Chapter 11
IRA
The afternoon sun, which had been steadily strong throughout the day, began to set and cast long, distorted shadows over the training ground.
Still, the heat persisted, clutching everything in a stifling embrace.
I sat at my desk, the rhythmic click of the keyboard a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the day outside.
Just then, a shrill, angry voice echoed through the air, jolting me from my thoughts.
It was Prashant, his roar echoing across the parade ground.
I stood up abruptly, my chair sliding back violently, and peered out the window.
He was a storm, venting his anger on a young subordinate who was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm.
"What the hell happened to him lately?" I muttered softly, my jaw tightening.
He had become different since our last visit, colder and harsher.
This was not the Prashant I knew. The man I had worked with, whose unwavering resolve I had admired, seemed to have vanished, replaced by a hard, unbending stranger.
I could tolerate rigorous training; I understood the need for discipline in our work.
But this? This was the height of sheer cruelty.
He was pushing these men beyond their limits, forcing them to run in the hot, merciless sun, with parched throats, on empty stomachs.
Some were doing hundreds of push-ups until their muscles screamed in protest. Some were running with thirty- kilo sacks strapped to their backs, their legs wobbling with the heavy weight.
This was not training; this was punishment. And I, with a certainty that shook me to my core, knew I had to stop this.
Breathing deeply, I descended onto the training ground. The air vibrated with the stifling heat, making me squint. Sweat instantly wet my collar, clinging to my skin. The screams and grunts of the soldiers in the distance seemed to grow even louder in the oppressive atmosphere.
As I walked forward, I caught sight of the surrounded soldiers.
Their faces were pale, their movements sluggish.
Just then, a young soldier stumbled, his legs giving way beneath him.
The heavy sack slid off his back with a dull thud and he fell to the ground, gasping, his chest heaving uncontrollably.
His lips were dry and cracked, his face a mask of agony.
Without thinking, I rushed and pulled a water bottle from my holster.
I knelt down next to him and pressed the cold plastic bottle to his parched lips.
He drank greedily, his hands shaking as if he hadn't had water in days.
I looked up, taking a glance around. Prashant hadn't seen me yet; he was still immersed in his scathing comments on another group of soldiers, his back to me.
"Get up," I whispered, patting the young man's soaked shoulder. "Go. Hurry, before he sees..."
"Lieutenant Solanki!"
The words pierced the air, shrill and merciless. I froze, my stomach sank. His voice was a physical shock. Slowly, I turned, my eyes meeting his. They were cold, sharp, and devoid of any warmth at all.
"What are you doing with that water bottle?" he asked, his voice very low.
"Umm..." I stuttered, my mind searching for excuses. I looked at the soldier standing next to me, who also looked equally scared. He started to stutter, but Prashant interrupted him.
"Now he will run two more rounds with that sack," Prashant said flatly, without taking his eyes off me.
The soldier next to me panicked, his eyes wide with disappointment.
"It wasn't his fault," I said in shock, my fear replaced immediately by anger. "I gave him water. He tried to refuse." My grip on the water bottle tightened, and for a moment, I imagined I had his neck in my hands.
"Then you run two rounds," he said coldly, his voice emotionless. "With the sack. For breaking protocol."
He turned and walked away without another word, his back straight.
"Sir!" I called out, but he didn't even acknowledge me. He returned to his post, his attention focused on the other soldiers as if I were just a ghost, a momentary inconvenience he had already ignored.
"Ma'am, you don't have to do that..." the young soldier began, voice full of concern, but I interrupted him by shaking my head vigorously. It wasn't about him anymore. It was about Prashant, his brutality, and my insubordination.
I stood, rolling up my sleeves, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Fine. He wanted to punish me? I'll show him I can handle it. I'll show him his tricks won't break me, won't make me compromise my humanity.
I walked toward the starting point, every step a declaration of defiance. Someone, a grim-faced corporal, strapped a twenty-kilogram sack to my back. As it rested on my shoulders, a sigh escaped my lips and a sharp pain shot through my spine.
My old backache, a persistent shadow from an injury I'd suffered months earlier, returned instantly, like a sharp, unwelcome guest. My body, a mere fifty-five kilos, seemed insignificant in the face of that enormous load.
Still, I straightened my shoulders, not letting the pain show on my face. I looked straight ahead, my eyes fixed on the dusty path in front of me. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
Prashant didn't even look at me. His eyes were fixed on the other soldiers, his expressions incomprehensible, as if I didn't exist.
I took a deep, shaky breath, steeling myself. Then, I ran. And as my boots hit the ground, I swore to myself that I would always remember this cruelty, this unjust punishment.
"You have to finish this in five minutes," Prashant's voice echoed across the field, and my eyes widened in surprise. Five minutes? With this weight and this heat, it was an impossible task, a deliberate attempt to break me.
I didn't look at him, I just ran. My lungs were burning, every breath a painful wheeze.
My back screamed in protest, a constant, throbbing agony.
But I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I bit my lip hard, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth, and I pushed forward, groaning as sharp, piercing pain ran down my spine with each jolt.
The sack was heavy and shaking mercilessly, slamming into my body.
On the first swing, I nearly fell to the muddy ground, my vision blurred, but I heaved the sack higher on my shoulders, took a sharp breath, and, filled with a rebellious rage, increased my speed.
"Two minutes left!" Prashant yelled, his voice echoing like a whip across the training ground.
I pushed harder, my legs burning, my muscles screaming in protest. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lips were cracked and dry.
Sweat dripped from my temples, soaked my arms, and dripped down my back, creating tiny streams that stung the angry red marks forming on my skin.
Every breath was a struggle, every step a tremendous effort.
"One minute!" A shrill whistle echoed through the air, signaling the rapidly dwindling time.
I forced my feet to move faster, my vision blurring as I neared the finish line.
My lungs were burning, my heart pounding against my ribs.
I stumbled, almost fell, but somehow, I found a reserve of strength I hadn't known I had.
I got there just in time, falling to my knees in the mud, gasping for breath, my arms shaking uncontrollably.
My body felt like it was being ripped to pieces, every fiber of my being screaming in protest.
A water bottle appeared in front of me. I looked up with sweaty eyes. Prashant stood there, holding the bottle, his face unreadable, his gaze fixed on me.
Gritting my teeth, I refused, pulling myself up with trembling limbs.
My back ached unbearably, but I kept my chin high and met his gaze with a challenging look.
I left without taking the bottle, every step a proof of my unwavering determination.
I didn't need his pity; I didn't want anything from him.
I entered my office, the familiar smell of stale paper and antiseptic not calming my pounding heart in the slightest. I headed straight for the attached bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, enjoying the slightly numbing cold on my reddening skin.
I wiped the sweat off my skin with a towel.
My olive-green shirt was soaked through, clinging to my back.
I pulled it off, and the fabric clung to the soft, angry skin underneath, making me shudder.
Turning to the mirror, I saw angry red marks on my spine and shoulders, clearly visible on my brown skin.
It hurt more than it should have. I had lifted heavy sacks before, in other training exercises, but not since the injury. He knew about it. He knew my weakness, and he had deliberately used it against me. The realization fueled a new wave of anger.
I wiped my body with tissue paper, trying to keep my hands steady despite their shaking, then put on a fresh olive-green shirt, the clean fabric providing some relief on my aching skin. I walked out of the bathroom.
Prashant was standing beside my chair, idly playing with a pen as if he had all the time in the world, waiting for me.
"Captain," I said through gritted teeth, clenching my hands into fists, suppressing the urge to flare up.
He gave me a cold, disinterested smile. "You did a good job. Next time, think twice before giving my soldiers water."
"I'm not afraid of you," I said coldly, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "And I'm not ashamed to show humanity to people who are breaking down in this heat."
His smile faded, and was replaced by a hard, unwavering look. "Humanity doesn't belong on the battlefield, Lieutenant. Emotionality gets you killed."
I stepped forward until we were inches apart, the air between us thick with unspoken anger. Our breaths were shallow, the tension in the small office could almost be felt.
"Cruelty makes nothing, only cowards who follow orders not out of respect, but out of fear," I replied firmly.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, that familiar vein on his temple throbbed, a sure sign of his internal struggle to hold back words.
"This is not an NGO camp," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "We are preparing soldiers, fighters and survivors."
"At the cost of breaking them?" I replied in a louder voice. "You think they will survive the bullets if they can't survive your training? You think fear will make them stronger?"
He spoke suddenly, his composure breaking. His voice rose, filled with an unknown emotion. "You think a bottle of water will save them when they're in the crossfire?"
A heavy, suffocating silence fell. Even the distant screams on the training grounds drowned out the weight of the moment, the raw vulnerability of his voice hanging in the air.
"You weren't always like this," I said softly, my voice suddenly thick with fatigue. "You used to have a heart. What happened to you, Prashant?"
His eyes darkened, a shadow fell over them. And when he spoke, it was in a voice so low I almost couldn't hear him, a broken whisper that came out of him unwillingly.
"I buried it in Kupwara... with four men who trusted me."
I blinked, the confession startling me. My anger abated, but only for a moment. The pain in his voice was evident, but it couldn't excuse what he had done. "That doesn't give you the right to be what they died fighting for," I replied, my voice regaining strength.
He drew closer, his smile returned, but now it was bitter, tinged with a deep, unhealed wound. "I became what I had to become. You? You're still pretending that kindness is strength. It's not strength. It's a burden."
I scoffed in a small, shrill voice. "Then I'll carry my responsibility proudly. Because I refuse to be like you."
He laughed, a raspy, absurd sound that echoed through the small office. "Then you'll never make it out of there alive, Lieutenant."
"Look at me."
We stood still, two stormtroopers barely holding on, eyes locked in a silent war, a battle of wills that had just begun.
Then, without another word, he threw the pen on my desk in a loud voice and turned on his heel. His boots clicked loudly against the ground as he walked away, his back straight, unwavering, and eerily cold. The door closed behind him, and I was left alone in that silent office.
As he left, I sank into my chair, my body aching, my pride throbbing. But I was still standing, still defiant. I hated him - I hated him, really, deeply, for what he had become, for the pain he had inflicted, for the coldness that had gripped him.
But beneath the anger, one question resounded louder than ever, cutting through the anger and the pain:
What exactly happened in Kupwara? And why did it still haunt him like a wound that never healed?
________