The late morning sun filtered through the dusty windows of the Olive Green Army Gypsy as it rattled down the narrow road from Dr Ambedkar Nagar Railway Station to the Mhow Cantonment. The vehicle’s engine hummed steadily, though the occasional bump in the road sent a jolt through its frame, shaking the dust loose from the windshield. Outside, the world seemed to ripple with heat, the air thick and dry, clinging to the skin like a heavy blanket. The trees lining the road, tall and broad, cast sporadic shadows that flickered across the ground, offering brief moments of respite from the sun’s relentless glare.
In the front passenger seat, Captain Tserhing Dorjee sat upright, his posture impeccable as he surveyed the terrain. His olive green uniform — distinct with the crispness of a man who had seen the rigor of military life — fitted him well. The rank insignia of the 1st Infantry Battalion, Assam Regiment, gleamed faintly under the sunlight on his epaulettes. His eyes, dark and watchful, flicked between the landscape ahead and the occasional glance at his driver.
Captain Tserhing Dorjee was born in Yumesodong, a remote yet breathtaking hamlet nestled at 15,300 feet in the Eastern Himalayas. Known as the last civilian outpost before the Indo-China border, Yumesodong was a land of fierce winds, jagged cliffs, and unyielding snowfields. It was a place where only the strongest thrived, and from a young age, Tserhing embodied this spirit of resilience.
Raised in a family of yak herders and traders, Tserhing grew up listening to stories of his ancestors — warriors, monks, and men who had guarded their lands for generations. His father, Dorjee Wangchuk, was a quiet but formidable man, a former porter for the Indian Army during the 1962 war, who had witnessed firsthand the valour of the Assam Regiment. His mother, Sonam Lhamo, was a woman of steel wrapped in warmth, ensuring that even in the bitter cold, her children felt the glow of familial love.
From childhood, Tserhing learned to navigate treacherous trails, read the skies for signs of impending blizzards, and endure the unforgiving high-altitude climate. He was an exceptional runner, his lungs trained by the thin mountain air, and he often raced the wind itself across the frozen valleys. While others found comfort in their homes during the long winters, young Tserhing would trek miles through knee-deep snow to attend the nearest school. His ambition stretched beyond the mountains — he wanted to serve, to wear the uniform that his father had so admired.
Tserhing Dorjee’s fascination with precision and patience was woven into his soul long before he ever held a rifle. As a child in Yumesodong, where the mountains kissed the heavens and the air was thin with silence, he spent hours watching his father and the other village elders track wild bharals and elusive snow leopards. Hunting in such extreme conditions was not about brute force but about stillness — listening to the wind, reading the land, and knowing the exact moment to strike.
His father had once told him, “A true hunter is one with the mountain. He does not chase his prey; he becomes part of the silence.” Tserhing carried those words with him into adulthood, though his prey would soon change from animals to enemies of the nation.
The call to serve his motherland burned in Tserhing’s heart. At eighteen, he joined the National Cadet Corps (NCC), his disciplined nature and natural leadership setting him apart. Encouraged by his instructors, he applied for the Officer Training Academy (OTA) in Chennai — a place far removed from his cold, familiar mountains. The humid, sweltering heat of Tamil Nadu was a challenge, but Tserhing thrived, treating hardship as a mere stepping stone.
At OTA, he was forged in fire. The grueling physical training, endless route marches, and tactical drills honed him into a warrior of steel resolve. While others struggled with endurance, he ran with the ease of a man who had spent his life conquering mountains. His instructors noted his ability to lead from the front, his quiet but commanding presence, and his unwavering discipline. When the time came, he chose the 1st Battalion of the Assam Regiment — the very unit that had defended the Eastern frontiers since its inception.
Upon reaching his battalion, stationed in the high-altitude outposts of Arunachal Pradesh, Tserhing found his true calling — not just as a soldier, but as a marksman. The unforgiving landscape of the Himalayas, where a wrong step meant plunging into an abyss, demanded a different kind of warfare. Sniping was not just about shooting; it was about patience, strategy, and an intimate understanding of the land.
It was in the cold, rugged training grounds of the Assam Regiment that as young 2nd Lt. Tserhing met the man who would shape him into a true warrior — Major Norbu, a legend among the regiment’s snipers. Norbu had spent decades in the shadows, a phantom of the Eastern Front, feared and respected by both comrades and adversaries. His hands were calloused from years of gripping a sniper rifle, his eyes sharp as an eagle’s, capable of spotting movement miles away.
Tserhing, hungry for knowledge, sought him out.
“So, you think you can be a sniper, boy?” Norbu’s voice was gruff, his eyes scanning Tserhing with the piercing scrutiny of a man who had seen too many pretenders.
Tserhing stood at attention. “I don’t think, Sir. I will be.” Norbu smirked. “Let’s see if you can become the wind.”
What followed was not just training — it was a transformation. The first lesson Norbu imparted was not about shooting, but about stilling the mind. A sniper who let his thoughts wander was already dead.
Tserhing was made to sit on the cold, jagged rocks before dawn, his rifle across his lap. His task? To meditate.
“You must learn to slow your heartbeat, to listen beyond what the ears can hear. The rifle does not fire — it breathes. You must become part of the land, just as a shadow is part of the night.”
For hours, Tserhing sat in complete stillness, his senses heightening, his breath slowing. He learned to count the wind, to hear the whisper of snow shifting before an avalanche, to recognize the distant cries of mountain crows as signs of movement.
In time, he could sit for hours without moving a muscle. He could blend into the rock and ice, his presence vanishing into the wilderness.
Once Norbu was satisfied with Tserhing’s control over his mind, the real training began.
Each morning, before the sun had fully risen, Tserhing would be made to shoot at targets so far away they looked like specks against the mountains. A miss meant extra hours in freezing cold conditions, recalibrating his aim.
“The bullet must not just hit the target — it must arrive as if it was always meant to be there.”
Norbu drilled into him the science of wind trajectory, bullet drop, and mirage effects. They trained at dawn, in the scorching afternoon sun, and at dusk, learning to fire with the shifting light conditions. Tserhing would shoot from impossible angles — hanging off cliffs, lying in icy streams, or crouched behind rocky outcrops for hours, waiting for the perfect shot.
His rifle became an extension of his body. He learned to breathe with the wind, to pull the trigger in the space between heartbeats.
One winter morning, Norbu took Tserhing to an abandoned outpost high above the valley. Below, in the frozen expanse, a single blue flag had been placed 1,200 meters away.
“Your target is the color of the sky. You have one bullet. Hit it.”
The wind was vicious, roaring through the cliffs. Snowflakes danced in chaotic spirals, making visibility almost impossible. Tserhing lay prone, his hands steady despite the biting cold.
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening. The howling wind. The deep silence beneath it. He felt the land, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the mountains.
Then, he exhaled. His finger tightened around the trigger. The shot echoed across the valley. The blue flag tore in half.
Norbu said nothing for a long time. Then, he nodded.
“You are ready. Now, you are the wind.”
From that day forward, Tserhing was no longer just a soldier. He was a ghost in the mist, a silent hunter in the snow, a guardian of the Eastern Frontiers. His legend would grow among the Assam Regiment as the man who could see before he was seen, strike before he was discovered, and disappear before the enemy knew they were dead.
When the time came for battle, Tserhing Dorjee would stand alone in the cold, rifle steady, and watch the land with eyes that saw everything.
And in the silence of the mountains, his enemies would never know death was already watching them.
Commissioned into the Indian Army, Captain Tserhing Dorjee wore the olive green uniform with pride. The Assam Regiment, known as “The Living Bayonets,” was more than just a battalion — it was a legacy. He carried forward the fierce traditions of his forebears, men who had fought in the Burma Campaign, the Indo-Pak wars, and numerous counter-insurgency operations in the Northeast. His chest swelled as he fastened the belt with the brass buckle bearing the Assam Regiment’s emblem — the Rhinoceros, a symbol of resilience and unyielding strength.
The Regiment’s motto, “Tagra Raho” — Stay Strong — was etched into his soul.
The Assam Regiment, known as “The Living Bayonets,” was more than just a regiment; it was a brotherhood forged in war, tempered in blood, and steeped in traditions as old as independent India itself. Every soldier who wore its insignia carried forth the legacy of warriors who had fought in the dense jungles of Burma during World War II, those who had defended the Eastern frontiers in the Indo-Pak wars, and those who had battled insurgency in the rugged, unforgiving terrain of the Northeast.
Now, it was Tserhing’s turn.
As Tserhing stepped into the battalion headquarters, the air smelled of gun oil, damp earth, and fresh pine from the surrounding hills. His crisp uniform bore his name, but his reputation was yet to be earned.
A tall, broad-shouldered officer with a chest full of medals watched him approach. The man’s weathered face, thick mustache, and piercing eyes were unmistakable — Colonel Arvind Thapa, the commanding officer of the 1st Assam Regiment.
“Dorjee, is it?” Thapa’s voice was gravelly, honed by years of barking orders in the mountains.
“Yes, Sir!” Tserhing snapped to attention, his spine ramrod straight.
Thapa studied him for a moment before chuckling. “You mountain boys — tough bastards. You think you’re ready for the Living Bayonets?”
Tserhing held his gaze. “Sir, I was born ready.”
A few of the older officers standing nearby exchanged knowing smirks. Thapa let the silence stretch before finally nodding.
“We’ll see about that. Report to Major Tamang for your orientation. And, Lieutenant — ”
Tserhing paused. “Sir?”
“Here, we don’t just fight. We endure. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
As Tserhing walked through the barracks, he saw young recruits undergoing grueling physical training — hill sprints, log carries, close-combat drills — all under the watchful eyes of hardened instructors. The walls bore slogans that spoke of the regiment’s ethos:
- “Tagra Raho!” (Stay Strong!)
- “Rhinos Never Retreat!”
- “Assam Regiment — Steeled in Battle, Forged in Blood.”
The regiment was an elite unit, feared and respected. It prided itself on its ability to operate in the worst conditions — dense jungles, high-altitude posts, and counter-insurgency zones.
Inside the officer’s mess, a grand portrait of Lt. Gen. Shankar Roychowdhury, an Assam Regiment veteran, hung beside those of other regimental war heroes. A retired Honorary Captain Karma Lepcha, who had fought in Kargil, stood by the fireplace, regaling younger officers with war stories.
“Remember, lads, the Assam Regiment never backs down. When the enemy sees us coming, they know death is near.” His voice, though aged, still carried the weight of authority.
Tserhing listened, absorbing every word.
Unlike many infantry regiments that focused on open battlefield tactics, the Assam Regiment specialized in jungle warfare, mountain combat, and guerrilla tactics.
One week into his posting, Liuetenent Tserhing Dorjee was summoned by Major Tamang , his old mentor at the OTA .
“I hope you didn’t think becoming an officer means you’ll sit behind a desk,.” Tamang’s smirk was razor-sharp.
Tserhing grinned. “I wouldn’t have joined the Assam Regiment if I wanted an easy life, Sir.”
Tamang chuckled. “Good. Because tomorrow, we take you to hell.”
It wasn’t a drill. A real insurgency operation was underway in a dense jungle near the Arunachal border. Reports indicated enemy movement, possibly infiltrators from across the border.
The dense jungle of Arunachal Pradesh was alive with the nocturnal sounds of chirping crickets, the rustling of unseen creatures, and the distant, haunting call of an owl. The thick canopy above allowed only slivers of moonlight to pierce through, casting eerie shadows on the damp forest floor. The air was thick with the earthy scent of moss and gun oil, and the humidity clung to Captain Tserhing Dorjee’s skin like a second layer.
Beside him, Havildar Chettri, a veteran scout and tracker, moved with the silence of a predator. A man who had spent decades in the jungle knew its language well — every rustling leaf, every broken twig, every shift in the wind spoke a truth that only the trained could understand. Tserhing felt the older man suddenly freeze mid-step. His breathing slowed, his eyes narrowed. He raised a gloved hand, signaling for the patrol to halt.
Then, in a whisper barely louder than a breath, Chettri spoke.
“Saabji, Watch the fireflies.”
Tserhing frowned, crouching slightly. “Huh?” he murmured, his grip tightening around his rifle.
Chettri’s dark eyes flicked toward the clearing ahead. “When fireflies suddenly rise, it means something has disturbed them. Probably a man. Probably an enemy.”
Tserhing’s pulse quickened, but his breathing remained steady. He had spent years training for moments like this. He followed Chettri’s gaze and saw them — tiny golden orbs, scattered across the undergrowth, pulsing softly like stars fallen from the sky.
For the past several minutes, the fireflies had been drifting lazily, undisturbed. Now, however, they had lifted in a sudden, synchronized wave, disturbed by something — or someone — moving through the foliage.
Enemy movement.
Tserhing’s instincts kicked in. He sank lower, his body melting into the jungle floor as he reached for his rifle scope. The Assam Regiment was known for its jungle warfare tactics, and snipers were trained to read the environment like a book.
The jungle demanded patience, rewarded precision, and punished hesitation.
Tserhing exhaled slowly, peering through the sight. His trained eyes scanned the undergrowth — watching for the unnatural amidst the natural.
Then he saw it.
At first, it was barely perceptible — a slight shimmer, movement where there should have been stillness. The leaves swayed unnaturally, not with the wind, but with a deliberate shift of weight. A shadow detached itself from the dense vegetation, attempting to blend seamlessly with the dark surroundings.
A seasoned soldier might have missed it.
But Tserhing was a sniper.
He shifted his angle ever so slightly. Through the scope, the moonlight betrayed a faint glint of metal — a rifle barrel, partially concealed behind thick foliage.
A hidden gunman. Tserhing’s breathing slowed to a crawl. His hands remained steady as he adjusted his sight, centering it just below the faint outline of a helmet. A split second. A single squeeze of the trigger. A muffled crack.
The jungle erupted. The enemy sniper jerked violently backward, his body stiffening before crumpling into the undergrowth with a dull thud.
Then — chaos.
From deeper within the brush, a startled voice barked something in a dialect that confirmed their suspicions — foreign operatives. A fraction of a second later, a burst of automatic gunfire erupted from the darkness, bullets ripping through leaves, splintering bark, and slicing through the humid night air.
“CONTACT!” Chettri’s voice was calm but urgent.
The patrol immediately dropped into combat positions, fanning out in a coordinated manoeuvre. Their movements were silent, methodical.
Tserhing remained prone, scanning for another target. The enemy had been waiting in an ambush — but they had underestimated the Assam Regiment.
To his right, Havildar Bipin, the team’s designated marksman, whispered, “Two hostiles, eleven o’clock, behind the fallen tree.”
Tserhing shifted his rifle, eyes peering through the darkness. There they were — two figures, crouched low, rifles raised.
His crosshairs found the first target’s chest.
Another breath.
Another squeeze.
The bullet punched through the enemy’s sternum, sending him sprawling backward, his weapon slipping from lifeless fingers.
The second hostile — now exposed — tried to retreat into the dense brush. Tserhing adjusted, leading the target slightly.
He fired.
The round tore through the man’s shoulder, spinning him violently before he collapsed into the undergrowth.
Silence. Then, the jungle returned to life.
The enemy was neutralized. The operation was a success.
Captain Ramanna exhaled, pushing himself up slightly. “Good eyes, Lieutenant,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Tserhing remained still, his rifle still aimed forward, scanning, waiting. His heart was steady, his breathing controlled. Finally, he nodded.
“It wasn’t me, Sir. It was the fireflies.”
Tamang chuckled, shaking his head. “The jungle always speaks, mate. The best warriors just learn to listen.”
Tsering’s lips curled into a slight smile as he chambered another round.
The jungle had spoken. And tonight, it had spoken to him.
When the firefight ended, Tserhing’s section had neutralized the threat with precision. As dawn broke, Colonel Thapa arrived at the site. He took one look at the scene and turned to Tserhing.
“You saw them first?” , Tserhing nodded.
Thapa clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good work, Dorjee . You just earned your place among the Living Bayonets.”
That night, in the officers’ mess, his fellow soldiers cheered his name. He wasn’t just a new officer anymore — he was Assam Regiment.
And when he raised a toast, his voice was steady, proud.
“Tagra Raho!”
The men roared back in unison: “Tagra Raho!”
Tserhing Dorjee had arrived. He was now a legend in the making.
Captain Tserhing Dorjee had the build of a man sculpted by the harsh Himalayan winds and the relentless military regimen. Tall for a man from his region, he stood at 5'10", his frame lean yet powerfully built. His skin bore the rich tan of a life spent outdoors, and his sharp cheekbones and chiseled jawline gave him the look of an ancient warrior from a forgotten time.
His eyes, dark and unwavering, held the quiet intensity of a man who had seen both the breathtaking beauty and the unforgiving brutality of life. When he spoke, it was deliberate — his words few, but laden with meaning. His jet-black hair was cropped short in military precision, and the single scar along his left eyebrow — earned during a brutal jungle training exercise — only added to his formidable presence.
In uniform, he was impeccable. His olive-green fatigues bore no sign of negligence, his boots were polished to a mirror shine, and the insignia of the 1st Infantry Battalion, Assam Regiment, gleamed with understated pride on his epaulettes.
Captain Tserhing Dorjee was not a man of grand speeches or flamboyant gestures. His leadership was built on action, quiet competence, and an unwavering moral compass. He led from the front — whether in the biting cold of Arunachal’s high-altitude outposts or the dense jungles of the Northeast.
He never gave an order he wouldn’t follow himself. His men saw him endure the same hardships — marching through leech-infested valleys, staying awake through bitterly cold nights in forward posts, and eating the same rations as they did. His soldiers knew that if he asked them to push forward, he was already ahead, carving the way.
Tserhing had an uncanny ability to remain calm under pressure. Whether facing insurgents in the dense forests of Manipur or standing his ground against aggressive border transgressions, he never let fear dictate his actions. His men drew strength from his stillness, knowing that as long as Captain Dorjee stood, they would not falter.
Despite his tough exterior, he cared deeply for his soldiers. He knew their names, their families, and their struggles. When a young sepoy from Meghalaya lost his father, Tserhing ensured he got leave, personally arranging transport. When a recruit struggled with high-altitude acclimatization, Tserhing ran with him every morning until he overcame it. His men followed him not out of duty, but out of loyalty.
Tserhing was a master of mountain warfare and jungle tactics. He could move like a shadow, his ability to blend into the environment almost supernatural. During an ambush in the mist-covered hills of Nagaland, he and a small unit of soldiers held their position against a numerically superior force, using the terrain to their advantage. When reinforcements arrived, they found the enemy routed and Captain Dorjee standing firm, his rifle still hot from battle.
As the military vehicle rumbled along the rugged path, Captain Tserhing Dorjee sat in the front passenger seat, his posture impeccable as he surveyed the terrain. The driver, a young sepoy, stole a quick glance at his officer. The crispness of Captain Dorjee’s uniform, the slight sheen on his boots, and the glint of the Assam Regiment insignia on his epaulettes spoke volumes. He was a man who wore his duty like second skin, who carried the weight of command without letting it bend his shoulders.
Beside him in the driver’s seat, Subedar Rangarajan, a burly man in his mid-forties, kept his hands steady on the wheel, guiding the vehicle with practiced ease. Rangarajan’s olive green turban was neatly tied, his neatly pressed uniform matching the professionalism he carried with him. His broad shoulders and solid frame were a testament to the years of service behind him, though his face carried the unmistakable warmth of a soldier who had seen it all — who had worked with young officers like Captain Dorjee and understood the balance between discipline and humanity.
“Quite a bit of dust today, sir,” Rangarajan remarked in a deep, gravelly voice, his accent thick but not unpleasant. He turned his head briefly to the side, his eyes still focused on the road. “This place hasn’t changed much in all these years.”
Captain Dorjee’s gaze remained fixed ahead, though there was a subtle acknowledgment in his voice when he replied. “It’s been a while since I was last here, . Not much changes in the Army. But some of the faces do.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the . “And the dust never seems to let up, does it?”
Rangarajan gave a low chuckle, his thick mustache twitching slightly. “Dust is like the Army, sir. It sticks with you, no matter how hard you try to shake it off.”
The Gypsy bounced over another bump in the road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The road, though well-worn, had patches of disrepair — uneven surfaces that tested the Gypsy’s suspension. On either side, the scrubby terrain was broken only by the occasional flowering bush, the yellow and red of the blooms vivid against the dry, brown earth. In the distance, the Vindhya Range loomed, its jagged peaks a faint silhouette against the sky, giving the landscape an ancient, almost timeless feel.
As they passed a small village, children ran alongside the vehicle for a few moments, waving excitedly at the soldiers in the Gypsy. The village seemed to pulse with its own quiet rhythm — women with baskets balanced on their heads, men moving toward fields, and cows lazily grazing under the shade of trees. The clink of metal, the faint smell of wood smoke, and the sound of distant chatter were like an undercurrent to the drive, reminding Dorjee of the life beyond the gates of the Cantonment.
Rangarajan’s voice broke the quiet once more. “I heard there’s a new battalion coming in today. Something about reinforcements from the north.”
Captain Dorjee nodded slightly, his fingers tapping lightly on the seat beside him. “Yes, I’ve heard the same. They’ll be taking over the training exercises at the forward posts. We’ll be coordinating with them once they arrive.”
The ’s eyes flicked briefly to Dorjee, a glimmer of concern passing over his features. “They’ll need to be sharp, sir. Training in these conditions… it’s different from what they might be used to. The terrain, the heat — it can be unforgiving.”
“I know,” Dorjee said, his tone thoughtful. “But that’s why they’re here. To learn. To adapt. We’ll make sure they’re ready.” His voice was steady, calm, the confidence of someone who had trained soldiers in the harshest conditions before. “We’ll be briefed on their strengths and weaknesses once they’re settled in.”
The Gypsy picked up speed as they neared the gates of the Cantonment. The roads widened, and the sounds of military activity became more pronounced — the crisp calls of soldiers in formation, the rumble of armored vehicles in the distance, and the sharp, authoritative commands of officers overseeing drills. As the gates loomed larger, the distinct smell of freshly cut grass and the tang of iron mingled in the air. The Cantonment was a small world in itself, an ordered space where the chaos of the outside world was reined in and disciplined.
As they approached the entrance, Rangarajan slowed the Gypsy, his eyes scanning the perimeter. A few soldiers were posted at the gates, their rifles at the ready. The rigors of security were always at the forefront, even in the most peaceful moments. It was routine, yet it never failed to command respect.
“We’re nearly there, sir,” Rangarajan said as they passed through the gates, the guard saluting crisply as they went by. The sounds of the military base enveloped them — the rhythmic beat of boots, the sharp crack of rifle fire from the training ranges, and the chatter of officers coordinating movements.
“Good. Let’s make this quick, Rangarajan. There’s work to be done,” Captain Dorjee replied. His voice carried the edge of a man who knew that every second in the Army mattered. There was no time to waste, not when there were lives depending on the mission’s success.
As the Gypsy rolled past the parade ground, Dorjee’s eyes took in the sight of soldiers drilling — arms moving in unison, boots thudding in perfect rhythm. The pride of the Infantry was visible in every movement, every formation. They were sharp, ready. And in that moment, Captain Dorjee felt the weight of his role settle onto his shoulders once more.
The Gypsy came to a stop just outside the officer’s quarters, the dust of the road settling slowly around them. As they both exited the vehicle, Captain Dorjee straightened his uniform, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. It was a place that had seen countless drills, briefings, and decisions that would affect the lives of so many.
With that, they made their way toward the main building, the steady rhythm of military life continuing around them, unbroken, as the late morning sun climbed higher into the sky.
The Gypsy rolled to a stop outside the officers’ quarters, the hum of the engine dying down as a cloud of dust settled around them. The long journey from the rugged Northeast to the heart of Madhya Pradesh had been gruelling, but Captain Tserhing Dorjee barely registered the fatigue. As the dust swirled and dissipated, he stepped out, his boots striking the earth with practiced precision. He straightened his uniform instinctively, his sharp gaze sweeping across the familiar military landscape — barracks standing in rigid symmetry, the regimental flag fluttering against the golden morning light, and the ever-present symphony of marching boots, shouted commands, and the distant echo of gunfire from the ranges.
Beside him, Subedar Rangaraj cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. “Feels different, doesn’t it, Sir?” , Dorjee nodded, inhaling deeply. “The air is different here.”Rangaraj smirked. “That’s the smell of sweat, gunpowder, and broken dreams, Sir. Mhow does that to a man.”
Dorjee chuckled but said nothing. He had heard the stories. The Kalyanaraman Infantry School in Mhow was more than just another training facility — it was where elite marksmen were carved out of ordinary soldiers, where precision and patience were tested to their very limits. Where snipers were born.
A young Lieutenant jogged up alighting from a convoy , snapping a crisp salute. “Captain Dorjee, welcome to Mhow, Sir. You’re expected at the adjutant’s office.”Dorjee returned the salute. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.” The convoy rolled through the gates of the legendary training ground, and Dorjee felt the weight of history settle upon his shoulders. The very air carried whispers of past warriors — men who had tread these same paths, their legacy etched into the walls of the institution.
The truck rumbled forward, past firing ranges lined with targets riddled with bullet holes, assault courses that had claimed their share of broken bones, and rows of camouflaged figures hunched over spotting scopes, adjusting for wind and elevation. The regimented discipline, the intensity — it was intoxicating. At the entrance of the Advanced Sniper Training Course, a massive sign loomed overhead:
“One Shot, One Kill — The Creed of the Unseen Warrior.”
Dorjee took a deep breath, his heartbeat steady. This was where legends were made.Inside the briefing hall, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, gun oil, and old wooden furniture polished by generations of soldiers. The instructors stood at the front, their eyes scanning the assembled officers and elite infantrymen — each handpicked for their skill and discipline. The room was silent, the tension almost palpable as a figure in full combat fatigues walked in.
Major Aslam Noor Fahid , his chest adorned with campaign ribbons, stepped forward, his voice a measured growl. “Welcome to the Advanced Sniper Course. You have been chosen because someone, somewhere, believes you have what it takes to become more than just another soldier. Here, you will learn to be the unseen force on the battlefield.”He paused, letting his words settle. “This is not marksmanship training. This is not a glorified shooting range. This is a warfighter’s craft. A hunter’s creed. A game where patience, precision, and mental fortitude separate the dead from the living.”Dorjee sat motionless, absorbing every word. Around him, a few soldiers exchanged wary glances. They had all been the best in their previous assignments. Here, that meant nothing.The Major continued. “Snipers don’t shoot — we release bullets at the exact moment when fate and physics intersect. A sniper’s bullet is not fired in anger, but in cold, calculating certainty.”
Maj. Aslam Noor Fahid stood tall, a figure that embodied both experience and unyielding dedication. A seasoned officer with a long and storied career, he was a man who could make the battlefield his canvas, painting strokes of calculated precision and patience. His chest, adorned with campaign ribbons, gleamed beneath the harsh lights of the training room. Each ribbon told a story — of missions in hostile territories, of victories and sacrifices, and of countless days spent in the most unforgiving conditions. They were not just decorations; they were testaments to the battles fought and the lives saved.As he stepped forward, the quiet hum of the room seemed to stop. His presence was commanding yet calm, his every movement exuding authority. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, scanned the room of trainees, each one eager yet wary. There was no need for grand gestures or exaggerated posturing. His very being carried the weight of decades of military service. The faint scar that ran along his jawline hinted at close encounters with death — encounters he had walked away from only to return to the battlefield time and again, stronger, smarter, more calculated.
“Folks, the Advanced Sniper Course is not a place where you learn to shoot, but to kill with the precision of a surgeons knife. ” his voice broke the silence. It wasn’t loud, but it was firm, each word carrying the weight of his experience. It was a growl, the kind that made you listen, the kind that made you understand that whatever came next would be serious.
“You have been chosen because someone, somewhere, believes you have what it takes to become more than just another soldier. Here, you will learn to be the unseen force on the battlefield. You will become the hand that guides the bullet, the eyes that never blink, the mind that calculates beyond the horizon.” His gaze swept across the room, locking eyes with each of the trainees in turn.His words were more than just a speech — they were a promise, a challenge, and a warning all at once.
Major Aslam Noor Fahid’s journey began years earlier, in the hills of a remote village in the south of the Pir Panjal mountains . His father, a decorated military officer, was a man of few words but immeasurable discipline. From an early age, Aslam had been taught that there was no room for mediocrity. Precision was a way of life. Every action, every step, every decision, no matter how small, was to be executed with the utmost care.
Aslam excelled in everything he put his mind to — whether it was his schooling, sports, or martial arts. But his true calling came when he discovered the art of long-range shooting during his time at the prestigious Indian Military Academy. The discipline and focus required to hit a target at incredible distances intrigued him. He began to study the craft, pouring over books and videos, learning about ballistics, wind speed, and the physics of flight. But it was his time spent in the field that truly honed his skills. It was in the heat of combat, where every decision could mean life or death, that Aslam’s natural talent as a sniper emerged.
As he rose through the ranks, he became known not just for his technical brilliance but for his uncanny ability to remain calm under pressure. His squad-mates often spoke of him as a man who could take a breath and pull the trigger with the same measured precision, whether it was the first shot of the day or the last shot before darkness fell.
But it wasn’t just his technical ability that set him apart — it was his deep understanding of human nature. He could predict movements, read the slightest change in body language, and anticipate an enemy’s next move. His mind worked like a well-oiled machine, calculating the angle of the shot, the wind’s direction, the target’s speed, and every other variable that could affect the trajectory of the bullet.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Maj. Fahid continued, his voice low and commanding. “A sniper is not a lone wolf, not some solitary figure hidden in the brush. No. A sniper is part of a team. Your spotter, your commander, even your fellow soldiers — they are all part of your mission. You will rely on them as much as they rely on you.”A trainee raised his hand, a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Sir, what about… what if the shot is a one-man job? What if there’s no team?”Maj. Fahid’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze piercing through the young soldier. He didn’t answer immediately but let the silence stretch, the weight of his stare pressing down on the room.
“If you’re asking about the ‘lone wolf’ mentality,” he said finally, “then let me remind you that a sniper’s greatest strength is his patience. You will wait for hours, even days, for the perfect shot. But when the time comes, you will take it, and you will not hesitate. Not for a second. That’s the difference between someone who’s good and someone who’s great. A great sniper knows when to shoot and when to wait.”
His voice softened slightly, but the intensity remained. “Remember, the real fight is not against the enemy. It’s against yourself. Against your own fear, your own doubts. You’ll be tested in ways you never imagined. You will fail. You will fall. But it’s how you rise from that failure that will define you.”
The room was quiet now, each soldier absorbed in the weight of his words. They could feel the gravity of the lesson, the fire that burned inside Maj. Fahid, the same fire that had carried him through countless missions.
Maj. Aslam Noor Fahid was a man of few words, but when he spoke, it was as though every syllable carried years of experience and wisdom. His reputation as a sniper was not just built on his technical brilliance, but on his unwavering commitment to his comrades and the mission. He was known for his calm demeanor, his razor-sharp intellect, and his ability to turn the tide of battle with a single shot.But more than anything, he was a teacher. He knew that the future of his craft lay in the hands of those who followed him. His dedication to passing on his knowledge to the next generation was unwavering. He didn’t just teach how to shoot; he taught how to think, how to adapt, and how to survive in the most hostile environments.
His trainees often spoke of him as a mentor — someone who pushed them to their limits, made them confront their fears, and showed them what true discipline and focus looked like. They knew that under his watch, they would not only become better soldiers but better human beings.
Maj. Fahid’s legacy was not in the number of targets he had eliminated or the missions he had completed. His legacy was in the minds of those he had shaped, the soldiers he had turned into warriors, and the quiet, unseen force he had taught them to be on the battlefield.
As the trainees stood in awe, Maj. Fahid gave them one last piece of advice before the course began: “The battlefield is a place of chaos, but a sniper thrives in that chaos. It is in the silence, in the stillness, that we find our strength. Remember, the best sniper is not the one who kills the most. It is the one who is never seen.”
And with that, he turned, his boots silent on the cold concrete floor as he walked away.
Next morning, he air in the training ground was thick with tension. The recruits — young, eager, and unaware of what truly lay ahead — stood rigid in their fatigues, eyes fixed on the two men who would shape them into something more than just soldiers. If Major Aslam Noor Fahid was the mind of the sniper program, the strategist and philosopher behind the art, then Subedar Gurpal Singh Sodhi was its heart — the relentless, unforgiving force that would mold these men into ghosts of the battlefield.
Subedar Sodhi was a veteran of countless operations. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a mountain, he moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had mastered patience. His face was weathered from years spent in the wilderness, his thick beard peppered with gray, his eyes like chips of cold steel. Unlike Major Fahid, who spoke with the measured authority of an officer, Sodhi’s voice was a blunt instrument — cold, biting, and stripped of any pretense.
“Over the next twelve weeks, you will be broken and rebuilt,” he announced, his deep voice carrying across the field. “You will stalk targets for hours without being seen. You will control your breath until your heartbeat slows to a crawl. You will fire from distances where wind, gravity, and even the curvature of the Earth conspire against you.”
He let the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “Some of you will not make it. Most of you will break before you even take your first real shot. And that is exactly how it should be. A sniper is not born. He is made — through fire, through hardship, through absolute discipline.”
His gaze swept across the line of recruits, pausing on a wiry young man named Dorjee, whose eyes were sharp but uncertain. Sodhi stared at him for a brief moment, as if measuring his soul, before speaking again.
“You will learn to kill with your eyes first,” he said. “Your rifle second.”
A shiver passed through the group. They had expected difficulty. They had expected rigorous training. But now, standing before this man, they realized they had entered something far beyond ordinary military instruction.
This was transformation.
The first week was designed to crush them.
Sleep was a luxury they were rarely afforded. They were woken in the dead of night, marched through dense forests, and made to navigate rough terrain with nothing but their instincts. The weight of their gear — rifle, ammunition, water, and the ever-present ghillie suit — pressed down on them like a lead blanket.
By the second day, exhaustion had set in. Blisters formed on feet that had already lost feeling. Muscles burned, screaming for relief that would never come.
Yet Sodhi showed no mercy.
“You are soft!” he bellowed as a recruit collapsed during a forced march. “Snipers do not have the luxury of comfort. You think the enemy will wait while you catch your breath? No. He will kill you before you even know he is there.”
One night, they were taken deep into the wilderness and left with nothing but their knives and their wits. Their task: to survive until morning without being detected by the instructors.
Most failed.
Some were found because they had built fires, betraying their positions with the flicker of light. Others moved too much, rustling the underbrush and giving themselves away. Those who were caught were dragged back to camp and forced to dig a pit, where they would spend the rest of the night buried up to their necks in the cold earth.
Dorjee was among those who remained hidden.
When Sodhi found him the next morning, curled beneath a thicket of thorn bushes, his face smeared with mud, his scent masked by crushed leaves, the old sniper merely nodded.
“Better,” he said. “But not good enough.”
By the second week, the recruits had begun to grasp that a sniper’s greatest weapon was not his rifle, but his ability to disappear. And that was where the ghillie suit came in.
Laid out before them were bundles of burlap, netting, and strips of cloth — crude materials that, in the right hands, could turn a man into a ghost. Sodhi held up a finished ghillie suit, a patchwork of natural elements woven into fabric, its colors blending seamlessly with the surrounding environment.
“This,” he said, “is your second skin. You do not wear it. You become it.”
He demonstrated by kneeling in the grass, adjusting his suit, tucking dried leaves and strands of grass into its fabric. Then, before their very eyes, he seemed to vanish.
Not completely — if they strained, they could make out the faint outline of his body. But it was enough to make them hesitate.
“If the enemy even suspects you are there, you have already failed,” came his voice from the undergrowth. “You are not a man with a gun. You are the wind in the trees. The shadow in the grass.”
They spent days perfecting their own ghillie suits, tailoring them to their individual body shapes, adjusting the materials to blend into different environments — woodlands, deserts, urban landscapes. Every inch of exposed skin was covered. Every fiber of fabric was treated to avoid detection from infrared scopes.
And then, the real test began.
“Your next task is to reach your target without being seen,” Sodhi announced, standing beside a distant tree line. “Your target is a single silhouette. It is 800 meters away. You will get within 200 meters and take the shot.”
There was a pause. Then he smiled. “But if we see you before you take that shot, you start over.”
For the next ten hours, the recruits crawled.
Not walked. Not ran. Crawled.
Every movement had to be deliberate. A careless hand would send a ripple through the grass. A clumsy knee would crush leaves in an unnatural way. Every inch covered was an exercise in control.
Dorjee lay flat against the ground, inching forward in agonizingly slow increments. He moved only when the wind rustled the leaves around him, masking his presence. His breathing was shallow, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum in his ears.
He watched the instructors scan the field, their binoculars sweeping for the slightest mistake. More than once, a recruit was spotted and sent back to the starting point.
Dorjee remained still.
Minutes turned to hours. Sweat dripped down his brow, but he did not move. He was a stone. A piece of the earth itself.
And then, at last, he reached his position.
He exhaled slowly, aligning his sights. The target stood, unmoving, unaware.
He squeezed the trigger.
The distant crack of the rifle echoed, and Sodhi turned, nodding in approval.
“Pass,” he said simply.
By the end of twelve weeks, those who remained were no longer the same men who had arrived. They were ghosts, shadows that moved unseen through the world. Their breathing was measured, their minds sharpened to a deadly edge.
Sodhi stood before them one last time.
“You are no longer soldiers,” he said. “You are something else entirely.”
He gestured toward the horizon.
“Out there, a sniper can turn the tide of a battle with a single shot. Out there, a sniper waits, unseen, unheard, patient beyond all measure. Out there, a sniper does not kill for glory. He kills because it is necessary.”
His eyes locked onto Dorjee.”You are now part of that legacy.”And with that, the course was complete.
The men who walked away from that training were few — but they were the best.
The train from Mhow rattled through the heart of India, cutting through vast plains and rugged terrain. Captain Dorjee sat by the window, watching the landscape roll past, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the patch he earned in Sniper School — a sign of his achievement, his passage through the gruelling sniper training under Major Aslam Noor Fahid and Subedar Gurpal Singh Sodhi. Twelve weeks had transformed him. He was no longer just a soldier — he was a hunter, a ghost, a patient and deadly force of nature. Every lesson, every gruelling test had carved away weakness, leaving behind a man who understood the meaning of silence, of patience, of absolute control over mind and body.
And yet, he felt something stir within him. Something unfinished. The stories he had heard — of the men who worked in the shadows, who operated behind enemy lines with lethal precision, who went where no one else dared — burned in his mind. Para SF. The best of the best.
Their motto whispered through his thoughts:
“Men Apart, Every Man an Emperor.”
As the train pulled into the Guwahati railway station, he stepped out, his posture straight, his eyes sharper than they had ever been. This wasn’t the same Dorjee who had left months ago. The young officer who had arrived in Mhow was gone. In his place stood something colder, more calculating. And it was time to report back.
The air in Guwahati was thick with the scent of damp earth and the lingering aroma of chai from the platform’s numerous stalls. The cacophony of porters calling out to travellers, the rhythmic clang of luggage carts, and the hum of the city’s traffic beyond the station created a familiar but distant backdrop for Captain Dorjee as he stepped off the train. He moved with purpose, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The cool metal of his belt buckle pressed against his waist, and the beret in his hand felt heavier than before — not in weight, but in significance. He was no longer just another officer in uniform. He was a sniper now. A hunter. A soldier reborn through sweat, pain, and relentless discipline. As he made his way outside the station, a waiting olive-green Gypsy with the insignia of the Assam Regiment caught his eye. The driver, a wiry Lance Naik in crisp fatigues, snapped to attention upon recognizing him. “Captain Dorjee, Sir!”
Dorjee returned a curt nod. “Lance Naik Angami , take me to Happy Valley.”
“Yes, Sir!” He climbed into the vehicle, tossing his bag onto the seat beside him. The Gypsy roared to life, its engine purring as the driver skillfully weaved through Guwahati’s morning traffic.
Guwahati’s roads were alive with activity — buses packed to the brim, rickshaws darting through impossibly small gaps, and two-wheelers navigating the chaos with practiced ease. The scent of fresh pakoras frying in roadside stalls mixed with the occasional sharp tang of diesel fumes. Yet, despite the city’s energy, Dorjee remained detached, his mind still half in Mhow, in the dense training grounds where he had honed his skills. As they ventured out, the city slowly began to fade behind them, replaced by lush greenery and rolling hills.. Dorjee watched it in silence, his thoughts momentarily drifting to his homeland in Sikkim, where similar rivers carved through valleys, untouched and wild. Beyond the bridge, the road twisted and climbed. The bustling urban sprawl of Guwahati gave way to serpentine roads with the cool mountain air . The air smelled fresher here, carrying the damp, rich aroma of the earth. The Lance Naik glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Sir, how was the training?” Dorjee considered the question for a moment before responding. “Gruelling. But worth it.” The soldier grinned. “I’ve heard stories about Mhow, Sir. They say the instructors there are harder than the stones in Shillong.” Dorjee smirked. “They’re harder than you can imagine. But if you survive, you come out a different man.” The road took another sharp bend as they neared their destination.
The first sign of Happy Valley was the grand regimental gate, adorned with the insignia of the Assam Regiment — a rhino in full charge, symbolizing the regiment’s unyielding spirit. The motto below it read:
“TAGRA RAHO!” . Stay strong.
The moment they passed through the gate, Dorjee felt it — the weight of history, of generations of warriors who had walked these grounds before him. The barracks stood in neat rows, their white walls gleaming against the green backdrop of the surrounding hills. Soldiers moved with disciplined precision, their uniforms crisp, their boots polished to a mirror shine. The Gypsy pulled up in front of the Officers’ Mess, a colonial-era building with sprawling verandas and manicured lawns. Dorjee stepped out, his eyes taking in the surroundings. This was home. This was where his journey had begun. As he adjusted his beret and prepared to report to his Commanding Officer, a realization settled over him. He had come back a changed man, but his journey was far from over.
The regimental headquarters was a hive of activity — junior officers moving briskly with files, NCOs barking orders, the faint clatter of weapons being assembled and inspected in the distance. As Dorjee entered, every soldier and officer who saw him immediately recognized the difference in his demeanor. His step was measured, his gaze unwavering.
The heavy teakwood doors of the CO’s office creaked open, revealing a room steeped in authority and tradition. Framed battle honors adorned the walls — Kohima, Jessami, and Tiddim — each a testament to the Assam Regiment’s indomitable spirit. The faint scent of old leather and strong Assam tea hung in the air, mingling with the ever-present whiff of gun oil from the weapons rack in the corner.bBehind a massive wooden desk, Brigadier Raghavendra Singh Rathore sat with the ease of a man who had faced death and conquered it countless times. His uniform, though neatly pressed, bore the subtle signs of a soldier who spent more time in the field than behind a desk — faint scuff marks on his boots, the creases of his sleeves rolled up just slightly from habit.
Inside the CO’s office, the air was thick with the scent of strong Assam tea and the polished wood of a room steeped in history. The heavy teak desk, battle-scarred from years of use, bore deep scratches — a silent witness to countless war councils, operational debriefs, and the weight of decisions that had sent men into battle.
At forty-six, he was in the prime of his command. Lean but powerful, his frame bore the unmistakable stamp of a man who still trained like a soldier, not just a commander. His forearms, roped with muscle, rested lightly on the arms of his chair, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the wood as he scanned a report. His dark, sharp eyes, underlined by faint lines of exhaustion and experience, moved with the precision of a man used to assessing threats in an instant.
Rathore was no desk officer. He was a warrior, forged in the fires of counter-insurgency operations in Kashmir, Manipur, and Arunachal Pradesh. His men whispered about his time in Kupwara, where he had led an assault against a fortified terrorist hideout with nothing but a small team and sheer audacity. They spoke of his six-hour ambush in Tirap Valley, where he had personally taken down a fleeing insurgent commander with a single burst from his Tavor rifle.
Yet, despite his battlefield reputation, he was not a man prone to anger or unnecessary bravado. He spoke little, listened more, and commanded with a quiet, unshakable authority that made lesser men uncomfortable.His leadership style was calculated ruthlessness — not cruel, but unsentimental. He expected his men to be sharp, disciplined, and utterly relentless, because that was what he demanded of himself.
A cup of steaming chai rested beside a stack of reports. He sipped it slowly, his sharp, hawk-like eyes scanning the documents before him. His face, lined but not aged, carried the quiet authority of a man who had led from the front. He was no mere administrator — he was a warrior.
And now, his gaze lifted to meet Captain Dorjee’s as the young officer stepped in and snapped to attention.
Dorjee saluted sharply. “Sir, Captain Dorjee reporting back from Mhow, Sir.” Rathore set down his cup, studying him for a long moment. Then, a small smirk touched his lips. “At ease, Captain. I see they didn’t break you.”
Dorjee relaxed, but only slightly. The room, though comfortably furnished, carried the weight of command. A large regimental flag stood proudly in the corner, its fabric slightly worn at the edges. On the wall, alongside the battle honours, hung a framed black-and-white photo of Rathore’s grandfather — a decorated officer in the Rajputana Rifles — standing beside a Sherman tank in Burma during World War II. Legacy ran deep in his blood.
Rathore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. His movements were measured, deliberate, as if every action he took was planned three steps ahead. “No, Sir,” Dorjee said firmly.
“Good,” Rathore nodded, then gestured for him to sit. “So, tell me — how was the course?”
Dorjee took a measured breath before answering.
“Sir, the training was unlike anything I have ever experienced. Subedar Gurpal Singh Sodhi was… remarkable. A master of his craft. He didn’t just teach us how to shoot — he taught us how to think, how to move, how to become something more than just soldiers with rifles. I thought I understood patience before, Sir. I was wrong.” Rathore chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “That’s Sodhi for you. The best snipers don’t just pull the trigger. They wait, they blend, they become the terrain. I assume you passed?”
Dorjee nodded. “Yes, Sir. Top of the course.” The Brigadier’s smirk grew into a full-fledged smile. “Impressive. But let’s get to the real question — what now?” Dorjee didn’t hesitate. “Sir, I want to volunteer for the Special Forces.” The room fell silent.
Rathore’s expression became unreadable. He studied Dorjee for a long moment before standing up and walking around the desk. He folded his arms across his chest, staring into Dorjee’s eyes as if searching for hesitation, for doubt.
“You realize what you’re asking for, Captain?” Rathore said, his voice quieter now, dead serious. “Para SF is not for everyone. You think sniper school was hard? That was a warm-up. The Para SF doesn’t just take good soldiers. They take the absolute best — then they break them, again and again, until only the strongest remain.” Dorjee’s jaw tightened. “I understand, Sir.”
Rathore took another step closer, his tone sharpening. “No, Captain. You don’t. These men — our best — operate in the dark, in the worst conditions imaginable. They jump behind enemy lines, infiltrate deep inside hostile territory, carry out high-risk missions with no backup. No one will come to save you if things go wrong.”
Dorjee held Rathore’s gaze, unwavering.
“Sir, I know that. And I still want in.” For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then, slowly, a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Rathore’s lips. “You’ve got fire in your belly, Captain,” he said. “I like that.” He walked back behind his desk, picking up a file and flipping through it. “You’re fit, you’ve got the mental toughness, and now you’ve got specialized training. But Para SF selection is not just about skill — it’s about willpower.” He closed the file and looked back up.
“You’ll have to go through probation, just like every other candidate. You’ll be tested in ways you can’t even imagine.” Dorjee straightened his back. “I’m ready, Sir.”
Rathore chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that. I’ll put in the request for your probation. You’ll be transferred to the Paratroopers Training School. After that, you’ll face ‘Hell Week.’ If you survive that, you’ll begin training with the Special Forces.”
Dorjee nodded. He had expected nothing less. Rathore’s voice lowered, taking on a more personal tone. “One last thing, Captain.”
“Sir?”
The air inside Colonel Rathore’s office was thick with tension, the kind that only came with life-altering decisions. It clung to the walls, settled into the creases of the Colonel’s weathered face, and sat heavy in Captain Dorjee’s chest. The old wooden fan overhead droned on, its rhythmic creaking the only sound in the dimly lit room.
Dorjee stood ramrod straight, his uniform crisp, boots polished to a mirror shine, but none of that mattered now. He was at the precipice of something far greater than appearances. Across the desk, Rathore, a man who had seen more battlefields than birthdays, fixed him with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel. He had the bearing of a man who had walked through hell and made it his home. His fingers tapped against the mahogany desk — a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Finally, he spoke. “Captain Dorjee.” His voice was low, even, but it carried the weight of a gunshot. “You understand what you’re asking for?”
Dorjee’s jaw tightened. He had known this was coming. Rathore wasn’t the kind of man to sugarcoat things, not when lives hung in the balance.
“Yes, Sir.”
The Colonel leaned forward, the dim light casting shadows over his hardened features. “Once you step into Belgaum, you cease to exist. There are no medals, no parades, no bloody promotions for glory. You’ll fight wars that never make the news. You’ll win battles that don’t exist on any map. And when you fall…” He paused, letting the silence drive his point home. “There won’t be a tricolor on your coffin. Hell !! , There won’t even be a coffin.”
Dorjee didn’t flinch. “Understood, Sir.”
Rathore studied him, searching for cracks. “The selection will break you. The only question is whether you’ll still be standing at the end of it.”
Dorjee allowed himself a small, knowing smile. “Permission to find out, Sir?”
For the first time, something like amusement flickered in Rathore’s eyes. Just for a moment. Then it was gone. He picked up a file, signed it with a firm stroke, and shut it with a decisive thud.
As he turned and walked out of the office, the sunlight streaming through the windows felt almost blinding after the dim interior. He blinked, adjusting to the brightness, and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, clean air. The world outside seemed unchanged, but he knew that everything had shifted. The sniper course had been brutal, a test of endurance, skill, and mental fortitude. But Para SF selection? That was something else entirely. It was a crucible, a trial by fire that would push him to his absolute limits and beyond.
He thought of the challenges that lay ahead — the grueling physical tests, the psychological warfare, the relentless pressure that would strip him down to his core and force him to confront his deepest fears and insecurities. He thought of the men who had come before him, the legends who had walked this path and emerged stronger, sharper, more resilient. And he thought of the life he was leaving behind, the comforts and conveniences he would have to sacrifice in pursuit of something greater.
But he also thought of the camaraderie, the brotherhood that would bind him to his fellow soldiers, the unbreakable bond forged in the heat of battle. He thought of the missions that would test his skills and his courage, the lives he might save, the difference he could make. And he thought of the quiet pride that came from knowing he was part of something bigger than himself, something that mattered.As he stepped into the sunlight, he felt a sense of clarity, of purpose. He was ready. Ready to face the unknown, ready to embrace the shadows, ready to give everything he had for the mission, for his brothers, for his country. The journey ahead would be long and arduous, but he knew he was prepared. He had trained for this, lived for this, and now, finally, it was within his grasp.
The path of the chosen few. It was a path few could walk, and even fewer could endure. But Dorjee was ready. Ready to face the challenges, ready to prove himself, ready to become the soldier he was meant to be. And as he walked away from the office, his footsteps firm and purposeful, he knew that his true journey was only beginning.
A few months later…
Zero Five hundred Hours. SFTC Drill Square , Belgaum.
The dawn was slow to break over the horizon, the first hints of light crawling hesitantly over the jungle canopy. The Belgaum air was thick with morning mist, rolling in like waves over the rugged training ground. The air smelled of damp earth, sweat, and the distant, ever-present tang of gun oil. A cold wind swept through the camp, biting through fatigues and rattling tin mugs on mess tables. But no one in the formation moved. Thirty men stood at attention, eyes locked straight ahead, awaiting the arrival of the man whose reputation had preceded him.
Then, like a storm rolling in, he arrived.
Subedar Major Trilochan Singh Kataria moved like a predator, slow and deliberate, his boots crunching over gravel with each measured step. He was built like a war machine, his frame lean but powerful, forged by decades in the harshest of battlefields. His ankle-length black boots gleamed under the training ground lights, laced up with precision, scuffed from countless combat missions but still radiating an aura of discipline. His combat fatigues were faded, worn by years in the field, but the insignias on them told stories few dared to ask about. On his shoulders, the Special Forces arm tag was stitched into the very fabric of his soul — earned through blood, sweat, and sheer willpower. Across his chest, stitched onto the very fabric of his existence, gleamed the Balidaan Badge — a small yet formidable insignia that bore the weight of countless sacrifices. It was no ordinary badge, no mere decoration; it was a mark of legends, a silent declaration that the man who wore it had walked through hell and emerged unbroken.The Balidaan Badge — a blood-red dagger, its blade pointed downward, with a pair of wings arching from its hilt — symbolized the deadly precision, agility, and unyielding spirit of the Para Special Forces. It was a dagger that had cut through enemy lines, a blade that had pierced the darkness where others dared not tread. The wings signified speed, a tribute to the rapid, silent, and decisive nature of SF operations, where success was measured in seconds and failure meant certain death.The Balidaan Badge (बलिदान) is the distinguished insignia of the Para Special Forces (Para SF) of the Indian Army. It is one of the most revered military badges in the Indian Armed Forces and symbolizes sacrifice, valor, and unmatched dedication to duty.The badge features a silver dagger with its blade pointing downwards, over a red rectangle with “बलिदान” (Balidaan, meaning “Sacrifice”) inscribed in Devanagari script.he dagger represents the silent, swift, and deadly nature of the Para SF, while the red background symbolizes blood and sacrifice.
This badge wasn’t given. It was earned.
It wasn’t pinned on by an officer in a ceremonial function; it was forged in the fires of relentless combat, soaked in blood and sweat, and secured only after proving oneself through the ultimate test — the Balidaan oath, a lifelong commitment to serve in the shadows, to fight battles no one would ever hear of, to make sacrifices the world would never acknowledge.
To the civilian world, it was an unknown entity. Few outside the armed forces had ever heard of it, and even fewer understood the depths of what it signified. But within the ranks of the Indian Army, and in the company of warriors who lived by the code of blood and steel, the Balidaan Badge was holy
And then, there was the maroon beret — the crown of the Para SF, the symbol of the finest warriors on the battlefield.
It sat perched on his head, slightly tilted, the badge of the Para SF glinting in place. This was no ordinary headgear. In the army fraternity worldwide, it was a symbol of absolute supremacy, of the best of the best. It was worn only by those who had looked death in the eye and walked away without flinching.
The maroon beret wasn’t a piece of uniform. It was an honor.
It was worn only by those who had earned the right to call themselves Para SF, those who had undergone some of the most brutal, most unforgiving training in the world. The very sight of the maroon beret commanded respect, admiration, and fear — for everyone in the army knew what it took to wear it. To the untrained eye, it was just a cap, a different color of standard army headgear. But to those who understood, it was a beacon of excellence, an emblem of men who had given up everything for something greater.
To earn the maroon beret, a soldier had to endure what was known in whispers as “the Phantoms’ Trial” — the Para SF probation period. It was the kind of training that broke even the strongest men. Sleep deprivation, forced marches under extreme loads, brutal endurance tests in scorching deserts and freezing mountains, and mind-bending psychological warfare. It was six months of hell — the kind where bones cracked, where minds shattered, where spirits were tested beyond human limits.
For many, the journey ended before it even began. The weak were discarded like chaff from wheat, the unworthy sent back to their original regiments with the mark of failure seared into their souls. Only the ones who refused to break, who fought through the pain, who had the fire in their gut — only they survived.
And those who survived were granted the right to don the maroon beret, the final seal of approval that they were now part of the brotherhood of shadows, a family where only the most elite belonged.
A Para SF operative wasn’t just a soldier — he was a ghost, a specter on the battlefield, a silent guardian and a ruthless hunter.
The maroon beret was worn with quiet pride, a badge of absolute competence, respected in every military fraternity across the world. It signified that the man wearing it had conquered his fears, had become more than just a warrior — he had become a weapon, honed to perfection.
Few men had the privilege of wearing the Balidaan Badge and the maroon beret. Even fewer survived long enough to live with the honor they carried.Subedar Major Trilochan Singh Kataria was one of them. His eyes were the color of spent gunpowder — dark, cold, unforgiving. He had the face of a man who had seen things that could never be spoken of, lines etched deep into his skin like battle scars. His thick mustache barely concealed the scars across his lips, each one a story untold.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
When he spoke, his voice was gravel and steel, cutting through the cold morning like a bayonet through flesh.
“Welcome to Belgaum,” he said, his voice carrying across the field. “You are standing in the presence of warriors who came before you. Men who bled so you could wear that uniform. But let me be clear — none of you are worthy of it. Not yet.”
His eyes scanned the recruits — officers, jawans, men from different regiments, different backgrounds.
“Out there in the real world, you have ranks, privileges, status. You call yourselves captains, majors, lieutenants, JCOs, NCOs. Here?” He exhaled sharply. “Here, you are nothing. Here, you are only numbers.”
His boots clicked as he took slow, deliberate steps across the line of recruits.
“There is no difference between an officer and a jawan in this course. If you think your rank will save you, leave now. If you think your previous regiment makes you tough, leave now. If you think you already know what hell looks like, leave now.”
Silence.
“Because what we do here is not for the faint-hearted. This is where men break. This is where warriors are forged.”
Kataria took a breath, then spat the words with venom. “Welcome to Hell.”
The whistle cut through the air, and the recruits dropped to the ground, faces in the dirt, as their first drill began. Kataria’s voice rang out like a machine gun.
“Burpees! One hundred! GO!”
Dorjee hit the ground, muscles screaming before they even started. The wet soil clung to his skin, sweat mixed with dirt forming a thick paste. His breath came in ragged bursts as he powered through.
“Too slow! Again!”
Then came the push-ups — hundreds of them, till arms felt like lead, till bodies trembled, till men collapsed. Kataria watched like a hawk, expression unreadable. A recruit groaned, his body failing.
Kataria pounced like a panther, yanking the man up by his fatigues. “You think this is hard?” he hissed, nose inches from the recruit’s sweat-soaked face. “Try carrying a wounded brother on your back for five kilometers under enemy fire! Now get up!”
The recruit got up. Then, the runs began.
Ten kilometers in full battle gear. The morning sun had barely risen, but already the jungle was a furnace. Dorjee ran, his breath controlled, his mind locked in. He refused to fall back.
Men collapsed. Some vomited. Kataria kept pace with them all, never faltering.
His voice was ice-cold. “Your body will break before your mind does. Keep moving.” Dorjee pushed harder.
As Captain Dorjee labored along the track, sweat drenching his battle fatigues, his breath ragged from the relentless pace, the harsh reality of what lay ahead started to settle in.
He knew he was fitter than most of his regiment cronies, stronger than the average soldier in the Indian Army, and had earned his stripes the hard way. He had been a star in his old regiment, a standout, the kind of officer who led from the front, the one the men would look up to in battle. He had excelled in every physical endurance test, crushed every obstacle, and come out the other side with his head held high. His mental toughness had been tested time and again, and each time, he had risen to the challenge. He had achieved the respect of his peers and superiors alike, and had secured his position as one of the best.
But this was different.
As he glanced sideways, he saw the other probationers, the men who had come from all corners of the country, from different regiments, each of them looking like they belonged to the elite. And that’s when it hit him — he was no longer at the top of the food chain. In fact, he was at the bottom. Here, the standards were higher than anything he had ever known. The training was more brutal, the expectations, unforgiving. The Para Special Forces was a different breed altogether.
Subedar Major Trilochan Singh Kataria had warned them all the first day. His voice was low, guttural, and carrying a gravitas that made every word land with a weight that couldn’t be ignored.
“Listen up, probationers,” Kataria had barked, standing like a granite statue, his chest adorned with his Balidaan Badge and his maroon beret perched proudly on his head. His boots — ankle-length, polished to perfection — shone in the morning sun like a soldier’s promise, unwavering and unyielding. The creases in his fatigues were sharp enough to cut paper, and his eyes — those cold, calculating eyes — scanned the group of young soldiers, gauging each one.
“You are nothing here. You think you’ve seen pain? You think you’ve seen hard work? Here, everyone is a blank slate,” he continued, his voice rising with every syllable, each one punctuated by the sharp snap of his tone. “We don’t care about your medals, your badges, or your past. The moment you step onto this track, you’re starting from scratch. You want to be Para SF? Well, this is where the real war begins.”
Now, as Dorjee struggled to keep up with the group, he could feel it. The humbling truth settled in his bones. Here, there were no shortcuts. No one cared about the records he had broken, the missions he had completed with flawless precision. Here, everyone was equal. His previous glory meant nothing to these men. They were all moving toward a single goal — the right to wear that maroon beret, to earn the Balidaan Badge, to become part of something legendary.
The track before him seemed to stretch on forever. It wasn’t just a physical test; it was a mental one as well. His legs were burning, his muscles screamed for relief, but the pace didn’t slow. His body was pushed to the brink of collapse, and yet, he could not falter. This wasn’t just a test of strength. It was a test of willpower. A test of whether he was ready to shed the armor of comfort and embrace the pain, the exhaustion, the unrelenting demand of becoming a Para SF operative.
As they reached the next obstacle — a high wall that stood before them, almost mocking the exhausted recruits — Dorjee’s breath came in sharp bursts. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the rough, uneven surface. But then, he saw it. The men ahead of him were scaling it with ease, pulling themselves up with the kind of fluid motion that made it look like they were climbing a simple ladder.
Kataria, who had been trailing behind them at a leisurely pace, eyes ever-watchful, barked an order from behind, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.
“Move, Dorjee! What are you waiting for? You think the wall’s going to come down on its own? Climb!”
The words weren’t harsh — they were instructional. They were meant to push him, to force him to realize that the luxury of comfort and pride from his old regiment was nothing but a distant memory. He was in the now, and here, in this world of Para SF, nothing was easy. There was no room for ego. No room for hesitation.
Dorjee gritted his teeth and attacked the wall with every ounce of strength he had left. The grip of his hands was almost numb, the pain in his arms was unbearable, but he clawed his way up. Every inch felt like a victory. He finally reached the top, breathless and battered, and flung himself over the edge. As he rolled to the ground, his face met the dust, and he lay there for a second, staring at the clear blue sky above him.
Kataria was already standing there, waiting for him. “Not bad, Dorjee,” he said, his voice now calmer but no less intimidating. “But remember this. You’re not here to just pass. You’re here to excel. Excellence is the only currency we accept here. Keep up. The next one’s coming.”
Dorjee nodded, his resolve strengthening with each passing moment. He was exhausted, but he had no choice but to press on. For a second, he felt the weight of all the doubts that had plagued him earlier. But in that fleeting moment, something shifted within him — he knew, without a doubt, that he was exactly where he was meant to be. He was no longer Captain Dorjee of the regiment, he was just another probationer. But that didn’t scare him. In fact, it fueled him.
Because, in the end, this was his test. And the path to greatness wasn’t paved with comfort. It was forged in pain, perseverance, and the relentless will to become more than what you were.
As they moved forward, Dorjee felt the fire in his chest — he was fighting not for the past, but for something far greater, for something that could only be earned with blood and sweat.
And there was no turning back now.
Colonel Ashish Singh Jasrotia stood tall, the wind catching the hem of his battle fatigues as he surveyed the young men in front of him, their faces a mixture of grit, determination, and, beneath it all, an unmistakable hint of fear. But fear was a good thing here. It was the kind of fear that kept them alert, that would keep them alive when they faced the chaos of war. The kind of fear that would make them push past the limits of what they thought was possible.
He knew what had to be done. They were far from ready. They were just probationers, fresh faces hoping to wear the Maroon Beret. But the Maroon Beret wasn’t just a piece of cloth. It was a symbol. A symbol of sacrifice, of courage, and of unwavering willpower. It had been earned by men who had pushed themselves to the breaking point and beyond. Men who had faced impossible odds, endured grueling conditions, and, in the end, emerged victorious not just for themselves, but for their brothers-in-arms.
“Subedar Major Kataria,” Jasrotia called out in his deep, commanding voice, his gaze never leaving the recruits. “Break them. Make them men out of boys. No mercy. No exceptions.”
The order rang out with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. It was a statement of intent, a declaration of what was to come. The probationers stood at attention, but deep down, they knew that Subedar Major Trilochan Singh Kataria — the very embodiment of toughness and discipline — was about to show them just how far they were from being worthy of the Maroon Beret.
Subedar Major Kataria’s name was whispered in awe and fear in every corner of the SFTC. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, his words were like iron, sharp and unyielding. He was the backbone of the SFTC, the one responsible for molding raw recruits into elite warriors. His reputation was unmatched, his presence like a thunderstorm — powerful, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore.
As Kataria approached the formation, every recruit could feel the weight of his gaze, cold and calculating, as though he could see into their very souls. The Subedar Major was a towering figure, his face chiseled with years of battle-hardened experience. He stood at six feet tall, his shoulders broad, and his body was a canvas of muscles honed through years of unimaginable hardship.
“You heard the Colonel,” Kataria’s voice sliced through the air, low and gravelly, but carrying the weight of authority. “No mercy. Not one ounce.”
The recruits tensed, sensing the storm that was about to hit them. Kataria’s eyes locked onto each of them, his gaze a silent challenge.
“You think you’re ready for this?” he asked, his voice like a whip cracking in the silence. His gaze fixed on Dorjee for a brief moment, before moving on. “You think you’ve earned your place here? You’ve just begun to scratch the surface of what it means to be a Para SF soldier.”
He paused, letting the tension settle over them. The sweat that trickled down their backs now felt like the weight of their doubts.
“You are all just boys with dreams of glory.” Kataria’s words were sharp, unforgiving. “Boys who think wearing a beret is the same as becoming a warrior.”
He walked slowly around them, the thud of his boots echoing in the quiet morning air. The recruits stiffened, eyes trained ahead, not daring to break formation.
“You want to wear this?” Kataria asked, tapping the maroon beret that rested on his head. “You want to wear this badge of honor?” He pointed to the balidaan crest over his chest. “This is not a right. It’s earned. It’s earned with blood, sweat, and tears. And you, my boys, have none of that yet.”
He stopped in front of Dorjee, his gaze intense, piercing through him like a blade.
“You think you’re fit, Captain?” Kataria’s voice dropped to a near whisper, his eyes boring into Dorjee’s. “You think you’ve seen the worst of it?”
Dorjee stood at attention, sweat soaking his fatigues, but his voice came out steady, unwavering. “Yes, Sir.”
Kataria smiled a cold smile, one that did not reach his eyes. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Not until you’ve crawled through the mud, carried your brothers when they can’t walk, and pushed your body to the edge of breaking.”
The words hung in the air like a declaration of war, the challenge clear. He turned and addressed the group once again, his voice booming.
“Listen up!” Kataria barked. “There will be no rank here. No officers, no jawans. You are all just men, and you will be broken down until only the best remains. I will push you until you scream, until your legs give out and your lungs burn. You will beg me to stop, but I will not listen. I will not stop until I’ve made soldiers out of each and every one of you.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “The Colonel said, ‘Make men out of boys,’ and that’s exactly what I’ll do. But don’t think it’ll be easy. You will hate me. You will curse me. But when you’re standing at the end, and you’re wearing that Maroon Beret, you’ll know it was all worth it. If you make it.”
With that, Kataria turned sharply on his heel and marched toward the training ground, his boots kicking up dust with each powerful step.
“Follow me, you sorry bunch of probies.” His words echoed over their heads as he led them toward the first of many tests that would shape their futures.
As Dorjee and the others fell into line behind him, they felt the weight of the challenge ahead. But there was something else there, too — a spark of excitement, of anticipation. They had been given a taste of what the path ahead would look like, and for the first time, they could see it: the Maroon Beret — the symbol of everything they had ever wanted to be.
And they were ready.
By the time they returned, their bodies were wrecked. But Kataria wasn’t done. He stood before them, arms crossed at the entrance of their barracks .
“This is just Day One,” he said, his voice a promise of suffering to come. “You will know pain. You will know exhaustion. You will wish you never stepped into this camp.” He looked around. Some men were already wavering, their spirits cracked, their bodies betraying them.
He exhaled sharply.
“If you don’t belong here, step forward now and ring the bell.” A single bell stood at the edge of the parade ground — the bell of failure. Ring it, and you quit.
Silence. Then — one man stepped forward.
A murmur. Kataria gave him a long, cold look. “You will regret this for the rest of your life,” he said simply.
The man saluted, dropped his number, and walked out of the camp. The remaining recruits stood firm. Kataria nodded once.
“Good. Now let’s see if you can survive the next six months.”
Dorjee clenched his fists. He wasn’t going anywhere. Because only the best walked out of Belgaum wearing the maroon beret. And he was going to be one of them.
Dorjee looked around. Twenty-nine remained. This was only the beginning. And he was ready.
The sun had barely risen over the desolate hills surrounding the Special Forces Training Centre (SFTC) at Belgaum, casting long shadows over the hardened men who stood in the thick morning mist, the air heavy with the promise of sweat, grit, and unrelenting challenge. It was the beginning of the sixth week — a week that Dorjee knew would either make or break him.
The training had already stripped them of any remnants of comfort or arrogance. The first weeks had been brutal: endless runs with weight-filled rucksacks, nights spent crawling through mud with their bodies barely able to function, and physical drills that pushed their endurance to limits they hadn’t known existed. But it wasn’t just the physical exertion that had them on the edge of collapse. It was the psychological strain — the constant questioning of their strength, their willpower, and their very identity.
Dorjee had watched the men around him falter, some withering under the pressure, their minds slowly surrendering, unable to bear the load of the relentless demands. The sound of Subedar Major Kataria’s voice, cold and merciless, echoed in his mind.
“This is not a holiday camp, gentlemen! You will cry. You will beg. And I will give you nothing but more. More, until I see the man inside you!”
Each command, each exercise was meant to strip them down, to unmake them, until only the strongest, the toughest, the most resilient remained. The vision of the Maroon Beret was still there, elusive yet tantalizing, but it was beginning to feel like a distant dream. The pain, the exhaustion, the constant ache in his muscles, and the thought of quitting had started to creep into Dorjee’s mind.
One particularly brutal morning, the training had begun before dawn. The recruits, barely able to keep their eyes open, were lined up for what was called the “Tactical Endurance Course.” They would have to crawl through tunnels, drag each other across uneven terrain, cross rivers in full battle gear, and sprint through obstacles while carrying injured comrades on their backs. It was meant to be a test of both physical strength and mental fortitude.
As Dorjee approached the first obstacle, a murky stream filled with thick, ankle-deep mud, he felt the weight of his gear pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. His mind was fogged with exhaustion, his muscles screamed in protest, and the last thing he wanted to do was continue. The cold water hit his face as he plunged forward into the stream, feeling the muck cling to his fatigues like a thousand hands trying to pull him under.
As he slogged through the knee-deep water, his mind wandered. He saw his family, his regiment, the life he had left behind to be here. He thought about his godmother, Hrishita, her gentle voice encouraging him to pursue his dreams, and he wondered if she would ever understand what he was going through.
“Enough is enough,” he muttered under his breath, his head low, his heart heavy. The weight of it all was unbearable. The lack of sleep, the grueling exercises, and the fear of failure gnawed at his resolve. He considered stopping, perhaps even ringing the bell at the end of the course, signaling his defeat. “I can’t do this anymore,” he thought. “I’m not cut out for this. This is not me.”
It was at that moment, submerged in the muddy stream, that the familiar voice of Subedar Major Kataria broke through the fog in his mind.
“Quit now, Dorjee, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. No one here will remember your name, but I’ll remember the sound of that bell ringing.”
Dorjee’s head snapped up, his chest heaving as he stared into the cold waters. Kataria was standing on the far edge of the stream, arms crossed, his eyes piercing into Dorjee’s soul. “You will NOT quit,” he continued in his low, gravelly voice. “Your family doesn’t need a quitter. Your regiment doesn’t need a quitter. And most importantly, I don’t need a quitter.”
His words echoed in Dorjee’s mind like thunder. He was not alone. His comrades, the ones who had walked alongside him in this hell, were all facing the same demons. He was not just fighting for himself, but for every man who had ever worn the Maroon Beret. He would not ring the bell. He could not.
With a guttural growl, Dorjee pushed himself through the mud, dragging his exhausted body forward, inch by inch. The world around him blurred as his body screamed, but something inside him snapped — a switch flipped, and he surged forward, faster, stronger than before.
Hours later, when the day’s training finally ended and they were given a few minutes to rest, Dorjee collapsed onto the hard earth, his body shaking, his chest heaving for air. But in that moment of exhaustion, something had changed. The fog had cleared, and what was left behind was a fierce, unrelenting determination.
“This is just the beginning,” he muttered to himself, wiping the sweat and grime off his face with his sleeve. “I’m going to make it. I don’t care how hard it gets.”
Over the next few days, Dorjee’s resolve was tested even further. They were forced to run 20 kilometers with a full pack, climb mountains with nothing but their bare hands, and execute drills that pushed them beyond their physical limits. There were moments when he was certain he couldn’t go any further. His legs felt like lead, his body on the brink of shutting down. But every time he thought he couldn’t continue, he thought back to the words of Subedar Major Kataria. The image of the Maroon Beret danced in his mind, and he reminded himself of the promise he had made — to his comrades, to his regiment, and most of all, to himself.
One day, during a particularly grueling obstacle course, Kataria came to Dorjee and placed a hand on his shoulder. The man who had been relentless in his pursuit of perfection finally spoke in a rare moment of solidarity.
“You’re starting to get it, Dorjee. You’ll break, and then you’ll rebuild yourself. You’ll see things differently. You’ll look at the world and know that nothing can ever break you again.”
Those words, simple but heavy, carried more weight than Dorjee could ever have imagined. Kataria was right. This wasn’t just about the Maroon Beret. It was about what came after. It was about becoming someone who could face the worst of what the world had to offer and emerge stronger, sharper, and unyielding.
As the final week approached, the group of probationers — now fewer than they had been — pushed themselves harder than ever before. Their bodies were broken, but their minds were becoming steel. Dorjee could feel it — the change, the growth. He wasn’t just trying to survive anymore. He was thriving.
When the final test arrived, it was not a singular event, but a culmination of everything they had learned over the previous weeks. The endurance trial was a monster: a mixture of everything they had been subjected to — endless running, crawling through mud, swimming in freezing cold water, carrying fellow recruits, and making split-second decisions in extreme conditions.
Dorjee’s body was on fire by the time they reached the last stretch, but his mind was clear. His eyes locked onto the Maroon Beret waiting for him, the culmination of everything he had sacrificed and fought for. He wasn’t just Dorjee anymore. He was something more — something stronger.
The training at the Special Forces Training Centre (SFTC), Belgaum, had reached its tenth week, and for Captain Dorjee, the toll was becoming unbearable. The days had bled into each other — an endless cycle of grueling physical endurance, mentally taxing drills, and testing his very will to survive. The bond between the probationers was forged in blood, sweat, and exhaustion. Yet, there were moments when the quietest thought in Dorjee’s mind would rise to the surface — “Enough is enough.”
At the start, Dorjee had been confident. His sniper training from his earlier days in the regiment had given him a sense of superiority. He was a sharpshooter, a marksman, and his abilities had served him well in countless operations. His hands had become steady over years of precise aiming, his vision honed like an eagle’s, and his mind trained to anticipate the enemy’s next move. The deadly silence of his rifle had once been his solace, and the art of patience, of waiting for the perfect shot, had been his pride.
But the Special Forces training was different. Far beyond just pulling a trigger with precision, it demanded something deeper — something Dorjee had not fully anticipated. It was a test of physical endurance, yes, but more than that, it was a test of mental fortitude, the ability to push beyond the limits of pain, to embrace the suffering, and yet emerge stronger. The weeks of exhaustion, hardship, and relentless training had started to erode his once-unshakable resolve.
The Breaking Point
The day began like any other. The early morning haze clung to the ground, and the sound of boots marching in sync reverberated through the chilly air. It was the beginning of another long march, a 40-kilometer trek across rugged terrain with full battle gear and rifles slung over their shoulders. Dorjee had done this before, many times, but today was different.
The marching was just the first phase of the day’s test — an arduous test designed to push the men to their physical and mental limits. By the time Dorjee reached the halfway point, his muscles were screaming, his feet were blistered, and his body, as tough as it had become, was on the verge of shutting down. It wasn’t the physical fatigue that gnawed at him — it was the mental exhaustion. Every single movement felt like a battle against his own body. His mind was the only thing that kept him moving, but it was growing weaker by the second.
Dorjee, usually calm and composed, found his mind spiraling. “What am I doing here?” he thought. “Why did I think I could survive this? I’m a sniper, not a machine meant for endless punishment.” He had heard the same questions in the minds of other recruits, but his had a different weight. He had always been a soldier — trained, disciplined, and deadly, but this was something else entirely. This was war against the self.
As the pain continued to mount, Dorjee reached the point where he could barely lift his legs. His head throbbed, the weight of the rifle seemed to grow heavier with each step, and the thought of ringing the bell and calling it quits flashed through his mind with all the allure of an easy way out. He had reached his breaking point.
He slowed, then stopped completely, leaning against a boulder for support. “Enough,” he muttered. “I’ve given everything I have.”
It was then that Subedar Major Kataria appeared from behind a bush, his eyes narrowing as he took in Dorjee’s state. Dorjee had hoped for a break, a moment to breathe, but Kataria wasn’t about to offer him that luxury.
“What’s the matter, Dorjee?” Kataria’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. “You look like you’re about to fall apart. You’re just about halfway to where you need to be, and you’re already ready to quit?”
Dorjee could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “I don’t know if I can keep going, Sir. This is…” he paused, struggling for words, his mind blanking. “This is more than I bargained for.”
Kataria stepped closer, his boots crunching against the rocky ground. “Do you think you’re the first to feel that way?” he asked, his voice now low and steady. “Every man here feels that at some point. The difference is what you do with that feeling. You either give up, or you dig deeper.”
Dorjee looked up at him, exhaustion clouding his vision. “I’ve been digging for weeks, Sir. There’s nothing left.”
Kataria knelt down in front of him, placing his hand on Dorjee’s shoulder. His words, when they came, were quieter now, but no less forceful. “You’ve been trained as a sniper, Dorjee. You know better than anyone that the shot is only part of the battle. You’ve been taught patience, discipline, and focus. But now, this is about mental discipline, it’s about staying still in the chaos and pushing through when it feels like you’re empty.”
There was a pause as Dorjee’s gaze met Kataria’s — his eyes steely and unwavering.
“Do you want to be a sniper, or do you want to be a man who quits?” Kataria’s voice was like steel — unwavering and firm.
Dorjee’s mind raced. The pain in his legs and the ache in his chest screamed at him to stop, but something inside him snapped back into place. He was no stranger to suffering. As a sniper, he had spent hours, sometimes days, in the bitter cold or the sweltering heat, waiting, watching, and enduring until the perfect moment presented itself. This wasn’t any different. The pain was just another obstacle — just another test of endurance.
With a quiet grunt, Dorjee lifted his rifle once again, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. His legs were on fire, but his mind cleared, his focus returning. He took a deep breath and began to move forward, one step at a time. “I am not quitting.”
The rest of the trek seemed to take forever, but Dorjee felt something shift within him. He wasn’t moving quickly, but each step was a small victory. His body hurt, but it was a familiar pain — one that he had long ago learned to accept.
What set Dorjee apart from the other probationers wasn’t just his physical strength, but his mental focus. As a sniper, he had been trained to wait, to observe, and to act with precision. This training served him well in the tactical situations that frequently arose during their exercises at SFTC.
The Special Forces curriculum wasn’t simply about brute force — it was about tactics, about using the terrain, the environment, and one’s own skills to their advantage. It wasn’t enough to be strong and fast; they had to think on their feet, react to changing situations, and make decisions in the blink of an eye.
During a night exercise, Dorjee’s sniper training came to the forefront. The team was tasked with infiltrating a mock enemy base and neutralizing targets. The darkness of the night worked in their favor, and as Dorjee lay on his belly in the tall grass, his eyes narrowed, his pulse steady, he could feel the familiar hum of concentration take over. “Breathe, wait, observe. The target will come to you.”
He picked his targets off one by one, his breath steady, his finger pulling the trigger with precision and calmness that few could match. The rest of the team, who had never worked with a sniper before, marveled at his ability to adapt to each change in the scenario, shifting between cover and concealment with ease. He knew where the targets would be, when they would appear, and when the moment of truth would come.
Dorjee didn’t have to think — his training had become instinctual, automatic. Each shot he fired was calculated and deadly — “Nothing personal, just business.”
By the end of the night, the team had completed the mission flawlessly. But it wasn’t just the success that mattered; it was the way Dorjee had handled the pressure, the way he had relied on his sniping instincts to guide his actions. He had taken the pressure of the mission and transformed it into a series of focused decisions, one shot at a time.
As they returned to base, Subedar Major Kataria patted Dorjee on the back, his usual harsh demeanor replaced with a rare moment of respect.
“That was the mark of a true soldier,” he said gruffly. “You’ve earned your place, Dorjee. Now, just make sure you remember that there’s no room for weakness in this world.”
By the end of the week, Dorjee was different — stronger, sharper, and more determined than ever. He had faced his breaking point and emerged unscathed. He wasn’t just a sniper anymore. He was a Special Forces soldier.
The final week of the Special Forces training had arrived at the SFTC, Belgaum, and the air was thick with anticipation. The Probies, once a group of 30 hopefuls, had dwindled down to just six remaining. The rest had either fallen to the grueling conditions or chosen to ring the bell and end their misery. Those who were left were broken, but they were also stronger than they had ever been. They had proven they could endure — physically, mentally, and emotionally — but now, they had to face the final trial: Hell’s Week.
The dawn broke over the training grounds, the first rays of sunlight barely breaking through the mist, casting a pale glow on the dirt-streaked faces of the six remaining recruits. Their bodies were stiff, their limbs sore, their eyes red from lack of sleep and endless exertion. They had long since given up on feeling fresh; now, it was about surviving.
Just as they were lining up for the morning inspection, the familiar sound of an olive green Gypsy driving onto the field broke the silence. It stopped at the edge of the training ground, the dust settling as the engine roared into silence. The Probies stood at attention, their bodies trembling from fatigue, but they had learned by now that weakness was not something they could afford.
Colonel Ashish Singh Jasrotia, the Head of the SFTC, stepped out of the vehicle with his trademark Ray-Ban aviators perched on his nose, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and his posture radiating authority. His worn leather gloves creaked as he took a drag, and as he approached, the remaining six soldiers instinctively straightened.
He was a man of legendary stature — an armored corps officer who had transitioned into the ranks of the Special Forces despite a long career with tanks. His reputation was built on his uncompromising standards and his sarcastic, no-nonsense demeanor. As a T-90 Bheeshma tank expert who had served in the harshest of terrains, Jasrotia knew exactly how to break a man down and rebuild him into something stronger. But the maroon beret was something he had always coveted. Even as a tank officer, he had dreamed of the Special Forces — the elite — and now, decades later, he stood at the top of the training pyramid, commanding Hell’s Week, the final crucible for the next generation of Para SF soldiers.
As he walked past the Probies, he threw them a mocking glance. His voice was rough, laced with sarcasm, as he spoke.
“Well, well, well. Look at this sad bunch. Six of you left, huh? I’m surprised you made it this far. But don’t get comfortable, boys. You’re still in my house now. Welcome to Dozakh. Hell’s Week.”
His voice crashed over them, cold and unforgiving, as if the weight of his words alone could crush them. “Subedar Saab, give them Hell.”
With that, Subedar Major Trilochan Singh Kataria, a towering figure in full battle fatigues, his Balidaan badge gleaming on his chest, stepped forward. His maroon beret sat firmly on his head, a mark of his uncompromising grit and experience in the Special Forces. His ankle-length boots stomped heavily as he moved past the recruits, the sound of his boots striking the earth like the toll of a death bell. The Balidaan crest — the symbol of sacrifice — glimmered against the sun’s first rays, and his Special Forces arm tags fluttered in the morning breeze.
The recruits braced themselves, knowing full well that when Kataria spoke, it was not to be taken lightly.
“You’ve made it this far, but the real test is just beginning,” he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “I hope you’ve saved something for the last stretch. Because we’re not here to make soldiers. We’re here to make warriors. Now, move your asses. Your final mission starts now.”
The six men lined up, their hearts pounding in their chests as Kataria handed out their orders.
Objective: The mission was simple in concept but brutal in execution. The six remaining recruits had to complete a 72-hour exercise, one where they would be deprived of sleep, food, and forced to carry heavy loads for miles across treacherous terrain. It was an exercise designed to push the limits of human endurance, both mentally and physically, and test their ability to perform under extreme stress.
Each man was handed a rucksack, weighing in at nearly 30 kilograms of gear, ammunition, and supplies. Their task was to navigate through the jungle, cross rivers, climb rocky hills, and scale steep cliffs. They would be expected to move fast, efficiently, and tactically, all while being constantly harassed by the instructors — who would stop at nothing to break their spirits.
As the Probies were given their final instructions, they had little time to mentally prepare. Jasrotia and Kataria stood a few paces away, watching with eagle-eyed scrutiny as the recruits began to march towards the first checkpoint, the sound of their boots crunching in unison.
The first phase was the Night March. Sleep-deprived for 72 hours, the six remaining recruits had to march across dense jungle terrain through the night, carrying their heavy packs, navigating obstacles, and performing tactical drills under constant stress. The jungle was thick, with vines, thorny bushes, and sharp rocks beneath their boots, making every step an ordeal. The weight of their rucksacks crushed their shoulders, and the darkness seemed to swallow them whole, leaving them reliant on nothing but the sounds of their own heavy breathing and the occasional crack of a branch as an instructor stalked them from the shadows.
Every time a recruit stumbled or lagged behind, they were met with Kataria’s harsh words.
“Move, you miserable excuse for a soldier! That rucksack isn’t going to carry itself!” Kataria’s voice rang out in the stillness of the night, as the recruits scrambled to keep up with the pace.
The second phase involved water crossings — a deep, fast-moving river that had to be crossed while carrying all their gear. The water was icy cold, biting at their skin, and the current was strong enough to pull even the hardiest soldier under. The men waded in, their boots filled with water, their legs heavy and sluggish. Dorjee, however, moved with an ease born from his experience in tactical environments. His ability to stay focused under stress had been tested countless times in his sniper training, and now, it served him well. As the water rose to their waists, then their chests, Dorjee kept his head down and his body moving, conserving every ounce of energy.
The instructors were relentless, shouting at the recruits to keep moving, to push through the discomfort, and to never show weakness. Jasrotia stood at the riverbank, watching the recruits as they crossed, his eyes scanning their movements. His voice, cold as ever, cut through the chaos.
“What do you think this is? A picnic?” he yelled. “You’ve got the easy part. The real test comes when you can’t feel your legs anymore, when every step feels like you’re walking on broken glass.”
“Keep your eyes on the prize,” Kataria muttered, a cruel grin crossing his face. “You’re almost there, but you’re not done. Not by a long shot.”
For the next 72 hours, the Probies were forced to endure a seemingly endless sequence of assault courses, battle drills, and simulated combat situations, all while sleep-deprived and physically destroyed. They were given just two hours of rest during this period, but even then, they were woken up in the middle of the night, often subjected to mock attacks or forced to perform drills while still half-asleep.
Through all of this, Dorjee found a new resolve. The pain, the exhaustion — it had become irrelevant. His mind had begun to shut out the discomfort, focusing solely on the mission at hand. His sniper instincts kicked in. Just as he had once waited for the perfect shot in silence, he now waited for the perfect moment in chaos. Every movement had purpose; every breath was a calculation. He was no longer a Probationer, but a Special Forces Soldier in the making.
By the end of the 72-hour ordeal, the six remaining recruits were shadows of their former selves — broken, but unbowed. They had endured Hell’s Week, and as they stood before Colonel Jasrotia and Subedar Major Kataria, they had proven themselves worthy of the maroon beret that awaited them. But even as their final mission concluded, they knew that this was only the beginning.
The final days of Hell’s Week had left the six remaining Probationers physically drained, mentally shattered, but resilient in a way only a few could comprehend. After surviving the harrowing 72 hours of sleep deprivation, grueling marches, and constant combat drills, they were now at a crossroads, with only the final trial left to endure.
Colonel Jasrotia and Subedar Major Kataria, having watched them suffer and rise above it, knew they were ready. But they weren’t about to let them walk out easy.
The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows on the dusty training ground. The Gypsy roared in again, tires crunching against the dry earth. This time, Colonel Jasrotia wasn’t alone. He strode out of the vehicle, Ray-Ban aviators perched on his nose, cigarette dangling from his lips as usual. But today, there was something in his gait — something more calculating, almost expectant.
He gave a slow, deliberate drag of the cigarette, flicking the ash onto the ground.
“Alright, listen up, you six pathetic excuses for soldiers,” he barked with his trademark sarcasm, but there was a glint of something else in his eyes. “You think you’ve endured everything? Well, I’ve got news for you. You’re about to face your final challenge.”
The six remaining men stood at attention, their bodies worn, faces drawn, but their spirits unbroken.
“You’re going to be tested like never before. This is not just about your physical endurance anymore; this is about brains, coordination, execution, and one hell of a lot of guts.” Jasrotia flicked his cigarette butt to the side and looked each man in the eye. “We’ve planned a mission. Your mission, and only one of you will make it out alive. Well, not literally. I mean, you’ll all live, but your success will determine if you have what it takes to wear that coveted maroon beret.”
The recruits exchanged glances. There was an unease in the air. They had faced everything from jungle warfare to water crossings, and yet this felt different. The tone in the Colonel’s voice was grave, and the weight of his words hit them hard.
“Subedar Major, give them the briefing,” the Colonel added, his voice now carrying an ominous edge.
Subedar Major Kataria stepped forward, his Balidaan badge gleaming in the early light, his maroon beret perched firmly atop his head. He spoke in the same gruff, unwavering tone that had echoed through their hardest moments during the training.
“Listen carefully,” Kataria commanded, his gaze sweeping across the group of remaining recruits. “You are going to be inserted via helicopter into enemy territory. The objective is to rescue an Indian soldier who’s been captured by the enemy and is being held inside an enemy garrison. Quick in. Quick out. Minimal casualties. Maximum precision.”
The recruits nodded, their minds immediately working over the task. This wasn’t just about brute strength; this mission required tactical planning, intelligence, and the ability to adapt under fire.
Kataria went on, “We know the enemy garrison is heavily fortified. The soldier is located in the northern compound, which is protected by armed guards and automated defenses. You’re not going in guns blazing. Stealth, strategy, and the element of surprise are your only advantages.”
He turned to Dorjee, his gaze piercing.
“You’re going to be the key to this mission, Dorjee. I’ve watched your skills as a sniper — your ability to hit targets with precision and discretion. You’ll be stationed on an elevated position, keeping watch and taking out key threats as the rest of the team moves in. It’s up to you to provide support and neutralize any threats to the rescue team.”
Dorjee’s chest tightened. He had always excelled in the art of long-range precision. His heart, though weary from the endless days of exhaustion, began to race with the promise of this mission. He was no longer a mere recruit. He was a part of something much larger now.
“You will be inserted by parachute into a drop zone about 10 kilometers from the enemy base. Once you’re on the ground, you’ll make your way to the objective. Timing is critical. We know they’re holding our man in the northern compound, but we need you to get in, extract the soldier, and get out without being detected. The less time you spend in enemy territory, the better. You have 12 hours to complete this mission and get back to base,” Kataria explained.
The rest of the recruits stood silently, absorbing the magnitude of the task.
“Your insertion will be quick, but it’s up to you to execute,” Kataria continued. “Any questions?”
The recruits exchanged looks but said nothing. They had learned by now that hesitation was a weakness. Action spoke louder than words in the world of the Special Forces.
It was dawn when the helicopter approached the drop zone. The chopper’s engines screamed above the tree line, vibrating the air with their intensity. Dorjee, his heart thumping in his chest, adjusted his parachute harness and took one last look at the men around him. Their faces were determined, etched with exhaustion but focused nonetheless.
Kataria, standing by the door of the helicopter, gave them a final, no-nonsense glance.
“You know what to do. Good luck. And remember, you’re not just soldiers anymore. You’re the elite.”
The words were brief, but the weight of them hung in the air as the helicopter doors opened, the wind howling as it whipped around them. One by one, they jumped into the unknown, their parachutes blooming above them like colorful mushrooms against the dark sky. The descent was fast and disorienting, but Dorjee kept his focus.
His mind was clear. There was no room for fear. His training had prepared him for this moment. He had survived. He was a sniper, and this was his moment to shine.
“Take point, Corporal. Dorjee, you’re on overwatch,” Kataria ordered over the comms, his voice calm and composed.
The night was thick with the smell of dust and sweat, as the six Probationers hit the ground. The harsh thud of boots meeting the earth was muffled by the chaotic sound of the helicopter blades fading into the distance. Each one of them had executed their parachute jump flawlessly, landing with precision and rolling to reduce the impact, instinctively following their training. The earth beneath their feet felt like an unforgiving concrete slab, cold and unyielding. But there was no time to dwell on that. This was the moment they had prepared for — execution was everything.
The enemy garrison loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the starless sky. The faint hum of security drones and flickering guard towers pierced the silence like jagged teeth. This mission was as delicate as it was dangerous. The Probies had to rely on each other and their extensive training — not a single slip-up could be allowed. There was only one shot at this.
The night was still, a heavy silence settling over the enemy garrison as the six Probationers made their descent from the helicopter. It was the final mission — the test of everything they had learned in their brutal weeks of training. The helicopter had disappeared into the night, its hum fading quickly, leaving the men alone in the vast expanse of enemy territory.
Dorjee, their sniper, was the first to move. He rolled as he landed, instinctively minimizing the impact. The wind cut across his face, but there was no time to take in the moment. His mind was already focused. Every muscle in his body had been conditioned to act without hesitation, without thought.
He immediately set up his sniper rifle, his fingers working with practiced precision. He scanned the enemy garrison, which stood silent before him, dark and foreboding. The mission was clear: infiltrate, extract the Indian soldier being held captive, and get out without a trace. They had been given no room for error. Kataria, now back at the base, was watching them through the eyes of the control room. There was no room for mistakes, and he had no intention of stepping in — this was their moment, their trial.
Jalal, one of the larger men of the group, moved quietly beside Dorjee, crouching low as he checked the gear on his chest.
“Stay low, stay tight,” he whispered, giving Dorjee a quick nod. “We make one sound, and we’re done.”
“Understood,” Dorjee replied, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the radio. “We move on my mark.”
The team had learned the hard way not to underestimate their environment. Their eyes flicked back to the garrison ahead — guard towers, sentries, and an intricate surveillance system. Their mission was going to be difficult.
“Target acquired,Venkat. Three targets on the northern perimeter. Three hundred meters. They’re patrolling in a staggered formation. Over,” Dorjee said, his voice steady.“Copy that, Dorjee. Wait for my mark,” came the response from Venkat over the radio. His voice was emotionless, but the gravity of his words hung in the air.
The team had been split into two groups. Venkat, the smallest of the group, had been paired with Jalal for the breach. They moved silently, their footsteps absorbed by the thick brush around them. The other half of the team, including Dorjee, would take the high ground to provide overwatch.
“We need to move in under the cover of night,” Venkat said quietly to the others. “Once we breach, no time to waste. We get the soldier, and we exfil. That’s the plan, no deviation.”“Copy that. No deviation.” The others responded in unison. The mission was clear — each man had a role to play, and there was no room for mistakes. Dorjee was the silent observer now, watching the targets through his high-powered sniper rifle scope. His heart was steady, his breathing controlled, his mind focused on the target.
“Target in sight. Guards at the east wall. Moving in a two-man formation, 100 meters. No clear line of sight from my position. Over,” Dorjee murmured. His eyes flicked over to the others, gauging their distance, the timing. The radio crackled back. “Hold. Wait for your mark.”
There was nothing but silence now. The air felt heavy with anticipation. The night was thick with the sounds of their breathing and the distant sounds of the enemy moving around.
Finally, Venkat’s voice crackled through the earpiece, calm and controlled.
“Now, Dorjee. Eliminate the threat.”The words were sharp, the order clear. “Target neutralized. First guard down.” Dorjee squeezed the trigger once, the sharp crack of the rifle echoing in the still night air. The first guard collapsed, his body falling to the ground without a sound. The others didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. They moved immediately, each one doing their part. Jalal, Venkat , and the others advanced, their movements quick and fluid, as if they had been practicing this their entire lives.
Inside the garrison, Jalal and Venkat found their first sentry within seconds. Without a word, Jalalmoved in first, his knife flashing silently as he took down the sentry in one swift motion. Venkat followed, neutralizing the second sentry just as quietly.
“Clear,” Jalal whispered into his comms. “We’re inside.”
Dorjee remained on his high perch, still providing cover. He was aware of every movement of the enemy below — every step, every flicker of light, every shadow. There was no room for error.
“Venkat, move to the target room. Breach on my mark,” the team leader’s voice came through, calm and commanding.
The team proceeded, slipping through the hallways with the grace of shadows. No one spoke unless necessary, no sound louder than the soft pad of boots against the concrete floor. Their objective was clear — rescue the hostage, and get out.
As they made their way through, one of the recruits — a burly man with green eyes — had to hold back a cough. It was a minor slip-up, but one that could cost them dearly. The others shot him an icy glance. The enemy was always listening.
Within minutes, the team had reached the hostage’s holding cell, a reinforced structure deep within the garrison. There were no signs of guards at the door, but the team knew better than to trust appearances. The entrance was booby-trapped — not with explosives, but with sound-based motion sensors. One wrong move, and they’d trigger the alarm. The team split into two groups — one to disable the traps, the other to prepare for entry.
Venkat and Jalal reached the reinforced door where the Indian soldier was being held. The soldier’s face was gaunt, pale, but his eyes sparked with recognition as they approached.
A soft click as the door opened was the only sound that could be heard. Inside, the hostage — an Indian soldier, clad in tattered fatigues — was slumped against the wall, his face bruised and swollen. His eyes were wide with disbelief, but when they saw the Indian tricolour patch worn by one of the Probies, the recognition was instant. “Jai Hind, Thank God,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from days of captivity.
“Jai hind, You’re safe now buddy . We’re getting you out,” the leader of the team whispered, his hand gently guiding the soldier to his feet. “We’re here to get you out,” Venkat said, his voice soft but firm. The soldier gave a weak nod, too weak to speak. Venkat motioned to Jalal, and in an instant, they breached the door. The soldier was bound, his face bruised, but alive.
“Got him,” Jalal said, his voice tense but clear. “Time to move.”“Right behind you,” the team leader responded.
As they began moving back to their exit point, the alarm systems inside the garrison blared to life. The sound was unmistakable, and the rush of adrenaline hit every man like a battering ram. The hostage was safely in their hands, but now, the real fight was just beginning.
“Move, move, move!” their leader shouted, urgency creeping into his voice. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed as the enemy realized what was happening. The Probies made a dash for the exit, but the enemy was quick. “Pushpinder , cover the rear!” their leader ordered.
Pusphinder turned back, his rifle coming up, and fired two shots — both guards dropped, their bodies crumpling to the ground.
The night air was thick with tension as the team made their way toward the extraction point. The hostage, an Indian soldier, was securely held by Jalal and Venkat, who flanked him on either side, keeping him low and moving swiftly. The crackle of the radio, the soft padding of boots on hard ground, and the adrenaline coursing through their veins were the only sounds that marked the urgency of their mission.
From his perch, Dorjee kept a sharp eye on the surrounding terrain, ensuring no enemy patrols could surprise them. The threat of detection loomed over them like a shadow, but the Probies were moving with methodical precision, their training kicking in with every step.
“Moving towards extraction point,” came the low voice of Venkat into the comms. “We’ve got eyes on the chopper. Over.”
“Copy that,” came the response from their leader, his voice steady but laced with the urgency of the moment. “Keep the pace. No mistakes. Venkat, Jalal, you lead the way.”
Jalal, the big man, gave a short nod and moved forward, his rifle ready, scanning every corner, every crevice. Venkat, a bit lighter on his feet, stayed close behind him, ensuring the hostage was protected at all costs.
The enemy garrison was only a few hundred meters away, and the alarms were still blaring. They could feel the heat of the approaching enemy, and it pushed them to move faster, but also more cautiously.
“Dorjee, you still have eyes on our six?” Jalal asked, his voice calm but sharp, as he adjusted his grip on his weapon.
“Affirmative,” Dorjee replied, his eyes never leaving the scope. “All clear from this angle. Just keep moving, and I’ll cover.”
He could see the enemy forces beginning to mobilize — soldiers rushing to the breach points, the chaos spreading like wildfire. Dorjee squeezed the trigger once more, and two guards dropped silently, their bodies hitting the ground with a muffled thud. The path was clear for now, but he knew this wouldn’t last long.
“Enemy forces 100 meters out, coming from the east,” Dorjee whispered, his voice barely audible over the radio. “We’ve got company.”
“Venkat, Jalal, take point! Keep that hostage moving! Dorjee, provide overwatch,” the team leader ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.
The extraction point was just ahead. The helicopter could be seen in the distance, its rotors chopping through the air, a steady beat of salvation. But the enemy was close now, and they would need to move fast.
The sound of enemy gunfire echoed through the night as the first of their pursuers appeared — just beyond the cover of a dilapidated wall. Venkat was the first to react, bringing up his rifle with speed and precision, firing off a series of shots that struck their targets dead center.
“Enemy neutralized! Moving out!” Venkat called into the comms, his voice focused, unwavering. The hostage was tucked low between the two, their weapons at the ready as they moved swiftly, the light from the helicopter becoming brighter with every second.
As the team closed in on the extraction point, Pushpinder’s voice crackled over the comms, calm but full of the weight of the moment.
“Stay sharp, you’re not out yet. One final push, then we’re clear. Dorjee, you’ve got the rear. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Understood, Subedar Major,” Dorjee replied, his finger steady on the trigger, eyes never wavering from his scope. His position was perfect for covering the retreat, high ground offering him a tactical advantage.
Just as they reached the edge of the clearing, the enemy fire began to intensify. A burst of automatic gunfire whizzed past, striking the dirt near Venkat’s feet. He didn’t flinch. Jalal dropped to one knee, his rifle barking as he returned fire.
“We’re almost there,” Venkat shouted over his shoulder. “Keep moving!”
But the enemy wasn’t letting them slip away easily. The roar of more gunfire filled the air as they pushed forward, the sound of helos becoming louder with each passing second. Dorjee could hear the chopper coming in low, its rotors kicking up dirt, making the final push even more perilous.
Suddenly, a shout rang out from the rear. “We’ve got two more tangos on the left! Flanking us!”
Without hesitation, Dorjee spun, adjusting his position. “On it,” he muttered, his rifle coming up to his shoulder in one fluid motion. He adjusted the scope for the long shot, then squeezed the trigger — two quick, clean shots. Both targets dropped silently.
“Tangos down,” he called into the comms, his voice tight with focus.
The sound of enemy footsteps drew closer, but they were running out of time. The helicopter was circling, waiting for the right moment to land, and there was no room for any further delays.
“We’re almost there. Don’t stop. Keep moving!” came the command from their leader. The urgency was palpable, and every second felt like an eternity.
With one final surge of adrenaline, Venkat and Jalal reached the helicopter first, their hands grabbing onto the sides and pulling themselves inside, the hostage following closely behind. The rest of the team filed in just as fast, weapons up, eyes scanning for any further threats. The door slammed shut behind them, and the chopper rose quickly, pulling away from the extraction point.
Inside the helicopter, there was no immediate celebration. The adrenaline still surged through their veins, their bodies tense and on edge. They had made it out, but they knew the enemy had been close. The mission was successful, but their minds were already shifting to what lay ahead.
“Mission complete, boys,” came the team leader’s voice over the radio, his tone steady but acknowledging the chaos they had just left behind.
“Good work, everyone,” Dorjee added, his voice quieter now. “We made it out clean.”
As the helicopter banked and began its flight back to base, Dorjee allowed himself a brief moment of relief. The mission had been a success. But for now, there was no time to rest. They had earned their moment of triumph, but the true battle was still ahead. And as Kataria had always said — only the best of the best made it through.
The chopper descended slowly toward the SFTC, its massive rotors whirring through the air as they churned up clouds of dust and debris. The night sky had a faint glow from the scattered lights below, but the air was still heavy with the remnants of the mission — sweat, adrenaline, and the knowledge that they had just completed one of the most intense operations of their training.
The helicopter pitched slightly as it adjusted its angle for the landing, the powerful engines throbbing with authority. As the landing skids neared the ground, the team sat in silence, the tension still palpable, muscles taut from the exertion. Dorjee, sweat slick on his brow, gripped his rifle, eyes darting around the interior of the chopper as the last vestiges of battle adrenaline began to fade.
The radio crackled to life.
“Falcon one-two, this is Vanguard . You are cleared for landing. Welcome back, boys,” came the voice of the tower commander, Maj .Mehta, through the static.
The team leader, still holding the hostage’s head low as the bird came in closer, nodded, even though he knew it was a pointless gesture. It was just habit, the constant need for alertness. He tapped the comms button on his helmet.
“Roger that, Vanguard . We’re almost down.”
Below, the ground crew at SFTC had cleared the area, their flashlights waving in synchrony to direct the incoming chopper, ensuring there were no obstacles for a smooth landing. The spinning blades kicked up a storm of dust and debris, a temporary haze surrounding them, and the heat from the blades made the air almost unbearable.
The chopper’s wheels scraped against the dirt as it came in closer. The vibrations ran through the team’s bodies as the helicopter made its final approach. The noise from the rotors was deafening, and even with the noise-cancelling headsets, it was difficult to hear anything over the deafening roar.
“Landing in five!” the pilot called out, his voice sharp, though they all knew the drill. He was as focused as they were.
The door to the chopper slid open, and the floodlights from the landing area painted the team in harsh white light, illuminating the bruised faces, dirt-smeared uniforms, and the exhaustion etched into their every movement. The hostage — the Indian soldier — was carefully lifted out first, followed by Venkat and Jalal, both of whom ensured he was safely on the ground.
The last of the team members — Pushpinder and Dorjee included — jumped out with their rifles trained on the surrounding area, covering the rear in case there were any last-minute surprises. They all moved swiftly but with the careful precision that came from SFTC’s gruelling training.
Once the entire team had disembarked, they formed up into a tight line in front of the helicopter, their backs straight, rifles at the ready, waiting for the Colonel’s acknowledgment.
“Falcon One -Two , clear!” the pilot called, the helicopter’s engines revving before the bird lifted back into the air, soaring toward the darkened skies.
For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the helicopter’s retreat. The team stood, soaked in sweat, their faces streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but also with the realization that they had made it through. They had completed the mission.
But they were still soldiers, and they knew that no matter how far they had come, this was still just one small step.
From the base, Colonel Jasrotia’s voice broke the stillness, booming across the comms with his signature blend of sarcasm and pride.
“Welcome back to SFTC, gentlemen,” he said, his voice cutting through the exhaustion. “You’ve just passed Hell’s Week and completed your first real mission. Congratulations. But this is just the beginning. You’ve got a long road ahead of you. Your real tests start now.”
The team leader glanced back at the others. There was no celebration, no cheers, just the stoic realization of what they had accomplished. They had survived, and now they were one step closer to earning the Maroon Beret.
“Subedar Major, get them to the debriefing room,” Colonel Jasrotia’s voice came again, though it wasn’t as sharp as before. There was something different in his tone now — a slight shift of respect, perhaps even a hint of approval. “They’ve earned it. They’ve made it through Hell.”
As Subedar Major Kataria stepped forward, his presence still commanding, he motioned for the team to follow him. “You heard the man,” he said with a steely edge. “Get your asses moving. The Colonel will be waiting.”
With one final glance at the now empty chopper, the team turned and followed Kataria toward the SFTC building. They were soaked, exhausted, and bruised. They had done what they came to do — performed the impossible — and they had come out on top.
“Well, boys,” Kumar muttered, breaking the silence as they walked toward the building, his grin wide despite the fatigue, “One down. But there’s always more.”
“And we’ll be ready,” Dorjee said quietly, his voice a low rumble as they marched forward, his mind already turning toward what lay ahead. The Maroon Beret was within reach, but it was still a battle that had to be won.
The debriefing room at the SFTC was eerily quiet as the team stood in formation, their fatigue evident in their posture. They had just finished a mission that pushed them to their absolute limits. The past 72 hours had been a whirlwind of exhaustion, pain, and survival. The initial rush of adrenaline had long since faded, leaving only the weight of the training, the lack of sleep, and the physical toll of what they had just endured. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and the unspoken camaraderie that had been forged through hardship.
The six remaining probies stood in front of Colonel Jasrotia, whose sharp eyes never seemed to leave their faces. His demeanor was calm, collected, but there was an intensity about him that they all recognized. He was a man who had seen and done it all, and his gaze alone could strip away any illusions of grandeur. Every probie knew that this was the moment they had been waiting for — the debrief. It was where they would face the truth of their performance.
“Alright,” Colonel Jasrotia finally spoke, his voice a calm but unwavering presence in the room. He leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ve just completed Hell’s Week. Most of you were sleep-deprived for 72 hours, carrying weights heavier than you’ve ever imagined, with your bodies on the brink of collapse. You’ve done more than most soldiers will ever have to do in their careers.” His gaze flicked over each of the probies, pausing for a moment on Dorjee, whose calm demeanor had not faltered throughout the ordeal.
“But,” he continued, his voice growing firmer, “you are not soldiers yet. You are still just probies. And the real challenge has just begun.”
He stood up slowly, moving towards a blackboard at the front of the room. The sound of his boots scraping against the floor cut through the silence. With deliberate precision, he began to mark out the key points of the mission, detailing each action, every mistake, and every moment where they could have done better. There were no words of praise, no congratulations, only a stern analysis of their performance.
“The infiltration was good, but some of you didn’t communicate effectively when you encountered resistance. Sandeep, you failed to take down the guard when you had the chance. Venkat, you hesitated when you should have taken the shot. Those moments could have cost us the mission,” he said, his voice growing more intense with each word.
The room felt suffocating, the weight of the Colonel’s words pressing down on the team. They were still struggling to process the mission, their minds fogged by exhaustion. Each of them knew their mistakes, and they couldn’t hide behind excuses.
“We’ve been through this before, Subedar Major Kataria and I. We’ll give you a chance to redeem yourselves, but there will be no more mistakes. This isn’t just about completing a mission; it’s about executing with precision, under pressure, and without hesitation. Every action counts. Every decision matters.”
The probies stood in silence, their bodies aching, their eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. But there was a quiet understanding in the room — a recognition that this was not the time for excuses. They had been trained for this moment, and now it was time to face the consequences of their actions.
Kataria then barked, “ Probies , Dismissed. To your Barracks now , On the Double .”
The morning air was crisp and still as the six probies stood in formation, lined up on the parade ground at the SFTC. Despite their exhaustion, despite the weeks of relentless training, there was a quiet air of anticipation hanging over them. They knew this moment was coming — the moment they would be recognized for their endurance, their sacrifice, and their sheer will to survive the harshest training in the world.
Colonel Jasrotia, the man who had led them through hell, stood before them, his silhouette outlined by the rising sun. His stature alone commanded respect, but it was the fire in his eyes, the unwavering discipline in his posture, that set him apart. He was a man who had lived through the fire of combat and emerged as one of the finest officers the Indian Army had ever seen. Today, he would add a new chapter to their journey. Today, he would affix the Balidaan Patch to their chests.
The probies stood at attention, their chests rising and falling with each controlled breath, their faces etched with exhaustion, yet their eyes gleaming with anticipation. They had earned this moment, each of them pushing through the most brutal of trials to reach it. As Colonel Jasrotia stepped forward, his every movement exuded authority. He walked with purpose, his gaze sharp and calculating as he surveyed each of the six probies, taking in their weariness, their pain, and their unshaken resolve. His hands moved with precision as he took each patch from a tray carried by an orderly, the Balidaan patches, each one carefully folded in his palm. His eyes briefly scanned the patches, as though they were a symbol not only of the men’s achievements but of the price they had paid to get here.
“You’ve made it,” he said, his voice calm but laced with an edge of approval. “Today, you will wear this. The Balidaan Patch is not just a piece of cloth — it is a mark of your sacrifice. It is a symbol of your endurance. It is earned every day, with every mission, every test of your strength, your will, your loyalty.”
The words were simple, but the weight behind them was profound. Colonel Jasrotia knew that these six men standing before him were at a crossroads. The Balidaan Patch was the first step, but it was only the beginning. The real journey had yet to unfold.
He moved down the line slowly, his eyes never leaving the probies as he affixed each patch to their chest, one by one. There was no ceremony, no fanfare — just a quiet moment of recognition.
When he reached Dorjee, he paused for a fraction longer, his eyes meeting Dorjee’s. The sniper had proven himself time and again — his steady hands, his calm under pressure, his sharp mind. He had been a silent force during their missions, his presence ever watchful from high ground, making the impossible look effortless.
“Dorjee,” Colonel Jasrotia said, his voice low but filled with an undercurrent of approval. “You’ve shown your worth. Remember, this patch isn’t the end. It’s a reminder that you’ve earned your place here. But you’ve got a long road ahead.”
Dorjee stood at attention, his jaw tight, his eyes locked forward. He had always known that the real challenge lay ahead, that the Maroon Beret would not come easily. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of pride.
With a sharp motion, Colonel Jasrotia placed the Balidaan Patch on Dorjee’s chest, his fingers briefly touching the fabric as he secured it in place. The patch now rested over Dorjee’s heart, a constant reminder of what he had endured, of what he had survived.
“You earned this, soldier,” the Colonel added, his voice softening for a moment. “But the Maroon Beret — that will be your next goal. And it will require everything you have left.”
“Sir,” Dorjee responded quietly, his voice firm despite the exhaustion he felt. “I won’t stop. Not until I get it.”
The Colonel nodded, his lips curling into a faint smile that was more a reflection of respect than warmth.
He moved on to the others, each of the probies receiving the same brief but significant moment as their patches were affixed to their uniforms. There was no ceremony, no fanfare, just the steady rhythm of each patch being secured in place, the quiet murmur of words exchanged between the men.
When the last patch was in place, Colonel Jasrotia stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the six men standing before him.
“This is where your real journey begins,” he said, his voice cutting through the still air. “The Balidaan Patch is not the end. It is the beginning of your transformation. Remember that. Every day is a test, and the Maroon Beret will only come if you prove that you are worthy of it.”
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the probies standing silently in formation, the weight of their new patches pressing down on them like a mantle of responsibility. They were no longer just soldiers — they were part of something far greater. But the Maroon Beret still loomed on the horizon, a distant but tantalizing goal, and they knew they had to keep pushing forward, every day, until they earned it.
As they stood there, still and silent, the realization hit them all at once. They had made it this far, but the real work had just begun. The Maroon Beret wasn’t just an honor — it was a symbol of everything they would become. And they would have to keep proving themselves, each and every day, until they earned it.
This morning’s ceremony would mark the moment they were recognized, but they would have to wait. For some, this was the hardest part — the waiting.
“You all look like a bunch of newly minted soldiers,” Colonel Jasrotia began, his voice cool and measured, yet carrying an air of finality. “But don’t get too comfortable. The Maroon Beret isn’t just handed to you. It’s earned, every single day. And as of now, you’ve earned the Balidaan patch. But your journey doesn’t end here.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them. The probies stood in silent attention, their expressions betraying the mix of exhaustion and anticipation. They knew the drill, and they knew what was expected of them. They had earned their patch, but the real battle was still to come.
“Today, we will officially mark your progress. You will wear this patch with pride. But know this — when you look at it, remember that it symbolizes not just your journey here, but your journey ahead,” Colonel Jasrotia continued. “The Maroon Beret — the true symbol of our elite force — will come when you have proven yourself, not just once, but over and over again. There are no shortcuts. Every mission you take, every battle you face, will be your test.”
The probies stood still, their eyes trained forward, their posture rigid. They knew what Colonel Jasrotia was saying: the Maroon Beret wasn’t just a piece of cloth. It was the ultimate representation of what they would become — if they continued to rise to every challenge and surpass every obstacle.
“But today,” Subedar Major Kataria added, stepping forward, his voice gravelly from years of experience, “you’ve earned your place here. You’ve proven that you have the fortitude, the strength, and the discipline to carry the Balidaan patch. You’ve earned the right to call yourself part of the Para SF, even if the Maroon Beret is still a few steps away.”
He moved down the line, his eyes scanning each probie as if weighing them one last time. When he reached Dorjee, the Subedar Major paused. Dorjee stood tall, the Balidaan patch on his chest a stark contrast to the exhaustion in his eyes. Kataria met his gaze for a brief moment before speaking.
“You’ve done well, Dorjee,” Kataria said quietly, his tone less stern than usual. There was a subtle hint of approval, though it was masked by his usual no-nonsense demeanor. “You have the heart of a warrior. Now, carry that with you every day. The Maroon Beret is waiting for you, but only if you continue to earn it.”
Dorjee simply nodded, his jaw set in determination. He had made it this far, but he knew this was only the beginning. The real work was just starting.
“The rest of you, take note,” Kataria continued, his voice rising. “The Maroon Beret is reserved for the best of the best. You wear that beret with the pride of those who have bled and sacrificed. It is not just a piece of headgear — it is a symbol of everything we stand for: honor, courage, and the will to never quit.”
He moved down the line, the sound of his boots on the gravel echoing as he spoke to each probie. The Balidaan patch was a significant milestone, but the Maroon Beret was a goal that required years of effort, missions, and blood. It was a legacy to be earned, not given.
When the ceremony ended, the probies were dismissed, but there was a strange sense of solemnity in the air. Yes, they had earned their Balidaan patch, but they hadn’t yet earned the Maroon Beret. For most of them, this was a reminder that they were still in the trenches, still working their way through the grueling demands of the Para SF.
“You’ve got a lot more work ahead of you,” Colonel Jasrotia said as he turned to leave. “Enjoy the patch. But don’t forget — if you’re here, you’re always being watched. Your actions, your decisions — they will define whether you ever wear the beret.”
The probies watched him leave, their bodies still aching, but their spirits ignited. The Maroon Beret was now the only thing on their minds, but they knew it wasn’t something that would come easily. It would take more time, more effort, more sacrifices. And they were ready for it.
The day had reached its end. The drills were over, and the sun had begun to dip behind the hills, casting long shadows over the training grounds of the SFTC. As the probies gathered their equipment and began to move back to their barracks, the air felt charged with anticipation, a sense that something important was about to unfold. The strain of the last few days — the sleepless nights, the physical exertion — was still etched into their bones, but now there was a different kind of energy in the air.
Subedar Major Kataria stood tall at the center of the formation, his gaze scanning the men before him. His voice, gravelly from the constant shouting, rang out across the courtyard.
“Gentlemen!” he barked, his tone sharp, but with a hint of something deeper, something that could almost be mistaken for approval. “You’ve earned your place here. You’ve earned the right to stand before us as part of the Para SF. But remember — tradition must be respected. The Maroon Beret is earned, not given. And tonight, you will be initiated into the next step of this long journey.”
The men stood in formation, their faces still weary from the 72-hour mission, their bodies covered in dust and sweat. They exchanged glances, some weary, others excited. It was a moment they had been waiting for, but also dreading. The Maroon Beret was the ultimate prize, but it came with a ceremony that had been passed down through generations. This was no ordinary tradition. This was one that tied them to the men who had come before, and those who would come after.
“Officers’ Mess, 1800 hrs. Report there,Dismissed.” Kataria ordered, his voice unwavering.
That evening, after freshening up, the probies began to move toward the Officers’ Mess, their boots clicking against the pavement. The cool evening air did little to calm their nerves; instead, it only made the anticipation more palpable. As they approached the Mess, they could see a small crowd of men already gathered, most of them veterans, their faces lined with the experiences of a lifetime spent in the Para SF. Their eyes were trained on the new initiates, the probies, as they filed in.
The air was thick with anticipation as the probies approached the Officers’ Mess of the Special Forces Training Centre (SFTC), Belgaum. The cool evening breeze rustled the tall banyan trees that lined the pathway, but the moment was anything but calm. Their boots clicked in perfect sync, a rhythm that had been drilled into them over months of ruthless training.
Inside, the Mess was alive — not with the usual lighthearted laughter of officers unwinding but with a quiet, watchful intensity. The veterans of the Para SF — men who had seen combat in the harshest terrains, who had fought, bled, and lost brothers — stood around the bar, some with cigars, others nursing a drink, their eyes trained on the incoming initiates.
The hall itself was a shrine to history. The walls bore the legacy of those who had come before — framed photographs of battalions in action, plaques inscribed with the names of fallen comrades, and war trophies from past missions
Inside the Mess, a long table had been set up in the center of the room. Atop it, resting like a sacred relic, was a trophy — a simple wooden box with a glass top. Inside the box was a pristine Maroon Beret, its edges still sharp, its fabric rich with the deep crimson that represented the Para SF. It sat there, waiting to be claimed.
But before any of them could even touch it, the tradition had to be honored.
The Colonel had already arrived, his usual cool demeanor replaced with a subtle twinkle of amusement. He had seen this ritual performed countless times, but today, for the probies, it was something new, something that would mark the end of their initiation and the beginning of their true journey in the Special Forces.
At the center of the long mahogany table stood a glass case, and inside it, six Maroon Berets rested atop a black velvet cushion, their fabric soaked in history, sacrifice, and the weight of an unspoken oath. These were not mere headgear — these were crowns, worn only by the most elite warriors of the Indian Army. And tonight, six men had earned the right to call themselves Para SF.
“Gentlemen,” Colonel Jasrotia began, his voice loud enough for all to hear. “The Maroon Beret is more than just a symbol of what you’ve achieved. It is a symbol of what you will continue to achieve. But tonight, you must earn it in a different way. You must prove that you are worthy to wear it, that you understand the bond, the sacrifice, and the brotherhood that it represents.”He continued.
“You’ve bled. You’ve suffered. You’ve seen the gates of hell. But gentlemen — tonight, you drink. And after that, you will earn what only the best of the best do.”
A murmur ran through the veterans. They all knew what was coming. This was the rite of passage — the moment the probies would finally transform into full-fledged Para SF operators.
The room fell silent as 3 pairs of Para SF veterans stepped forward, each holding a bottle of rum. The rum, dark and strong, was poured over the six Maroon Berets, completely submerging it in liquid. The scent of the rum filled the room, mixing with the faint smell of sweat and dust from the training ground. The men watched, transfixed, as the Maroon Berets slowly soaked up the rum, its rich fabric darkening with each pour. It was as if the beret was being baptized, symbolically cleansed in the fires of experience and tradition.
“The beret is not just earned by your skills,” Colonel Jasrotia continued, his voice taking on a slightly playful tone. “It is earned by your ability to endure. And tonight, you will endure. Each of you will drink from this.”
Col Ashish Singh Jasrotia, the commandant, stood at the head of the table, his Ray-Ban aviators now tucked into the front pocket of his crisp OG (Olive Green) uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms laced with scars, each telling a story of battles fought in the unseen corners of the world. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between his fingers, and his sharp, piercing gaze swept over the six men who stood at attention before him, their Balidaan Badges gleaming on their chests.
To his right stood Subedar Major Trilochan Singh Kataria, the legend. His Maroon Beret sat firm on his head, and his chest bore the insignia of a man who had bled for this country more times than he cared to count. His ankle-length boots, special forces arm tags, and the scar running down his jawline were all reminders of the price of wearing this badge. He stood ramrod straight, his arms folded across his chest, his sharp eyes assessing each of the newly minted operatives.
Jasrotia took a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it into an ashtray. The silence in the room stretched.
Then, in his trademark sarcastic tone, he finally spoke.
“Well, well… look at these bloody heroes.” He let the words hang in the air, before continuing, “Months ago, you were just a bunch of wide-eyed fools thinking you could waltz into the Para SF and claim the Beret. We did everything we could to break you, to show you that this life isn’t for the faint-hearted. And yet… six of you made it. So, congratulations.”
A slight smirk played on his lips as he added, “For now.”
The six men exchanged glances, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by the sharp thrill of what was to come.
Jasrotia turned to Kataria, nodding. The Subedar Major’s voice was a growl, deep and commanding.
Kataria stepped forward, his voice ringing through the room.
“This is tradition.” He gestured to the bowls. “The Maroon Beret is not just given. It must be earned. You’ve already paid for it in sweat, blood, and sleepless nights. Now, you drink to the men who came before you, the men beside you, and the men who will come after you.”
He stepped closer, his eyes burning into theirs. “You drink to the brotherhood. You drink to the creed.”
Jasrotia chuckled, lighting another cigarette. “And you don’t stop drinking until that bowl is dry.”
Dorjee and the remaining five probies stood at attention. Their bodies ached from the sheer brutality of Hell Week, their eyes bloodshot from sleep deprivation, but they stood tall.
A grizzled Major stepped forward, lifting the first Maroon Beret from the chalice, dripping with the dark, potent rum. He handed the chalice to the first probie.
“Drink.”
The probie hesitated for only a second before tilting his head back and downing the rum in long, desperate gulps. His throat burned, his stomach revolted, but he did not stop. He could not.
As he finished, the Major placed the soaked Maroon Beret onto his head, clapping him hard on the shoulder.
“Welcome to the brotherhood, trooper.”
After that , One by one, the probies were called forward. Dorjee,amongst them, stepped up, his heart racing in his chest. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle that would be poured into the beret.
“Drink up, Dorjee,” Kataria barked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You’ve earned this. Don’t waste it.”
With a deep breath, Dorjee took the glass, his hands steady now. The taste of the rum hit him immediately — strong, sharp, and burning as it slid down his throat. He swallowed, and then another drink, and another. Each one seemed to burn more fiercely, the heat spreading through his body as the alcohol coursed through his veins. The room watched in silence, the tension palpable as Dorjee drank, his fingers tightening around the chalice as he felt the weight of tradition pressing down on him. The rum hit his throat like fire, but he drank every last drop.
As he lowered the chalice, his vision blurred for a second — not from the alcohol but from the sheer emotion of the moment. A hand came down hard on his shoulder.
“Wear it with pride, Sniper.” — Major Bhupinder Singh, a veteran of countless operations, growled as he shook Dorjee’s hand.
Dorjee closed his eyes for a moment,reliving his journey. He had made it. Finally, when the last of the rum was gone, Colonel Jasrotia nodded in approval. “You’re ready,” he said, his voice firm. “You’ve earned your place here, Dorjee. Now, you’ll wear the beret.”
When the last drop was gone, Jasrotia himself opened the glass case. With deliberate precision, he took out the first Maroon Beret and stepped toward Dorjee.
The room fell silent. Jasrotia placed the beret on Dorjee’s head, adjusting it just so. His voice dropped to a low murmur.
“Wear it with pride. It’s not a gift. It’s a responsibility.”
Dorjee, still standing at attention, swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”
The Maroon Beret was removed from the trophy and placed gently onto Dorjee’s head, the weight of it settling onto his scalp as though it had always belonged there. It felt heavy with history, heavy with the sacrifice and sweat of those who had come before him.
One by one, the rest of the probies followed suit, each of them drinking from the soaked beret, their faces etched with determination and pride. The laughter and camaraderie in the room were infectious as each man completed the ritual. It was a celebration, yes, but it was also a test — one final proving ground. The beret wasn’t just a piece of cloth. It was the culmination of everything they had endured, and they would wear it as a badge of honor.
The room erupted in cheers and laughter as the first bowl was lifted. One by one, each of the six men downed the rum, the burn of the alcohol nothing compared to what they had endured in training. They drank with the knowledge that every swallow brought them closer to their rightful place among the elite.
As the last of the probies finished drinking, Colonel Jasrotia raised his glass, the room falling silent once more.
One by one, the others received their berets, each moment weighted with significance.
As the last probie took his beret, the room erupted into cheers and applause. Bottles were uncorked, and cigars were lit. The once-wary veterans now pulled the fresh Para SF operatives into bone-crushing hugs, clapping their backs, and welcoming them into the fold.
“No man left behind,” Captain Rawat toasted, raising his glass. “Brothers in arms,” the room echoed.
Through the haze of laughter and celebration, Dorjee felt the exhaustion of the past 72 hours of sleep deprivation and exfiltration trying to pull him under. But he refused to yield. He looked around at the men who were now his brothers — the men he would fight alongside, bleed with, and if fate willed it, die for. The Balidaan Badge shone on his chest, and the Maroon Beret sat proudly on his head. He was no longer a probie.
He was now Para SF.
“To the men who will wear this beret with honor,” he toasted, his voice clear and strong. “You’ve earned it, and you will continue to earn it every day. Welcome to the Para SF.”
The room erupted in cheers, the clinking of glasses ringing through the Mess as the men celebrated their victory. But even as they drank and laughed, they knew deep down that this was only the beginning. The Maroon Beret was a symbol, but the real work had just begun.
Tonight, however, they were not soldiers in training — they were Para SF, bound by tradition, sacrifice, and the brotherhood that only a few would ever truly understand.
The Officers’ Mess at the Special Forces Training School (SFTC), Belgaum, was alive with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of song. The air was thick with the scent of rum, tobacco, and sweat — the unmistakable musk of men who had spent the last few months being broken and reforged into warriors worthy of the Maroon Beret. The lights cast a warm glow over the polished wooden walls adorned with regimental flags, unit crests, and photographs of legends past — men who had walked this path before them, whose shadows they now stepped into.
And then, Kataria raised his glass. His voice, hoarse from years of barking orders, was now filled with something else. Something rare. Pride.
“What is the code of the Para SF?”
The six men, now Para Special Forces operatives, stood tall and spoke in unison, their voices ringing through the mess.
“Men apart. Every man a brother. No man left behind.”
The room erupted. Cheers, shouts, and the clinking of glasses filled the air as the celebration kicked off in full swing. Laughter and songs of old battles echoed through the mess, tales of war and survival passed down from veteran to rookie.
Dorjee, now wearing his Maroon Beret, found himself caught in the embrace of his brothers. The exhaustion of the last few months melted away in the warmth of the moment.
As the night wore on, Jasrotia and Kataria watched from a distance, their glasses in hand.
Jasrotia exhaled a long stream of smoke, then turned to Kataria. “They’ll do.”
Kataria nodded. “They’ll do.”
Outside, the wind carried the echoes of laughter into the darkened skies. The Maroon Berets had found their place.
And the brotherhood lived on.
The Officers’ Mess had erupted into raucous celebration, but beneath the laughter and the clinking of glasses, there was an undercurrent of something deeper — something unspoken. The men in this room had earned their place, but they also knew the price they had paid and the price they would pay in the years to come.
Captain Tserhing Dorjee sat quietly for a moment, still feeling the weight of the Maroon Beret on his head, the heavy warmth of the Balidaan Badge pinned to his chest. He had dreamed of this day for years, had pushed his body beyond its breaking point, had fought against doubt, pain, and fear to be here.
And now, it was real.
Across the room, Colonel Jasrotia stood, his ever-present cigarette now reduced to a dying ember. He exhaled slowly, watching the new inductees — their faces still raw from the ordeal, their hands still carrying the tremors of exhaustion. He raised his glass, and just like that, the noise died down. Every man in the room knew what was coming.
“Gentlemen.” His voice was steady, carrying the weight of decades of combat, loss, and sacrifice. “Tonight, we celebrate. But before we do, we remember.”
A stillness settled over the room. Even the old warhorses, hardened by years of battle, bowed their heads slightly. Jasrotia gestured toward the honor board mounted on the wall — a plaque filled with names etched in gold, names of men who had once stood here, who had once worn the Maroon Beret, who had once raised their glasses in this very hall… but had never returned.
“These men… our brothers… they were here once. Just like you. Fresh out of training, filled with fire, ready to serve. And serve, they did. To their last breath.”
Dorjee felt his throat tighten. He knew those names. Every probie did. They had heard them whispered during training, their stories passed down like legends. But standing here now, wearing the same insignia, they no longer felt like legends — they felt like brothers.
“Para SF is not a job.” Jasrotia continued, his voice heavy with meaning. “It is not a title. It is not a badge. It is a life. And it is a death. You do not get to choose when your war ends. The only thing you get to choose is how you live until then.”
The silence was suffocating, the weight of his words sinking into every man’s chest. Jasrotia lifted his glass higher.
“To those who came before us.” The men stood as one, their glasses raised. “To those who are yet to come.” “To the brothers we will never leave behind.”
A murmur spread across the room. “Balidaan Param Dharma.”
Sacrifice is the highest duty.
Dorjee felt something wet roll down his cheek, and for once, he did not wipe it away. The men drank in silence, a toast to those who had given everything so that they could stand here today. A toast to those who would, someday, follow in their footsteps.
The night wore on, but the echo of that toast remained.
Somewhere in the corner, an old, scarred veteran pulled out a battered guitar, his fingers strumming a slow, mournful tune — an old army song that had been sung over campfires, in trenches, and in the hearts of warriors before battle. Dorjee looked around, at his brothers — men he would fight for, kill for, die for.
The weight of the Maroon Beret was heavier than it had ever been. But for the first time in his life…
He knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.
