The Sniper, the Snowfall, and the Second Chance

There are nights when the fog doesn’t roll in - it arrives with a bullet.

            I remember the silence before the first shot more than the sound of the shot itself. It was a silence so full, so stretched, it felt like it was waiting for something to break. That something was me. One moment I was staring at the snowfall outside my glass window - quiet, gentle, almost magical - and the next, the glass itself shattered into a thousand truths. I wasn’t in an office anymore. I was in a crosshair.

 

            What followed wasn’t just a sniper attack in the middle of Kashmir. It was a realization: sometimes the safest place in the world can still be a target. And sometimes, the universe gives you a second chance, not because you deserve it -  but because it wants you to remember why you’re alive.

  In the silence of snowfall, a sniper’s bullet spoke louder than fate

             Life in the military is a delicate dance with fate - a journey where each day unfolds as a new chapter in a story woven with threads of uncertainty, camaraderie, and resilience. The fog of war, both literal and metaphorical, shrouds every moment, transforming the mundane into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye. My time with the Rashtriya Rifles, stationed in the remote and rugged terrain of Bona Devsar, was a testament to this paradox of routine and unpredictability. It was a life where the line between safety and danger blurred, where the mountains stood as silent witnesses to both our triumphs and our trials.

            It was during my tenure in Pahalgam that my expertise in drafting reports and correspondence caught the attention of my superiors. My transfer from D Company to the Regimental Headquarters (RHQ) of the 6 Rashtriya Rifles was both an honor and a challenge. The camp, perched atop a mountain painstakingly leveled by the engineering regiment, was a marvel of ingenuity, a sanctuary amidst the volatile landscape of Jammu and Kashmir. My office, located on the edge of this flat summit, offered a breathtaking view of the valley below. The wooden walls, glass windows, and doors of the office stood as a beacon of light and activity in the otherwise dark and silent expanse of the mountains. Yet, as the events of one fateful night would remind me, even the safest places could be rendered vulnerable in an instant. 

            As autumn surrendered to winter, the valley braced itself for its first snowfall. The air was thick with anticipation, and the mountains, already cloaked in frost, seemed to hold their breath. That evening, I sat alone in my office, waiting for the Operation Party (OP) to return from their patrol. Outside, delicate flakes of snow drifted lazily to the ground, their fragile beauty a stark contrast to the harsh realities of our mission. It was the first snowfall I had ever witnessed, and it filled me with a sense of wonder and tranquility.

            The serene atmosphere stirred a desire within me to celebrate this historic moment. I fetched a bottle of rum from the canteen, intending to savor a peg or two as I marveled at the snowfall. The warmth of the drink and the soft glow of the electric lights in my office provided a comforting respite from the biting cold outside. The generator hummed incessantly, its rhythmic pulse a familiar backdrop to the quiet night.

            As I leaned forward to pour myself another peg, the peace was shattered. Despite the noise of the generator, a sharp, unmistakable crack pierced the silence, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Fragments of the window scattered across my desk, and my heart leapt into my throat. It felt as though an electric current had coursed through me, a sniper’s bullet had found its mark. I threw the chair back and dropped to the floor, my mind racing. Another shot could come at any moment. I knew I was the target; the light from my office had made me a shining beacon in the dark camp. Crawling on my elbows, I reached for the switch and plunged the room into darkness.

            Outside, tracer bullets streaked through the cold night air, their fiery trails revealing the sniper’s position on a distant mountain. The camp was in chaos, but the soldiers at the main gate acted swiftly, alerting the officer in charge of the OP. However, engaging the sniper was no simple task. The firing came from a considerable distance, and it could easily be a trap - a ploy to lure us into an ambush. Our officers decided against immediate action, opting instead to wait out the threat.

            In the darkened office, I steadied my breath and assessed my options. Exiting cautiously, I took cover behind a walnut tree near the building. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as I waited, my senses heightened to every sound and movement. Gradually, the firing subsided, and a tense calm returned to the camp. It had been a small but calculated action by shadowy terrorists, an attempt to disrupt our mission and instill fear.

            Once the immediate danger had passed, I joined the officer in charge to prepare a report of the incident. By the dim light of a lantern, we documented the events and sent the report to higher headquarters. The night had been a stark reminder of the ever-present threat that loomed over us.

            The next morning, the impact of the sniper attack was evident. Bullet holes riddled the wooden walls of the offices, each one a chilling testament to how close I had come to death. Our second-in-command (2IC) inspected the site and inquired about the incident. I recounted the events, my voice steady but my mind still reeling. His eyes fell on the bottle of rum, the glass, and the water bottle lying next to my chair. A wide grin spread across his face.

            “You are saved!” he said, laughing. There was truth in his words - I had been incredibly lucky to escape unharmed.

             The incident prompted immediate changes. Curtains were hung in all the offices and living quarters to prevent light from spilling out and making us easy targets. The camp, as always, adapted to the evolving threats of our environment. Yet, for me, the experience left an indelible mark. I was acutely aware of having been granted a second chance, a life borrowed from the brink of death. Each day became a gift, an opportunity to appreciate the bonds of camaraderie, the beauty of the mountains, and the resilience of the human spirit.

             The mist that often enveloped Bona Devsar was not just a veil of nature but a metaphor for the uncertainty that defined our existence. It blurred the lines between safety and danger, friend and foe, life and death. Yet, within this fog, there was clarity - a profound understanding of what it meant to serve, to protect, and to endure.

             The sniper’s bullet was more than a near-death experience; it was a stark reminder of the complexities of life in the Army. It was a lesson in vigilance, a testament to the strength of the human spirit, and a moment that forever altered my understanding of courage. Courage, I realized, was not the absence of fear but the ability to act despite it.

             That night, sleep eluded me. The echo of the gunshot reverberated in my ears, and my eyes kept darting to the shattered windowpanes strewn across the table. The incident had shaken me to my core, but it had also reinforced my resolve. In the face of danger, we had stood firm, adapting and persevering. The fog of war might obscure the path ahead, but it also revealed the determination within - the will to face the unknown, to endure, and to emerge stronger on the other side.

             As I recount this chapter of my life, the memories remain etched in the canvas of my mind, much like the bullet holes in those wooden walls. The sniper’s shot was a turning point, a moment that crystallized the essence of my journey in the Rashtriya Rifles. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, there is light - a light born of resilience, camaraderie, and an unyielding spirit. And it is this light that continues to guide me, even as the fog of war lingers on.

             In war, the enemy may remain unseen, but the lessons never do. That bullet didn’t just crack glass, it shattered illusions of safety, making space for deeper truths. I learned that courage isn’t born in moments of glory but in the quiet decision to keep showing up - to keep the light on, even when it makes you a target.

In the hush that followed the snowfall and sniper fire, I realized that survival was not just a matter of luck or training, it was grace. A silent grace that tiptoes past bullets and buries itself in the snow, only to rise again as breath, heartbeat, and a second chance.