Beyond the Line of Control: A Life Lived on the Frontiers of Duty and Dissent

 

 

Guarding the frontiers against hostile enemies and unfriendly neighbors is no ordinary duty, a relentless test of courage, endurance, and sheer willpower. It demands men and women who can withstand killing loneliness, months of separation from their families, and the crushing silence of landscapes untouched by human life.

In these remote outposts, where the freezing howling wind itself feels like an enemy and resources are painfully scarce, survival is an art learned the hard way. Improvisation becomes instinct, deception becomes armor, and every breath is taken with the knowledge that the next could be your last.

On a routine patrol—if anything here can ever be called routine—every step is a gamble. A drifted landmine could be sleeping beneath thick foliage or buried silently under layers of snow, waiting for an unlucky boot to trigger its fury. An enemy sniper could be lying still for hours, camouflaged in shadows, making death only a heartbeat and a bullet away for any member of the patrol.

Those who face these hazards not occasionally but as a way of life—day after day, night after night—cannot be ordinary people. They are forged in isolation, hardened by danger, and sustained by a sense of duty that defies explanation. Every moment on these borders is a battle for survival, every second an act of defiance against a war that never truly ends.

 They live where nothing reigns but fear—and yet they stand.

A Soldier is Forged by Contradictions

This story revolves around a man born into contradiction and built for conflict—an armed forces officer recruited as a police officer, trained as an infantry combatant, and deployed as a peacekeeper in a nation spiraling into violent rebellion.

To add to the absurdity, he drew the salary of an Army Second Lieutenant, performed the duties of a Major, and wore the rank of a Captain. A walking contradiction, dressed in three stars, tasked with pacifying a land that had spent two centuries being brutalized by colonial rule. Generations of subjugation had turned its people into rebels, its villages into simmering furnaces of dissent, and its politics into a tragic comedy of recycled tyranny.

Independence was supposed to be liberation.

Instead, the colonial baton was passed neatly into the hands of new political masters—leaders who had once rallied the masses against foreign oppression but then preserved the same machinery of control. Successive governments fed the fires of conflict, breeding discontent, betrayal, and insurgency across the nation.    

Into this chaos stepped Aridaman Jit Singh.

A Lineage Carved in Battle

Aridaman was born into a family where conflict was not an event, it was a tradition. His grandfather fought in the British Army during World War I. Two uncles served through World War II and later in India’s wars against Pakistan and China. His father stood in the line as an officer in the Rajasthan Police and later in the Border Security Force.

Growing up in the Rajasthan Police Lines was like growing up inside a military training film. Parade grounds echoed with rifle drills. Boots thundered like daily earthquakes. Bugles replaced lullabies. Before he understood algebra, he had already memorized the difference between a left turn, a right turn, and a life-altering wrong turn.

He thrived in the National Cadet Corps, excelling in athletics, boxing, shooting, and tactical exercises. At the 1982 Advance Leadership Camp in Pachmarhi, he rose above hundreds of cadets to be declared Best All-Rounder, winning the gold medal for drill, endurance, combat skills, and cross-country running.

After completing his M.A. in History from Kurukshetra University in 1983, he cleared the national competition for the Border Security Force and joined as a Platoon Commander. Forty-four weeks of grueling training later, he passed out of the BSF Academy on March 31, 1984—a polished weapon ready for deployment.

The Inspector General, the Turban, and the Ten-Minute Purgatory

In April, 1984 the ten freshly minted direct-entry Platoon Commanders reported to the Inspector General’s Headquarters in Calcutta. A collective inspection was underway. Of the ten, nine were assigned to border units almost immediately.

But the tenth—

the lone turbaned officer—

was met with something else.

Inspector General W.G.J. Mudaliar, IPS a short, sharp-featured officer with the quiet intensity of a man used to being obeyed, stopped in front of him. He scanned him slowly—from turban to boots—like he was reading an encrypted message on a reluctant computer screen. And then, without saying a word, moved on.

Units were announced one by one. Luggage was mentally packed. Travel routes were calculated. Spirits were high.

And then there was the last guy.

No posting.

No instructions.

No explanation.

Just silence.

A brand-new officer’s worst nightmare.

Was his training faulty?

Was his turn-out unacceptable?

Was he fired before he even began?

He wandered to the Inspector Admin’s office, looking for answers. Instead, he found the universal greeting given to new entrants in all armed forces: snubs, grunts, and majestic indifference.

His career had begun.

But nobody had told him how—

or where.