Chapter 4 - Echoes Between Two Worlds

 "Some journeys take us forward; others take us back to where we left our soul behind" 

            The echo of laughter from Vinod’s shop still clung faintly to me as I boarded the train once again, this time bound for home. It was strange how the memory of love letters and literature still lingered under the surface, even as dust from tank drills clung to my boots. That boy who scribbled poetry by the Beas riverbanks - he hadn't vanished, he had simply worn a different skin. But the uniform had begun to sink deeper, like ink soaking through paper, and with each passing journey between the barracks and the village, I was beginning to realize that some parts of me might never fully return.        

            The train wheels clattered rhythmically against the tracks, a steady percussion that seemed to echo the heartbeat of a man caught between two worlds. I sat by the window, my uniform crisp but my mind frayed at the edges, as the landscape blurred past in a mosaic of greens and browns. The journey was always the same, yet each time it felt different. When I was leaving the army for home, the train felt sluggish, as though it were dragging its feet, reluctant to let me go. But when I was returning to the barracks, it raced like a wild stallion, eager to swallow the distance and plunge me back into the disciplined chaos of military life. Today, I was on my way home, and yet, for the first time, I wished the train would hurry. My thoughts were already there, wandering the dusty streets of my village, lingering under the twin oak trees where I had spent countless evenings with friends, their laughter still ringing in my ears.

            The images came unbidden, like scenes from an old film reel. The door of our house, weathered by time and rain, creaked open in my mind, revealing the warm, dimly lit interior where my mother’s hands moved deftly over the stove, filling the air with the scent of spices and nostalgia. My father’s stern face softened as he saw me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a pride he rarely voiced. My brothers, their faces alight with mischief, would clap me on the back, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of welcome. And then there were the friends - Deepa, Malkit, and the others - their faces glowing with the kind of joy that only comes from years of shared memories and unspoken bonds. The thought of them made my heart swell, and I could feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

            But as the train chugged on, another memory surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. It was from my last leave, a fourteen-day reprieve that had started with laughter and ended in chaos. The images played out in vivid detail, as though my mind had stored them in high definition, waiting for the right moment to replay them. That day, Malkit, Deepa, and I had found ourselves in the only liquor bar in Beas, a dimly lit, smoky place where the air was thick with the scent of cheap alcohol and unspoken regrets. We had gone there to “heal our souls,” as Malkit had put it, though in hindsight, it was more like pouring fuel on a fire. By the time we stumbled out, the world had taken on a hazy, dreamlike quality, and our laughter echoed through the empty streets as we made our way back to the village.

            It was at the village’s wired turn that things took a turn for the worse. The three of us, still riding the high of our earlier revelry, decided that our souls were not yet “settled.” In our inebriated wisdom, we concluded that a visit to the houses in the village known for their “spirit-healing medicine” was in order. What we found instead was Ratu, a man with a temper as short as his stature and a stick as thick as his pride. He had some vague connection to Malkit’s family, though the exact nature of it was lost on me. What wasn’t lost on me was the way he lunged at Malkit, his stick raised like a weapon. Deepa, ever the pragmatist, bolted for home, but I stayed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was loyalty, or maybe it was just the recklessness that comes from knowing you’re invincible, if only for a moment.

            The next few minutes were a blur. Ratu swung the stick, and I grabbed it from behind, wrenching it from his grasp with a force that surprised even me. He fell, hard, and when I turned him over, his head was bleeding profusely. Malkit grabbed my arm, his voice urgent-

            “Come… run away from here.”

            We did, our footsteps pounding against the earth as we fled to the river, where we sat in silence, the weight of what had just happened settling over us like a shroud.

            By the time we returned home, the news had already spread. My father was waiting, his face unreadable. He didn’t say much, just asked my mother if I was hurt. That night, Malkit and I slept in a drunken stupor, the events of the day fading into a haze of guilt and fear. The next morning, my uncle woke us with the news that we had been registered under Act 326 at the police station. My father, ever the strategist, decided to send us to the city until things cooled down. We spent the day at the Jalandhar railway station, eating snacks and trying to ignore the gnawing sense of dread in our stomachs. By evening, the case was closed, and my father put me on the train to Jammu, his face a mask of stoic resignation.

            As the train pulled away from the station, I felt a strange mix of relief and terror. Relief that I was escaping the consequences of my actions, and terror at the thought of what awaited me when I returned. It was my first leave after the incident, and the memory of it hung over me like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the joy I usually felt at the prospect of going home.

            But there was another memory, too, one that brought a sense of pride and fulfillment. It was the memory of my father’s face when he came to visit me after I had been appointed the Officer Commanding’s Tank Driver. It was a position of honor, one that had come after months of grueling training and countless trials. I had gone from a nervous recruit, my hands slick with sweat as I gripped the controls of the tank, to a confident driver who could maneuver the massive machine with ease and precision. The recognition had not come overnight. It was the result of years of perseverance, of learning the nuances of tank driving until it became second nature. My fellow soldiers spoke of me with respect, and their words reached the ears of our Squadron Commander, Major RS Balhara.

            One morning, Major Balhara decided to test my mettle. He, along with the Squadron Dafedar Major, a gunner, and a wireless operator, climbed into the tank with me. As I took my position at the controls, his voice crackled through the headset -

            “Okay, forget it. Now get up to speed and cross the mound!”

            I accelerated, the ground shaking beneath us as the tank climbed the mound. His voice came again, sharp and sudden.

            “Halt!”

            Years of training kicked in, and I brought the tank to a smooth stop, avoiding the jarring effect of a sudden brake. A smile crept onto my lips as I heard his approval -

            “Forget it, forget it. Just to see what action you take on a sudden order, and you did the right thing. Good.”

            After that day, I was given the responsibility of the tank of Officer-in-Command (O.I.C). It was a position of trust, one that came with the understanding that I was not just a driver, but the owner of the tank. I wrote to my father about it, and his response was everything I had hoped for. He came to visit me, his face glowing with pride as he congratulated me on my success. 

             “Everyone is saying that my son is very talented,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. For a man who had served in the same regiment for 28 years, it was more than just an honor; it was a legacy fulfilled.

            As the train hurtled toward my village, I clung to that memory, letting it push aside the darker thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me. I urged the train to run faster, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. This holiday would be different, I told myself. I would forget the past and focus on the present, on the joy of being home, of seeing my family and friends, of reclaiming the sense of belonging that only my village could give me.

            And yet, as the train pulled into the station and I stepped onto the platform, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The village looked the same, the streets still dusty, the twin oak trees still standing tall, but I was different. The incident with Ratu, the weight of my responsibilities in the army, the pride in my father’s eyes - it had all left its mark. I was no longer the carefree boy who had left this place so many years ago. I was a soldier, a man, caught between two worlds, trying to find my place in both.

            As I walked through the familiar streets, the faces of my loved ones coming into view, I felt a surge of emotion - joy, relief, and something deeper, something I couldn’t quite name. It was the feeling of coming home, not just to a place, but to myself. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that everything would be alright.

The lanes still curved like they used to, the mustard fields still danced in the breeze, and the old well still whispered secrets to the wind. But he - I - was no longer the boy who once chased kites here. Somewhere between bugle calls and battlefield silences, something in me had stilled. My mother’s eyes searched for the child she kissed goodbye; my friends laughed a little softer, sensing the distance in my smile. I had returned in body, yes, but pieces of my soul still marched in faraway valleys. And so, home embraced me gently… not as I was, but as I had become - a quiet echo of two worlds, stitched together with longing.