In the coastal town of Jimanagar, where I served as a lieutenant in the Maritime Guard, there was one unspoken rule we all lived by: never trust a stranger – never, ever compromise protocol at the military checkpoint. My career, my honour, and my very identity were forged in that line of duty. And yet, months ago, on a rain-soaked highway, I broke that rule. What followed would test every fibre of my being.
It began during a weekend escape to the misty hills of Kravat – three of us, fleeing the stifling heat of Jimanagar. Laughter filled the car until the monsoon skies cracked open, turning the highway into a silver blur of water and motion. Near a hairpin bend, a stalled vehicle emerged through the rain. Two men stood beside it.
The first – wiry, weary – approached my window. “Gaadi bandh ho gayee,” he said, voice thin, almost brittle. I shook my head; none of us were mechanically inclined, and the downpour offered no room for heroics. My gaze shifted to the other man. He was broad and powerfully built, a silent colossus with an odd deference. Then he spoke: “Bhau, aap nikal lo. Gaadi mein dekh lunga.”
I hesitated. Every instinct screamed, Drive on. The Maritime Guard had drilled into me the sanctity of protocol – strangers were risks, checkpoints were sacrosanct. But the rain hammered down harder, and something in his voice – low, firm, almost respectful – disarmed me. Against training, against instinct, I nodded.
Bhau slipped into the back seat, apologising profusely for soaking the upholstery. My friends exchanged wary glances, their unease a mirror to my own, but we pressed on. As we neared Jimanagar’s outskirts and the rain began to relent, they disembarked for the local cab. I remained behind the wheel, alone now with Bhau.
At the police security checkpoint, he spoke again – quietly: “Sir, naake se apun ko nikaal do. Aapka ehsaan kabhi nahee bhoolunga.” I flashed my military ID, my pulse racing as we passed unquestioned. A gnawing guilt settled in my gut. I had compromised the police checkpoint – the unbreakable line – for what? A soaked stranger and a strange sense of obligation? At Lalhata Fort, Bhau asked to be dropped off. Before stepping out, he scribbled a landline number on the back of a faded receipt and handed it to me. “Zindagi mein kabhi bhi yaad karna. Apun haazir hoga.” I nodded absently, tucked the note into my wallet, and drove off, telling myself to forget it. I nearly did – until everything changed.
Months later, aboard the patrol vessel Kashti, my crewman Arjun returned to duty – ten days into an eight-week leave. Per protocol, I called him in. His face carried an exhaustion that transcended travel; it was the weight of choices. He saluted, asked to speak freely, and unburdened a truth that would haunt me.
Arjun was born in Suryapur, a village hemmed by salt flats and silence. His father, a fisherman, had been claimed by the sea when Arjun was twelve, leaving him to fend for his younger sister, Meera (still an infant), after their mother succumbed to a lingering illness. Suryapur offered little – harsh winds, meagre harvests, and a community bound by survival. The Maritime Guard became his lifeline, a way to honour his father’s dreams and shield Meera from the village’s grind. But the ghosts of Suryapur clung to him. During his leave, he’d heard screams from a neighbour’s home. Meera’s friend – an eight-year-old left alone while her mother foraged for firewood – was being attacked by a thug. Arjun found the man pinning the child, his intent vile. Rage consumed him; he beat the man savagely, left him in a ditch, and fled. Only later did he learn the assailant was the nephew of Vakil, a local thug with a long shadow and a short temper. Fear – or perhaps instinct – drove Arjun to board the earliest train back to Kashti. His refuge had become his hiding place.
Three days later, the local police from Arjun’s village, backed by Jimanagar’s officers, appeared at the dockyard gate, chargesheet in hand. The man Arjun had thrashed was critical in the hospital. Orders had been issued: Arjun was to be handed over immediately for investigation. Captain Desai, my commanding officer, was a stickler for process. He sympathised with Arjun’s motive – the protection of an innocent child – but protocol was protocol. I knew better. Once Arjun returned to Suryapur, he wouldn’t face justice; he’d face Vakil’s wrath. The speed of the complaint, the presence of the local police all the way in Jimanagar – it reeked of the thug’s reach. Instinct kicked in, every leadership lesson about protecting “My Men” echoing in my mind. Without a plan, I told them Arjun was on a short patrol and would return in two days. They left, reluctantly. Two days. That’s what I had bought him. I didn’t know why I’d sought that time – God only knows – but it felt like a shield, a chance to think, to protect.
That night, as I paced my cabin, my mind returned to Kravat. To Bhau. To the rule I had broken. The guilt of that checkpoint breach gnawed at me – had I invited this chaos by trusting a stranger? Yet, with Arjun’s fate hanging, desperation overruled duty. I reached for my wallet. The note, its ink bled but legible, emerged. From the shore telephone, I dialled. A gruff, curt voice answered. “Bhau se baat karni hai,” I said. “Kravat ke baare mein batana.” There was a pause, then a shift – respect, maybe. “Please call back in one hour, Saheb.”
An hour later when I called back, Bhau answered before the first ring finished. The same calm baritone. “Saheb, kya maangta hai? Kuch bhi bolo.” I explained: Arjun, the child, Vakil, the chargesheet. I gave no instructions, just the raw story. His reply was warm, short, and certain: “Aapka kaam ho jayega.” I hung up, torn between hope and dread. What had I unleashed?
Those two days were a crucible. I watched Arjun train, his hands steady despite the weight he carried. His sister’s safety had driven him, a mirror to my own duty. Meanwhile, rumours whispered through the Dockyard grapevine offered glimpses of Bhau’s methods. Locals spoke of a web – truck drivers, petty officials, even ex-enforcers owing him favours. Some said he’d once ruled the underworld, a kingpin turned quiet mediator after a violent past caught up. His intervention likely involved a deal: a bribe slipped to Vakil’s men, a threat murmured through back channels, or a favour cashed from years ago with district officials. The lack of evidence left me uneasy – my rule-breaking had empowered this shadow, a force I couldn’t control.
Internally, I battled. The checkpoint breach had saved Bhau and now, indirectly, Arjun. But it eroded my sense of honour. Was I a protector or a collaborator? The pride of safeguarding my crewman clashed with the shame of bending ethics. On the second day, the police never returned. The case was quietly withdrawn. Arjun remained aboard Kashti, unaware of the invisible hand that moved for him. I never asked Bhau for details, and perhaps that ignorance was my shield.
In the days that followed, I stood beside Arjun on the deck, watching the sunrise fracture over the sea. His future had been spared. Mine had quietly changed. A new beginning – for him, yes, but for me as well. The rule I had broken had not broken me. It had revealed something else: that sometimes, trust isn’t a weakness. Sometimes, it’s a promise made in the rain and kept in the storm.
And in the inner fold of my wallet, Bhau’s number remains. Not a favour owed. Not a debt incurred. Just a line – once crossed, never forgotten.
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