Nine years passed, and Kashmir changed—but not in ways maps could record.

  People moved on. Anirudh left for New Delhi to study medicine, chasing a future far from checkpoints and curfews. Disha got married—to Ishwar Chandra, who belonged to a rich family and owned a tourism company. I heard the news just like any random guy with absolutely no control over it.

  After my brother’s death, I wanted to join the Indian Army. Wearing the uniform he once wore felt like a calling—like service was the only language our family knew. But mom refused after she had just lost her eldest son because of it.

  So I chose another uniform.

  I completed my BSc, barely cleared the SSC CPO exam, and joined the Jammu & Kashmir Police as a Sub-Inspector. After which I forced my mother into retirement. She had worked her entire life—taking that away from her felt like stealing her purpose. She never said it out loud, but I knew she wasn’t happy.

  Promotions came quickly, not as rewards, but as necessities. In Kashmir, officers don’t rise because they want to—they rise because someone has to step forward. As an Inspector, I began to understand the scale of responsibility Bandipora carried.

  Crime here wasn’t random; it was organized and relentless. Bandipora’s location—close to PoK and Srinagar—made it strategically sensitive. Three major gangs operated across the district:

  – Malik in the north

  – Mansoor in the east

  – Farooque in the south

  My police station fell under the southern region, Farooque territory. By the time I took charge, an unspoken arrangement already existed. The Farooque gang supplied us with intel on rival gangs, and in return, we turned a blind eye—or sometimes actively helped weaken their enemies. It was dirty but it worked and helped us to gain a lot of control over south Bandipora.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I know that most of you guys think that this is wrong but before you judge, understand this: we were already losing. People like to believe policing is about right and wrong. In Kashmir, it was about containment. Ministers made speeches from Delhi. Local leaders issued statements they didn’t believe in. On the ground, we were expected to dismantle criminal networks, prevent communal riots, stop terror funding, protect civilians, and maintain an illusion of normalcy—without any political support, without public trust, and often without enough men. Desperation doesn’t ask permission before choosing sides. Policing in Kashmir was not about convenience—it was about holding the line, even when the line kept shifting.

  After few years into the service I met Vijay Pratap who was a commander in Special Operations Group (SOG) a police tactical unit specialized in counterterrorism, and operating in difficult to access terrain. Officially, SOG had been disbanded in 2003. Unofficially, it never truly died. As gangs in Kashmir began acquiring heavier weapons, SOG was quietly re-enforced in districts close to PoK.

  We spoke briefly—about operations, civilians, and responsibility. That was enough. In Kashmir, trust doesn’t take time; it takes intent. He had lost men in uniform. I had lost a brother. We didn’t talk about it, but we both understood. From that day, he became someone I could rely on without hesitation. In a land where loyalties were questioned daily, our friendship was simple and rare—built on service, sacrifice, and an unshakeable belief in the nation we were sworn to protect.

  In Kashmir, bonds don’t grow slowly.

  They are forged—under pressure, and in fire.

  Vijay had recently been demoted back to Inspector after an operation under his command caused civilian collateral damage—enough for the system to make an example of him. The inquiry reports spoke of protocol failures and civilian loss, but never of the impossible choices made on the ground.

  I, on the other hand, had just been promoted to DSP for keeping my area relatively peaceful, violence contained and riots avoided. In Kashmir, restraint was rewarded more than courage, even if it meant swallowing anger and playing by rules written far away from the gunfire.

  Different ranks but the same fire burning underneath.