Wishing Rainbows

During my military service, I have been posted to the length and breadth of India. One of the most memorable postings was my tenure in Kashmir, a northern state of India. I was stationed at a remote location, far from modernity, communication, or any of the comforts I had once taken for granted.

But it was a beautiful place. A kind of place that never quite leaves you. It has never left me, for all the right reasons.

It was an isolated post, tucked away in the folds of the Pir Panjal mountains, six hours of an arduous climb from the nearest motorable road. The path was jagged, winding through thick pine forests, streams fed by melting snow, and steep, unforgiving slopes. You did not walk here. You ascended. Step by step, breath by breath, or by the lack of it in every step.

And then, quite suddenly, the world opened up.
Rough. Rugged. Yet serene. Sometimes, when the clouds rolled into the valley below, we stood above them, our boots planted on a piece of forgotten earth, staring out over a sea of white. You could almost believe heaven was close.

There were only a handful of dreamy villages scattered across the ridgelines, their wooden houses huddled together as if seeking warmth. Life here was as simple as it was hard. Most of the people were farmers or grazers. They tended to their sheep and cattle, coaxed potatoes and maize from the rocky soil, and depended more on the sky than on any government. They had barely seen a soldier before us.

The only school in the area was a single-room structure with crumbling walls and no roof. It had one teacher, Master Rafiq, a kind, weary man who walked two hours each day just to teach the alphabet and arithmetic to a dozen children with muddy feet and wide eyes.

It was a beautiful place, but not a safe one. This was still Jammu and Kashmir. The shadow of insurgency lay heavy on these mountains.

Terror-related incidents flared up now and then like angry sparks in the dark. The men who called themselves freedom fighters, but were armed, trained, and fed by inimical forces, would descend into the villages at night.

They would knock on doors that could not be refused.
Demand food. Shelter. Silence.

“Khana bana do... kambal... aur zubaan band rakho,” they would threaten. Give us bread, blankets, and keep your mouths shut.

And the villagers? What could they do? Unarmed. Frightened. With families to protect. A refusal could mean blood on the walls.

Then we came, the Army, asking our own questions.
"Unko roti kisne khilayi thi? Kis ghar mein rukey the?"
Who gave them food? Which house did they stay in?

The villagers stood between two fires. One lit by the barrel of a terrorist’s gun. The other by the suspicion in our eyes.

One elderly man, his back hunched from years of tilling unforgiving land and his eyes weary from decades of strife, once said to me in a voice barely above a whisper,
“Sahab, ek taraf jangli bhediye hain... doosri taraf sikhaye hue sher. Dono kaat'te hain.”
Sir, on one side are wild wolves. On the other, trained tigers. Both bite.

I did not have an answer then. I am not sure I do even now.

My post was high on a cliff, overlooking one of the villages. It was just a large wooden house, a cookhouse, a few dugouts, and a makeshift parade ground that doubled as a volleyball court when the winds allowed. Supplies came by mule, and when the weather closed in, even that stopped.

That is where I first met Rangeel Singh.
A wiry boy with narrow eyes and a grin so wide it could cut through the fog.

He was not part of the Army. Not officially.
But in these hills, children grew up too fast. And Rangeel, though only sixteen or seventeen at most, had already become the man of his house.

He introduced himself the way most boys did in these parts: with action, not words.

The first morning I arrived, I saw him lugging two jerry cans of water up the slope, barefoot, his shirt clinging to him with sweat.

“Tumhara naam kya hai?” I asked. What is your name?
He looked up at me, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and smiled.
“Rangeel Singh, sahab.”

“Kya karte ho yahan?”
“What do you do here?” I enquired.

“Kuch nahi sahab, bas chhota mota kaam.”
“Nothing much, Sir. Just odd jobs,” he replied.

He was lying.

He was the first to reach the post every morning, long before the cook stirred the tea, and the last to leave when the sun dipped behind the mountains.
He fetched water from a spring half a kilometre down the slope. Hauled rations on his back, often heavier than he was. Chopped vegetables in the cookhouse. Cleaned the utensils no one else wanted to touch. Watered the scraggly plants we tried to keep alive near the bunkers. All of it with that same quiet smile.

One day, I saw him struggling to carry a sack of rice.

“Rangeel, ruk ja. Main madad karta hoon.”
“Wait, Rangeel. Let me help.”

He shook his head, still smiling.
“Nahi sahab, aap toh afsar ho. Aapka kaam dekhna hai, mera uthana.”
“No Sir, you are an officer. Your job is to oversee. Mine is to carry.”

That line stayed with me. It was not about hierarchy. It was about dignity. He was not complaining. He was claiming his place.

He was a simple village boy with a complex mind. It took me time to understand that.

Once, during a rare break, he roasted corn ears on the chulha and handed one to me, wrapped in newspaper. It was unevenly cooked and had bits of ash stuck to it, but it was the best corn I had ever tasted.

“Will you not have one?” I asked.

He shrugged.
“Ghar le jaunga, behan ko pasand hai.”
“I will take some home. My sister loves it.”

That was Rangeel. I had started knowing him.

His clothes were always the same: a tattered blue shirt, brown trousers faded from time and dust. One day, I noticed his right shoe had finally given up, his toe sticking out.

I handed him an old pair of mine, two sizes too big.

“Naye jootey.”
New shoes! he exclaimed, slipping them on with exaggerated pride, as if marching in a parade.

“Bade hain... gir jaoge.”
“They are big... you might fall,” I teased.

He stood at attention, saluted playfully, and said,
“Nahi girunga. Aur girunga to uth jaunga.”
“I will not fall. And if I do, I will get up.”

What was this boy, I wondered.

There were quiet days, and not-so-quiet ones. One night, gunfire echoed through the valley. A group of terrorists had passed through a nearby hamlet. The villagers were terrified. The air at the post was tense.

The next morning, I found Rangeel sweeping the cookhouse floor.

“Kya darr laga kal raat?” I asked.
“Were you scared last night?”

He shook his head.
“Main darr gaya to behne rone lagengi.”
“If I get scared, my sisters will cry.”

This was no boy. He was a man.

I once asked him why he did not go to school.
“Pasand nahi hai, sahab,” he said with a shrug. “School achha nahi lagta.”
“I do not like it there, Sir.”

I believed him at first. But a few weeks later, during a conversation with Master Rafiq about building a new room for the pupils under some government scheme, I casually asked about Rangeel.

Master Rafiq looked at me for a long moment and said quietly,
“He was a bright boy, Janab. One of my best. But he had to leave school.”

He paused, then added,
“His father was killed by the terrorists. He is the eldest of four sisters and a toddler brother. The burden of the whole family fell on his shoulders.”

I had no words. I just sat there, staring out of the window at the hills, realising how much weight that boy had been carrying behind that grin. How many more boys like Rangeel in Kashmir carried such burden. The rifle and bullet were taking a huge toll.

My relation with Rangeel became stronger.

One evening, I found him sitting quietly near the ledge, staring into the valley. I sat beside him and asked about his family.
He told me how his youngest sister had just started writing her name. How his mother cried in silence some nights. How he dreamt of running a tea stall one day.

That was the only time I saw something different in his eyes. I saw longing. I saw hope.

Somehow, in those harsh mountains, between rations and rainstorms, between gunshots and goat calls, a bond formed. Not one built on rank or age, but on respect. I may have worn the uniform, but in many ways, he was the braver one.

He taught me that strength is not always loud. That sacrifice can be silent. And that sometimes, the ones with the least to give, give the most.

Three years passed. Quietly, as they often do in the mountains.
The snow came and went. Trails flooded, then dried. The insurgency flared and faded. And through it all, Rangeel kept smiling.

The day came when I finished my tenure and was posted out. It was a gloomy day. Rain drizzled from the sky and turned the trail to slush. There was the usual round of chai, handshakes, and goodbyes. The cook prepared the best pakoras, liver fry, and boiled eggs. The troops handed me a tumbler of rum.

And there, at the back, sat Rangeel. Cross-legged. Quiet. Smiling.

I went up to him.
“Chalein, Rangeel?”
“Shall we leave?” I asked, half-joking.

He smiled.
“Nahi sahab, main toh yahin hoon. Aap ja rahe ho.”
“No Sir, I am here. You are the one leaving.”

We stood there for a moment. I handed him a small envelope. Inside was some money, a thank-you note, and a photograph of the two of us after a volleyball match.

He looked at the photo and said,
“Yeh photo main apni maa ko dikhaunga. Bolunga, yeh mere bade bhaiya hain.”
“I will show this to my mother. I will tell her you are my elder brother.”

I had to turn away.

As I walked up the trail, the drizzle stopped. The clouds parted. And then I saw it… a rainbow. Faint at first, then clear, arching across the valley. I traced its path across the sky and came to a stop at Rangeel. He stood at the edge of the steps leading to the cookhouse, with the rainbow disappearing behind him. He was waving. Smiling.

That image has stayed with me. Like a painting that time refused to fade.

I have seen many places since then. Bigger cities. Louder people. Shinier uniforms. Higher ranks. But I have rarely seen dignity like his. The kind that wore torn shirts and walked barefoot with pride. The kind that saved the corn for someone else and carried the load without a word.

Even today, whenever life feels heavy, I think of him.
And I smile.

I do not know where he is now.
I hope he opened that tea stall.
I hope his sisters are writing more than just their names.
I hope his mother sleeps without fear.

But most of all, I hope life, in some corner of its heart, remembers to send him rainbows.
He deserves every single one of them.

For Rangeel, who taught me to smile, come what may.