist curled around the high mountains like a restless spirit, shrouding the village in an eerie stillness. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, mingled with the faint scent of wood smoke drifting from unseen homes. The silence was deceptive, too quiet, too measured. It was the kind of silence that weighed heavy, a silence that knew something before anyone else did.

            Our crack team moved cautiously, their boots crunching against the loose gravel as they navigated the rugged terrain. Information had come in, two terrorists were spotted in the area, moving through the shadows of the village that nestled like a secret in the valley. Every villager was a potential witness, but also a potential shield for the intruders. Experience had taught us to read faces, to find truth in hesitation and fear.

            A shepherd, his turban pulled low over his forehead, shifted uncomfortably when asked about the strangers. His eyes darted toward the village, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing across his face. That was all the confirmation we needed.

            The village was a cluster of mud-and-stone houses, their rooftops caving inward under the weight of time and hardship. As we reached the outskirts, a sudden movement caught our attention. From the narrow alleys emerged a group of villagers, their voices rising in a familiar chant, "Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!( We will eat half of the bread and go to Pakistan)." The pattern was one we had seen before, in Tral. Women in the front, men in the background, their faces unreadable, their purpose clear.

            Our officer-in-charge, standing tall amidst the tension, didn’t flinch. The soldiers uarding him moved instinctively, forming a protective barrier between him and the protestors. The air vibrated with a dangerous energy, like the static before a storm.

            Then, it happened.

            One of the women broke formation, stepping forward with quick, precise movements. Her hands lunged for the AK-47 of a nearby guard, her grip strong, her intent unmistakable. But the guard was no ordinary soldier, years of training had forged his reflexes into steel. He held firm, his fingers locked around the weapon. The struggle lasted only seconds, but in those seconds, the impossible happened.

            A sudden crack of gunfire split the air.

            The burst of bullets found their mark, and a man in the crowd staggered, his body convulsing as he crumpled to the ground. The woman gasped, her face twisting in shock as she tried to pull away. The villagers scattered like frightened birds, their chants dying in their throats. But the soldier’s grip was unrelenting. Her wrist remained caught in his iron hold.

            The officer’s gaze locked onto her, cold and unyielding. "Who was he?" His voice carried no emotion, just the weight of command.

            She trembled, her body betraying her. "He... he was a terrorist," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the ringing silence that followed the gunfire.

            A lesser officer might have accepted her answer at face value. But not ours. He had learned from the mistakes of others, from stories that had ended in tragedy. The memory of Lt. Col. S.K. Razdan haunted many - how a terrorist, presumed dead, had risen like a specter and changed everything in a blink.

            He turned to the woman, his expression unreadable. "Check him," he ordered.

            Her eyes widened in terror. She shook her head, taking a small step back, but the soldier holding her did not let go. "Go," the officer repeated, his voice firm.

            With reluctant, trembling legs, she moved toward the fallen man. Each step felt like a journey through fire, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She knelt beside him, her hands hovering hesitantly over his chest.

            And then…

            A flash of movement. A glint of metal.

            The ‘dead’ man surged up, his pistol already raised.  The explosion of gunfire was deafening.

            The woman barely had time to scream before the bullets tore through her. She collapsed, her blood staining the dust beneath her, eyes frozen in an expression of betrayal. The terrorist had mistaken her for one of us.

            But the officer had been faster. His rifle spoke, a single shot cracking through the suffocating silence. The terrorist’s body jerked once before falling back, truly lifeless this time.

 

Letter Fragment - Found in a Journal Entry of a Soldier

(Date and Name Withheld)

 

“We are taught to look for the man with a gun. No one tells you how to spot the woman hiding his heart. She didn’t fire a shot, yet the blood on her hands told the loudest story. Maybe she didn’t know what love cost. Or maybe she did, and paid in full.”

         The air settled, thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. The villagers, peering cautiously from behind broken walls and half-closed doors, did not move. 

            Later, when the village elders finally emerged, their voices were hushed, their eyes cast downward. They confirmed what had already become evident, the woman had been the terrorist’s lover, his safe haven in this labyrinth of deception. For two months, he had moved like a ghost through these streets, hidden in plain sight, protected by her silence.

            Yet, in the end, fate had played its hand. He had been standing among a crowd, shielded by chaos, but the bullets had found him. It was as if destiny itself had chosen that moment to tip the scales in our favor.  No injuries were reported on our side. No soldier had fallen. It was a rare thing, in war, to walk away unscathed.

            That night, as the mist crept back into the valley, I thought of the woman, of the man who had clung to the illusion of invincibility until the very last breath. War was never just about guns and grenades. It was about choices, about the weight of loyalty and the cost of silence. It was about the fog that blurred the lines between friend and foe, making everything uncertain - until, in a single gunshot, the truth was revealed.

 

“No one died on our side that day, but something always does. Trust, maybe. Or the belief that love can save anyone in war. As the mist reclaimed the valley, we left behind no bodies, only ghosts.”

 

            The village was quiet when we left, but we knew the silence wouldn't last. What we thought ended with a single bullet would echo into a chase that defied every protocol we’d been trained to follow. Because sometimes, the dead don’t rest, and their comrades don’t run far. One of ours would soon break formation, driven not by command, but by instinct - a pursuit not just of a fleeing terrorist, but of a fleeting sense of justice. The chapter coming up, wouldn’t be fought from behind a bunker. It would be chased down through mud, breath, and sheer grit -beyond the barrel.

 Chapter 27 - The Protest That Bled - Tral, 1993

 “In wars where faces lie, truth often dies in silence.”

- Anonymous combat note scribbled in frost, Tral, 1993

            The ash of Sopore still clung to our boots when Tral called us next - not with radio orders, but with a rising wave of human voices. After Hazratbal’s siege and Sopore’s smoke-stained aftermath, we thought we had seen the worst of what fury and faith could do to a people. But Kashmir wasn’t done with us. Where fire had failed to shake the world’s conscience, now slogans tried. In Tral, 1993, the battlefield changed its face: the enemy no longer wore camouflage or carried guns. This time, they came wrapped in shawls, carrying slogans sharper than shrapnel.       

            The air in Tral always carried a certain weight, thick with the scent of damp earth and lingering gunpowder. The fog clung to the valley like an old, tattered cloak, swallowing everything beyond a few meters. It was a place where silence whispered of unseen dangers and every shadow hid a potential enemy.

            Our battalion headquarters was set up in Tral Rest House, a building that bore scars of past violence - walls chipped by bullets, windows shattered, gaping like wounds refusing to heal. Our ‘D’ Company, along with another unit, was stationed near a sluggish canal that meandered through the terrain like a dried vein in the wintered earth.

            One afternoon, without warning, a large crowd emerged from the town, voices rising in rhythmic slogans that echoed off the hills.

 

“Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!”

(We will eat half of the bread but go to Pakistan!)

             We had heard that chant before. What unsettled us was the composition of the protest: women at the forefront, faces grim and eyes hardened - not just defiant, but desperately rehearsed. Behind them, men walked in silence, eyes shrouded in unreadable calculation.

            Instincts flared. This wasn’t spontaneous. It was orchestrated. A shield of femininity used to mask the threat beneath. Our officers remained calm but firm:

            "Hold your positions. This could be a cover. Watch the men behind them."

            No gunfire was exchanged. No baton raised. We watched. They marched. For half an hour, tension coiled in the air like a live wire - then, as suddenly as they had come, they dispersed into the mist.

It felt unfinished.

 Two days later, we learned why.

Soldier’s Field Note – Tral Diary, 10 January 1993

·         Sometimes, the ghosts in this valley don’t wear white. They wear pherans and silence. Today I saw a boy wave at us. Not with a hand, but with the dead stare of someone who’s seen what grenades do to bone.

·         I cleaned my rifle thrice today. Not because it jammed. Because I didn’t want to clean my thoughts.

·         The women came. Then they left. And something about their eyes told me they’d return - but not alone.

·         It’s the waiting that kills more than the bullets. Waiting to be wrong… or too right. 

Routine can kill

            Every morning, a 1-ton truck left from our unit to the Tral Rest House to collect rations, soldiers' inland letters, and new orders. The same route. The same time. Predictable. A soldier’s death trap.

            That morning, the fog lay heavier than usual, painting everything in shades of slate and sorrow. As the convoy moved, its tires crunched over loose gravel. The birds took flight too suddenly.

            Then came the sound - a whoosh in the fog.

            A grenade lobbed from the rooftop arced like a meteor and landed with a soft thunk on the truck’s roof.

            Seconds later - an eruption of flame and steel. The vehicle buckled. Shrapnel tore through metal and flesh. Soldiers leapt out, diving to the ground as the truck bled smoke into the sky.

            Panic unfolded. Civilians ran screaming. One of our jawans, half his arm drenched in red, still clutched his rifle. Another rolled out of the smoke, his face scorched but alive. Others weren’t so lucky.

Rage replaced discipline.

            We stormed the house from where the grenade had come. Room by room, rooftop to stairs - but the militants had melted into the alleyways, faceless as fog. On the street, amidst the frozen crowd, a soldier’s gaze fixed on a familiar face, the woman who had led the protest two days ago.

            She was trembling, her eyes shifting between us and the smoldering wreckage. A soldier grabbed her arm, fury barely contained. When the officer arrived, his voice was flint:

            "Who were they?"

            She hesitated - lips quivering, but tears unshed.

            "My family is under threat. I didn’t want this," she finally whispered.

And then it unraveled.

            She confessed. The protest had been a cover. The militants were there - blending in, reading our response. They wanted us to fire, to act harshly, to reveal habits, break rules. We hadn’t. So they planned a bigger blow. And used her. Used all of them.

           It shattered something in us. Not because we didn’t expect it - but because it came with a voice, a face, a confession. The realization was heavier than the explosion.

            This was not just war with bullets. It was a psychological ambush. A war waged through the coercion of civilians, the subversion of rituals, the manipulation of empathy.

            This wasn’t just the enemy hiding in the hills - it was the enemy hiding inside the fear of women, the silence of children, the compliance of mothers.

            The woman was taken away - not as a prisoner, not quite a witness - but something harder to define.

In Tral, the fog never lifted. It merely waited - morphing into faces we couldn’t trust, voices we couldn’t follow. We learned that in some wars, bullets are optional. Guilt is not.

 

And some protests don’t chant slogans.

 

They bleed.

            That protest in Tral bled more than bodies - it bled belief, from both sides of the barbed wire. It taught us that rage wasn’t always loud, and death not always expected. The line between civilian and militant had begun to blur, not in uniforms but in intent. And just when we thought it couldn't get more surreal, we would face the unthinkable: a woman lunging for a soldier’s rifle, her eyes not pleading, but burning with purpose. Next chapter would not be about war or protest. It would be about something darker, when the dead rise firing.