The Isolation

I woke up at 3:13 am. Again. The seventy-eighth time.

Looking around my tent, I noticed that I forgot to wash my mug of milk at night before tucking in. Again. The swarm of mosquitoes which circled the helm of the disgusting mug was what woke me from my disturbed slumber, I realized. Again.

My moisturized face didn’t make my life easier, inviting the mosquitoes to butcher my face.

Tearing my eyes away from the scene of ugliness, I noticed my neatly ironed uniform. Sighing, I picked the green uniform and stared at it. Wearing, washing and ironing this set was a part of my routine too. A routine I fought with my family for. A routine which was my choice. A routine I didn’t want to regret.

Yet I did.

Did I convince my father to handover the responsibility of our family business to my younger brother to earn 1% of his monthly income? Did I leave my wailing wife to fight in a battalion in an unknown desert for fifty five crore countrymen sleeping under the shade of security? Fellow countrymen who didn’t care whether I lived or died, as long as they received their morning tea without delay?

How could I not regret my choice?

Two weeks after the hidden jingoism in my loud patriotism faded away, regret and guilt prickled my conscience like acid. My pregnant wife. My ailing father. My loudmouth brother. My comforting mother. My mother’s mouth-watering Carrot Halwa.

Yes, this country deserved my regret. It deserved my and anger.

A war requires a troop, but a battle of guilt requires only the self. Isolating myself from the rest of the battalion was my way of fighting my battles. I didn’t participate in any of their activities designed to promote team spirit, stayed away from all circles, ate and slept alone, pushed away their niceties with a look of contempt. Slowly, they stopped troubling me, scurried away like cowards when I sat near them. Like cowards who could fight against whomever the government claims to be their enemy. Those who left their family for peanuts. Those whom I wanted to be.

Guilt gave way to anger, which rose like bile in my throat, making my hands crumple the green uniform in disgust and crush the fluffy pillow my mother forcefully kept in my bag, praying that I sleep fitfully in a desert like Loungewala. While my mother sent me pillows, moisturizers and bottles of sugar for my sweet-tooth, my motherland gave me a uniform to camouflage, useless sand of a desert in the middle of nowhere and a battalion of cowards.

And whom did I choose over whom?

My tears washed my mosquito-friendly face, precisely at the same moment my six o’clock alarm stared ringing. Sighing, I walked over to the edge of my tent, the gap between the curtains aiding a deep breath and clearing my head. Suddenly, I stopped.

The curtains were open. Again. The wind whooshed towards me and raced to a halt, in front of my nostrils.

Or maybe you just forgot to breathe, you melodramatic coward. And forgot to close the curtains. Again.

The silence of the morning, which used to be a welcome change from the noisy atmosphere of a thirteen-membered family, managed to creeped me out. It was the sixth day the curtains, which I could swear I closed till the very end were open again, although my brain mocked my conviction over its lack of logic. The chillness of the desert engulfed me, momentarily distracting me from the mysterious curtains and forcing me to take a deep breath. That’s when the smell hit me. The unknown smell of my childhood, wafting through the desert of Loungewala on the fourth consecutive chilly night. My brain now supported my memory, swearing that the smell was known, although I couldn’t place it. Day after day, night after night, still I couldn’t recall the origin of the smell.

I took another deep breath and opened my mouth, tasting the heavenly smell in my mouth.

Definitely food.

Reluctantly, letting my curiosity win its four-day fight with anger, I trotted my way into the kitchen. Chef Murugesan was a jovial man, cooking his way into bliss and chatting with soldiers through the noise of the mess. Never, did I recall, a day when he didn’t smile at my brooding face and ask about my family’s health.

‘I would know if I ever get to leave this place. It’s been months and I am stuck eating Punjabi food cooked by a Madrasi’, I retorted back one day, satisfied at having wiped off his stupid smile. 

Murugesan turned pink and mumbled something which suspiciously sounded like ‘Tamilian’, serving me quickly and tripping his way to the next table.

And that was my first and last conversation with him.

Ignoring the twinge of regret knotting through my stomach over treating a nice man badly; and shameful of the fact that my curiosity overpowered my ego, I walked into the kitchen. I stopped in my tracks.

It was Carrot Halwa.

It looked and smelled exactly like my mom’s recipe, and Murugesan was adding her secret ingredient which she told me when I was eleven years old. No one else knew about that ingredient.

‘Sir, why are you here? God, it was supposed to be a surprise for you”, exclaimed Murugesan. He stomped his foot in irritation and shoved me out of the kitchen.

“Why are you making Carrot Halwa?”, I asked.

He seemed to be in two minds, seemingly wondering whether I deserved to know his plan. After a few moments of internal struggle, he seemed to have conceded to answer my question.

“Sir, you were extremely isolated. The rest of the battalion was worried about your mental health. We realized that you were homesick. This was a way to cheer you up and make you one of us.”

I stood there, numb. Shame, regret, guilt, gratitude and happiness washed through me. My team, which I didn’t care an ounce about, was worried about me? They wanted to include me? After my boorish behaviour? Unable to collect my thoughts and struggling to speak with a constricted throat and a dry mouth, I somehow managed to ask the most irrelevant question.

‘Why Carrot Halwa?’

Murugesan laughed facetiously, and spoke in a kinder tone, although the tone betrayed a hint of amusement.

‘Major Vikram heard you speak in your sleep, Sahab. You were mumbling the recipe of Carrot Halwa. You mentioned your mom’s secret ingredient which made the Halwa taste heavenly. You even mumbled the exact quantity of ingredients to be added to achieve the perfect taste. Although, I apologize that the recipe isn’t a secret anymore.’ he laughed.

‘I have a lot of things to apologize for’, I admitted regretfully.

‘I have seen worse cases Sahab’, said Murugesan wisely.

‘I need to apologize to the rest of the battalion.’

‘No Sahab. You just need to stop your self isolation’.

‘I will’, I promised.

‘And you must give me permission to share this recipe with my wife.’

Unable to help myself, I smiled. ‘No, I won’t’’, I said teasingly.

‘Why Sahab?’

‘Because you made Carrot Halwa for five days and never offered me any.’

Murugesan looked dumbfounded. He mumbled incorrigibly, ‘But Sahab, today is the first time I am making it.’

I stared at him, speechless. My brain struggled to explain logic. It mocked my memory. It promised me that a logical explanation was possible. Yet, I went numb. Again.