A Debt I Can Never Repay: A Tribute To The Indian Army

There is someone looking out for you,
Someone who would lay down his life for you.
And he won’t even ask why—
He’ll bear it all with a quiet smile.

I may salute, I may write a few lines,
But how do I repay such lifelines?
His courage is calm, his silence loud,
His wounds wrapped in a tricolor shroud.

No matter what I do, I can never repay,
The debt I owe him every single day.
He is a soldier—he is the Indian Army,
The pride, the strength, the soul of our country.

When we hear about the Indian Army, we often imagine the soldiers stationed stoically at the borders, keeping a vigilant eye on the enemy or fighting wars. But the truth is, they’re everywhere, all the time, hidden in the chaos, stationed in high-risk zones, rushing to the frontlines when natural calamities strike, or stranded in diplomatic stalemates in foreign lands. If danger looms, the Indian Army is always there. Steady. Silent. Standing.

I experienced the magnitude of their presence during a bike trip to Ladakh in 2022. My husband, I, and six of our friends set out on bikes from Ranchi to Ladakh. It was an unforgettable bike trip brimming with excitement, adventure, and memories that were going to last a lifetime.

The road from Manali to Leh was smoother than we imagined, because of the relentless work of the BRO (Border Roads Organisation), whose labour often goes unnoticed. Every curve, every stretch of the road in that harsh terrain, bore testimony to silent heroes whose work saves lives every day.

On our return, we decided to take the scenic yet nerve-wracking route through Kashmir. Driving through the high-tension zones of Poonch, Rajouri, and Anantnag felt surreal. The names we had only heard in the news, now appeared on our Google Map route. As we rode through these high-tension zones, I noticed something that stayed with me more than the snow peaks or pine forests—the omnipresent watchfulness of the Indian Army.

Kashmir’s beauty is unparalleled, but its narrow lanes carry a silence that speaks volumes. Yet, even in this strange calm, there was a reassuring presence: the Indian Army. The men in uniform were stationed everywhere your eyes could wander. They remained camouflaged on grassy meadows, perched on the hills, or patrolling the roads. They stood like silent guardians with guns in hand and unwavering focus.

Their mere presence made us feel safe enough to enjoy the ride and soak in Kashmir’s beauty without a sliver of worry. We were stopped several times along the way to let the army convoys pass, and what a sight it was! Each time, we stepped off our bikes and saluted them. It wasn’t dramatic, it was instinctive. A simple salute felt like the least we could do to honour their bravery, their sacrifices, their commitment. Someone would always look at us, nod, and smile. It reminded me: these were sons, brothers, husbands, just like the rest of us. Except, they had signed up for a life where comfort was rare, and danger a daily companion.

But the true test of their mettle, and ours, came the day we were supposed to leave Srinagar. We kept riding despite the heavy downpour that began in the morning. By evening, we managed to reach Anantnag. It is there that we heard the news of a landslide that had blocked the roads ahead. We were left with no choice but to spend the night in Anantnag. The small town offered little in terms of luxury; the hotel was modest, and the streets were eerily quiet. But the people, oh, the people! They were warm.

By the time we finally checked into our rooms, we were completely drenched from the rain. We were cold, tired, and dripping. Before it was too late, one of our friends ventured out to a nearby dhaba to grab food. What happened next is a memory that is etched in my mind forever.

Here is a flash fiction inspired by the real events narrated by my friend. Some moments are dramatised, but the emotions- fear, gratitude, and awe- remain as raw as they were that night.

The Looming Shadow

The rain was a steady drizzle as I stepped out onto the quiet streets of Anantnag. The damp chill of the evening clung to my jacket. The town was cloaked in an unsettling stillness. The narrow lanes were slick and empty. It was early hours into the evening, and the town seemed to have retreated into its cocoon.

The dhaba wasn’t far. Yet, each step I took seemed to echo unnaturally in the void around me. The silence and the loneliness on the street made me a bit uncomfortable.

The manager’s words as I left the hotel echoed in my mind: “Yeh Kashmir hai, yaha kuch bhi ho sakta hai. Jadli wapas aiyega (This is Kashmir. Anything might happen here, come back quickly).” At the time, it seemed like friendly advice. Now, the words felt like a premonition.

The workers at the dhaba gave me strange, lingering looks. I pushed the unease aside and placed the order for our group: vegetable curry, dal, rice, and rotis. As the food was packed, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. When the waiter handed me the bags, his unexpected smile felt like a lifeline in the growing unease.

The hotel was just a few yards away, but the journey back felt longer. My boots splashed in puddles, each step magnified in the silence. And then I heard it—another set of footsteps, faint but deliberate, following just out of sync with mine.

I slowed down. The footsteps slowed, too. I quickened my pace. They mirrored me again. My breath quickened, my heart racing with every step. A glance over my shoulder revealed nothing but shadows shifting with the rain. Was someone there?

My thoughts spiraled: Was this paranoia? The eerie vibe of the town? Or something worse?

Just as the tension tightened its grip, I saw two figures ahead—Indian Army personnel patrolling the road. Their presence hit me like a wave of relief and safety. Their sharp eyes caught mine immediately, and they stopped me.

“Where are you going at this hour?” one of them asked, his voice firm but calm. I explained my errand, my words tumbling over each other in a mix of fear and gratitude. They listened carefully and then nodded.

“You shouldn’t be out alone,” one of them said. “Let us walk you back.”

As they fell into step beside me, relief washed over me. I walked with them, stealing a glance over my shoulder. The shadow of the footsteps had disappeared. Had I imagined it? Or was someone really there? I didn’t want to know.

The hotel finally came into sight. As I stepped through the door, I turned to thank the soldiers, and they simply responded with a nod and a warm smile before they disappeared back into the night.

Safe inside, I let out a long, shaky breath. My heart still pounding and my thoughts tangled with questions. Was someone really following me, or had the night’s strange energy gotten the better of me?

I never looked for answers. That night, the unknown lingered like a faint whisper, but one thing was clear: I owed my safety to the vigilance of those soldiers.

PS: This post is a part of ‘Tricolour Tales Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters in honor of Kargil Vijay Diwas. Let’s remember and respect our soldiers—not just for the wars they fight, but for the peace they protect, every single day.