What a walk on the wild side can teach a lady officer
The first lady officer I met told me, "How many women do you know who can say they've fired from LMG [light machine gun]?" That did it for me; I had already known I was in the right place when I saw my outdoors time table with all the running, swimming and horse riding classes; this was just the frosting on the cup cake. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all macho or tomboyish, although I did grow my hair to get people to stop calling me that. I am too tall to be a petite woman by any standard; broad shouldered to boot. The long hair is my saving grace especially in this job, which has now become more than a job to me. I did not know what I was getting into when I joined the service, but as I learnt on the job, I found that I love the adventure, the thrill and the uncertainty of the work. I would never give up an opportunity to get out of the comfort of my chair and venture for the unknown, even if some of the not-so-generous seniors take a dig at the follies of leading from the front. One actually remarked that "someday you will find yourself leading from the front with no one behind you". Sour grapes I'd say, for I found there were always a few good men with me. There is, however, an advocacy of "pushing from the back" type of leadership. I'm yet to savour the fruits of such labour. Seems like an excuse, though.
A day came when a self-styled insurgent leader spilled the beans on his armoury hidden in the jungles. I didn't so much as volunteer, but that evening I found myself suiting up in my bullet resistant vest, carrying my rifle and ammunition, passing out instructions regarding the sequence of movement, and finally leaving the road head where the vehicles were parked and walking across the bamboo bridge along the narrow foot track, amidst the villages that have encroached the reserve forest. No complaints there, a walk in that terrain with that fresh air in the cold weather is always welcome. The anticipation of the find at the end of that walk was motivation enough. After about a couple of kilometres, I was suddenly reminded of all that water and coffee I had had in the evening. Stepping aside, I went about my business. It is nothing short of an ordeal to balance everything, including the bullet proof vest and doing something as simple as talking a leak, for a woman. One never gets used to it, but one improves on the technique each time.
After a couple of hours, we reached the foothills and the creek that was to be crossed. In fact, I felt real good about investing in an expensive pair of waterproof magnum boots. Feeling triumphant, I jumped across. The feeling was to last only for a few minutes. The same rivulet was to be crossed a few more times until we had to walk on the river bed itself for another about six kilometres. The water level grew progressively and after perhaps about three times of attempting to jump across, pretty much everyone resigned and waded through the cold water getting their feet and shoes, expensive or not, wet. I was hit the worst because the waterproofing made it impossible for the water to drain out. I was splashing about in water on two counts. My ordeal was not to be over that easily, though. In a while, I suddenly found that I was not able to touch the pickle anymore. Without the comfort and security of wings or any other material, and with no other prospect (the nearest town was more than four hours away by now, and as it is all the shops would be closed) I just decided to grin and bear it. It was a moonless night, and I imagined the op would be over before day break, so it wouldn't be noticed.
Touching elephant dung that looked fresh to see if it was warm and therefore recent, and all other such things, including looking for wild feline pugmarks, we journeyed into the rainforest. The landmark was the place where illegally cut wood was stacked. Armed with the glow of battery nearly-drained torches, the informant showed us a hill trail to climb. A few hundred meters of the vertical climb and completely out of breath, I couldn't for the life of me figure out how elephants climb such trails. The track was less than two feet wide, completely vertical with a steep fall on one side. An old friend who was accompanying reminded me how I had once saved him from falling down a track by grabbing his shirt. "Us yaad ki kasam, aaj mujhe bacha lena" was my response. In my mind I had already figured out that I'd just about unashamedly slide down on the return journey. Even the most professional and gentlemanly officer of the central investigation agency had planned on beating the informant to an inch of his life if he had just made us walk and climb and wade through this ordeal only to say that he can't find where he hid his stash.
Another hour later, with my waterproof shoes containing a personal puddle of its own, lips and cheeks cracking in the freezing wind, still unable to touch the pickle, I heard a happy shout. The cache was where it was supposed to be. After completing all the formalities we could start back, only to realise a group had spilt as they were too tired to continue. Frantic shouting into the night in those hills could not carry our voices. It was just providence that we could regroup. Tired, hungry, and each one experiencing discomfort beyond what we were accustomed to, each man pulled his weight and more especially when one of us decided he could not carry on. Some kind of bond was formed that night, some kind of trust, some kind of understanding of a being a part of an experience. Well of course, we were all cops and members of the armed forces; we went back to our original mutual feelings. "Jaise the!"