'Instructor in the art of killing'
A young soldier recently stationed in Indian-administered Kashmir describes the feelings of soldiers braving the cold at high altitudes as they wait to intercept militants.
We have to go out, again. It is not easy going out night after night but I cannot really help feeling the debilitating effects of the cold.
First impressions of Kashmir
Extra-judicial killings
Our group comprises two different sets of people.
One has the newcomers in it, the load carriers, who are being introduced to this kind of terrain and this way of operation.
They are young boys from 18 to 22 years old.
Then there are the old timers, men who have served their time here and are familiar with the surroundings and must be good since they have survived this long.
I am a newcomer, not to this kind of operation but to this kind of terrain.
I slowly become accustomed to the cold, devise methods to ward off sleep, and have also begun to decipher shadows in the night, separating the real from the imaginary.
It is quite tedious going out in the cold waiting, hoping for him to come out of nowhere... So that we can kill him.
Every experienced soldier has a young one with him as his buddy. I also have a young boy with me. He is just a few months older than 19, comes from a family of farmers somewhere in central India, and joined the army to provide them with a livelihood.
I teach him the tricks of the trade: what to carry, what not to carry, how to wear his shoes so that they do not cut him, how many layers of clothing to wear so that we can remain warm and still not hindered when we want to move fast, what position to wait in so that we do not tire very fast, how to aim and fire so that the enemy may not escape... And many other seemingly trivial details.
But when you are in a life and death situation, attention to detail can save lives - it could be the difference between this young man retuning home to see his family again or him returning home dead.
I had always thought that I would enjoy teaching - but that was when I was thinking about teaching English literature.
Here I am, teaching a young boy barely out of his teens how to kill - without fear, without pity, without remorse - just the way I was taught.
'Art of killing'
After sometime the higher cause becomes obscure. After sometime you just start accepting the fact that every night we go out like primitive hunters hoping for a kill - it becomes a very natural thing to do, part of the routine.
When we do kill somebody, we rejoice and dance and hug each other and pose with the dead body as if it was some trophy to be shown off. But we stop being human.
Soldiers have to be ever-watchful for militant attacks
As I sit there in the night, waiting... I think to myself 'how did it all come to this?'
From a young boy who wanted to teach English literature, how did I end up becoming an instructor in the art of killing?
Since when did death stop affecting me, when did I become so numb? I do not know... No answer comes.
What I do know is that somewhere along the line I made decisions in life which have resulted me being here... In the dark, in the jungle, in the cold... Waiting...
The soldier wished to remain anonymous.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/6660951.stm
