The concrete block room stood like a forgotten relic against the vastness of the mountains. It measured exactly one meter in length and one meter in width, with walls rising seven feet tall. It was just enough to make a young man feel the weight of the sky pressing down upon him. The roof was an industrial puzzle: iron guards forming a skeletal framework that supported red tiles above, sealed with a mixture of sand and cement to ward off the summer rains and winter snows that came sweeping down from the Himalayan peaks.
Inside this concrete cocoon, a young soldier stood at his post. He was twenty-three years old, in the high bloom of his youth, yet his eyes carried a weariness that belied his age. His full combat kit clung to him like a second skin, including bulletproof vest, helmet, ammunition pouches, combat boots and all the accoutrements of a war that existed more in preparation than in reality. In his hands, he held a G3 rifle, its barrel pointing toward the road in the general direction of potential threats, though no specific target commanded his attention. Beside him was a water cooler with a single glass, the only companions in his isolation.
The door behind him remained firmly shut, sealing him inside this concrete cocoon. Through a narrow opening of ten inches high and one foot wide, he could observe the world outside. This rectangular window was his only connection to the living and breathing valley beyond.
It was May in Kashmir. The snow that had crowned the distant peaks like white diadems had already surrendered to the warmth of spring, melting into streams that fed the river flowing nearby. The valley had exploded into colors - greens so vivid they seemed painted by an artist's generous hand, flowers dotting the meadows like scattered jewels, and the sky above a blue so pure it made one ache with longing. Through his narrow window, the soldier watched life unfold in all its ordinary magnificence.
He saw the students, first, in the morning. They walked in clusters along the road, their school bags bouncing against their backs, their voices carrying snippets of conversation and laughter that drifted up to his post. The boys in their navy blue trousers and white shirts, the girls in their shalwar kameez with dupattas draped carefully over their heads. They were going to learn, to expand their minds, to build futures that stretched before them like open roads. He watched them pointing at butterflies, sharing snacks, helping each other with loose shoelaces. They were happy. They were celebrating the simple privilege of learning, of growing, of becoming.
Then came the elderly men, walking with the measured pace of those who have learned that life is not a race. Some carried walking sticks, others had prayer caps perched upon their heads. And middle aged men were going to their work, to open their shops, to tend the fields, or they were preparing to leave for another city or town to earn something. They had a purpose written on their faces, in the colors of it. They belonged here, to this land, to this rhythm of daily existence.
And then he saw the young men. They came with cricket bats resting on their shoulders, tennis balls in their pockets, wearing the easy confidence of youth unburdened by duty. They joked and pushed each other playfully, discussing strategies for the game ahead, arguing good-naturedly about who would bat first. They were his age. They could have been his classmates, his neighbors, his friends. They were going to play, to feel their hearts race with the thrill of competition, to taste the sweet victory or the bitter defeat that meant nothing in the grand scheme yet everything in the moment.
The soldier's grip tightened unconsciously on his rifle. He had been a good cricket player once. He could remember the feel of the bat's handle in his palms, the satisfying crack of willow against a tennis ball, the shouts of his teammates when he hit a boundary. Why had he forgotten that? When had that joy slipped away, replaced by the cold metal of a weapon and the concrete walls of a cocoon?
Through the afternoon, he watched buses roll past, carrying travelers who had come to explore the beauty of Kashmir. He could hear their music even from the distance, hear songs of joy and celebration blasting from open windows. He saw them dancing in their seats, pointing cameras at the magnificent vistas, their faces alight with wonder at the paradise they had discovered. They were free. They were drinking in the beauty of the valley while he stood guard over it, separate from it, apart from it.
The confined space seemed to shrink around him. The walls pressed closer. The air grew heavy in his lungs. Why was he here? Why was he always here, with his gun, in this concrete cocoon, watching life happen to others while he remained frozen in readiness for a war that never came? The questions began as whispers in his mind and grew into a chorus that drowned out all other thoughts.
He remembered his childhood. The village in the outskirts of Jhelum, where he grew up, where the soil was dark, rich and generous. He had been good at planting things - extraordinarily good. Whatever he planted or touched seemed to thrive under his care. Tomatoes heavy and red, cucumbers long and crisp, marigolds bursting with orange and yellow fire. His mother would praise his green thumb, his father would pray for his long life after seeing his progress. He also had been a great lover of flowers and birds. He loved spending hours watching sparrows building their nests, he was capable of identifying each species of bird by their calls and he knew which type of flowers attract butterflies in his village.
He loved poetry and reading books. He used to get books from his uncle, who had a library at his home in the village. He would sit under the ancient banyan tree near his home, losing himself in verses that spoke of love and loss, of beauty and longing, and of the human heart in all its complexity. He had dreams once of studying agriculture, so he could successfully develop new techniques to help his village's farmers.
But then he had heard of war. The drums had beaten across the village, and patriotism had swelled like a tide. He had seen boys from his village, who had played cricket with him, boys he had studied with, wearing the uniform with pride in their eyes and fire in their hearts. They spoke of safeguarding the country, of honor and duty, of being part of something larger than themselves. And they spoke of lifetime earnings, of supporting families, of escaping the uncertainty of village life where crops could fail or could get destroyed by a storm or monsoon flood and futures remained unwritten.
He had appeared for the test at Army Selection and Recruitment center, Rawalpindi, passed written, physical and verbal test, and had been selected as sepoy in Punjab Regiment, 142 INFANTRY BATTALION, RP-78432.
That was four years ago.
In four years, there had been no war. Not the kind they always prepared for. There had been drills, marching in formation, practicing formations, simulated combat scenarios where they attacked imaginary enemies and defended imaginary positions. They performed these drills with precision and dedication, because that was what soldiers did. They prepared. They waited. They stood ready.
For one year now, he had stood in this concrete cocoon, watching the road, watching life pass him by. Before this, he spent three years in Lahore, attending similar drills, the same preparation for a war or conflict that remained always on the horizon that never arrived.
He came here every day for nine hours. He stood. He watched. He waited. Then he returned to his sleeping quarters, ate his dinner, offered his prayers, and lay on his bed while the same questions circled like vultures in his mind. Though he still has access to a small library nearby but now books are no more of his taste.
What else could he do? If he left this job, what would he become? The village was far away, and the agricultural dreams of his youth seemed like stories from another lifetime. Who would hire a former soldier with no other skills for a role? What work awaited a man whose only training was in war that never came?
The students returned from school in the afternoon, their faces still bright with the day's learning, their steps light with the freedom of released hours. The cricket players returned, sweaty and satisfied, already replaying the day's matches in their animated discussions. The elderly and middle aged men made their way home, after completing their daily tasks, and their evening prayers and family meals awaiting them.
Each passing figure was a mirror held up to his own existence, showing him what he was not, what he did not have, what he had given up or never possessed.
The last scene before departure that captured his attention was a soft, greyish dove with black dots on her wings and pure black eyes. She was sitting on a tree branch above the road, cooing softly. Suddenly, he realized that after spending almost a year here in this concrete cocoon, he had never noticed the existence of this tree. He didn't even know its name. Now, in spring, its branches were filled with white and pink flowers that looked amazing - just as they must have been when he first arrived last spring.
There was also a young girl under the tree wearing a light reddish shalwar kameez with floral prints. Her hair was carefully braided, and she wore simple slippers as she stood under the tree collecting fallen flowers. Why and for what? he wondered, amazed by the peaceful sight. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out nearby, and the sound echoed across the valley. The dove flew away in a panic, the rapid fluttering of her wings creating a troubling sound.
The girl dropped the flowers from her tiny hands and looked around in shock. Her round, moon-like face turned pale as she searched for comfort. Suddenly, her eyes met those of the soldier in the concrete cocoon, and they shared a quiet smile. She quickly gathered her flowers again and walked away.
The sun began its descent toward the mountain peaks, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple that would have inspired poetry in the boy he once was. But the soldier in the concrete cocoon felt only the weight of his rifle, the stiffness of his uniform, the ache in his legs from hours of standing in confined space.
Evening came. He ended his duty with the formalities that military life demanded, reported to his senior officer, inspected the weapon, and followed the other important procedures before leaving. He changed his uniform, the fabric of his civilian clothes felt strange and loose against his body. He ate his dinner in the mess hall, surrounded by other soldiers who seemed content with their lot, who laughed and talked of sports and families and the small satisfactions of their existence. After dinner, he offered his prayers with the devotion that remained his anchor, the one constant in a sea of doubt.
Then he went to the shared room to sleep. The bed was narrow, the mattress thin, the pillow hard. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling where a single bulb cast shadows in the corners. And his mind, released from the discipline of duty, ran wild with the thoughts that had been building all day.
He imagined himself in different roles, in simple shalwar kameez, perhaps, with soil under his fingernails and sun on his face. He saw himself tending fields, watching things grow, creating life instead of standing guard over the possibility of death. He pictured himself with a family, a wife who smiled at him with love, children who climbed into his lap for stories, a home that smelled of cooking and comfort rather than the room where he was resting at the moment..
He desired action. He desired change. He desired a better life, a meaningful life, a life where he was not merely a sentinel in a box but a participant in the world he was supposedly protecting.
The questions had no answers that night. The desires had no pathways to fulfillment. He drifted into sleep with the same confusion that had accompanied him throughout the day, the same longing, the same sense of being trapped in a life that had seemed like an escape but had become a prison.
Morning came with the call to prayer, echoing across the camp and the valley beyond. He woke, performed his ablutions, and offered his prayers with the sincerity that never wavered, regardless of his doubts. He recited the Holy Quran, the verses flowing from his lips like water from a spring, bringing moments of peace to his troubled spirit.
He took his breakfast, ate parathas with tea, the sustenance that would fuel another day of standing and waiting. Suddenly, his thoughts drifted back to the young girl he had seen the day before. He recalled the sheer terror on her face and how a simple smile had put her at ease. A faint smile touched his lips again as he donned his uniform, each piece settling into place with the quiet precision of a daily ritual. The vest, the belt, the boots, the helmet. The transformation from man to soldier, from individual to instrument of a state.
He walked to his post. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine. He entered the concrete cocoon, took his position by the narrow window, picked up his G3 rifle, and settled into the stance that had become as natural as breathing. And the watch continues in a concrete cocoon.
