The Irony Of Paid Soldiers

Yes, the thoughts started to roam his mind like a cyclone. Uprooting, destroying and rampaging all the memories of his life that he once shared with anyone.
the bullet just passed through his right lung missing the heart by inches but he  knew instantly that he is not going to make it as being the man in charge here he knew about the medical facilities here and the nearest hospital being 200 miles back.

His mind was way off the battle field though, the only thing he managed to


remember was that the fellow in his right got hit and in that moment he protruded his head out of the cover and started firing when a couple of bullets just got injected into him.
Flashes of memories start coming and going from his mind like a movie being fast forwarded. He remembered his early days, his childhood and how he used to play with his father. He remembered his teenage when he and his friends would have the time of his life doing all the fun in the world. Faces… faces start coming and going infront of his eyes of all his mates and there appeared a smile on his face imagining them in their homes unknown of the fact that their friend is about take his last breath.

he remembered the look on his parents when he joined army and took the oath to protect the motherland irrespective of the circumstances. He still remembered the tears of joy that trickled down on the cheek of his mother when he came home the first time after completing training. His father looking  towards him proudly with his head held high.
Suddenly the pain in his chest brought him back to reality and he covered his wound with his hand. Blood was gushing out too fast for him to stop.
The face of his one year daughter came in his mind who was born just the previous year, the queen of her eyes and his wife, a lovely sweet wife who he loved dearly and always counted on her on moments of crisis. A loyal woman just in her early twenties will be left widowed because his husband was a fighting a battle that the nation doesn’t considers its own.
severe pain and light headedness followed and he knew that any second now he’ll be taking his last breath.
And he thought about his family wife and kids and then he thought of other people, the common people the simple folks who believe what they are told

will he be hailed as a hero…?

“No, I guess not. To them I’m just another guy being paid to do what I do best. I can’t be classified as somebody special just because I was paid to do all this. PAID PAID PAID….”

deep down he knew, he knew that if anyone in this whole wide world would be asked to risk his life on the basis of just 30,40 thousand rupees no one, NO ONE will do it

your life is not worth this much.

but not him because he is a soldier and that’s what soldiers do
THEY FIGHT, THEY DIE AND IN THEY GET THE BLAME OF BEING PAID.
he coughed a mouthful of blood, spitted it out and lied down flat on the ground
in his last moments these words of Centurion Quintas Dais were ringing in his mind

“it is the soldiers who do the fighting and the soldiers who do the dying and the Gods don’t even get their feet wet”

darkness… pitch black darkness just engulfed him and he felt his whole body trembling and then suddenly he took a last breath full of blood and rolled over to one side
and then…
then nothingness…

From the ink of a soldier...

Souled Out

In an inert atmosphere, where one could hear a fly buzzing. Lying on my bed I could see the fan covered with dust as if I never used it. It was the middle of winter probably December and the clock was showing thirteen to three. A sun beam was coming into my room directly over my face probably trying to irritate me. I was least bothered about it. Though this apathetic behavior of mine made me quit, declaring everything on God’s earth an immutable one. Deep thought about what happened in my past and what could be the aftermath, compelled my conscience to fight with me. But my pugnacious behavior buried my conscience deep under the cherishing memories. Though reminisce could never be the part of my life as nothing good or worth mentioning happened in my long boring life.

            Ummmmm…. Memories flashing in my mind, fading in and out. But some as clear as my existence and my presence. My childhood, love of my parents, my first day at school, watching beautiful girls in my adolescence, planning to tease friends. All these memories made my lips smile though they were rough.

The clock seemed to be proud of ticking away time. It was showing twelve after three. I was worried something bad would happen or had the premonition of unfavorable winds that would drift the clouds of my wishes to the barren mountains of despair and would desolate the world of my heart. Or my wishes and plans would be buried deep under the age and no one would be able to help me out. Was that feeling due to the fact that I lost my friend or some girlfriend of mine betrayed me? It was still unclear to me but I had the idea that something dear to me is leaving me for good.

            The ticking of clock was getting faster for me and my epileptic head set everything rotating. It was seventeen after three and my soul departed.

          That gave me the answer. It was my soul who left me alone in the grave. Reason of despair was not the departure of my dear soul. But the painful feeling was “I LOST MY LIFE”. I loved my life for a noble cause. I wish I had one more life to accomplish that noble cause. For that the soul had to be the sole part of my mission. But it left me to lead a boring life in the grave.

                                                                     The dead man writing.




courtesy: Capt Furqan Ahmed, EME
a great friend and an even better person.