Boys used to call me Soda in school days. Soda means 'serving

Host: The evening sky was painted in shades of orange and blue, the kind of sky that felt like an old photograph, sun-worn yet eternal. A faint breeze moved through the army cantonment café, carrying with it the scent of wet grass and the distant hum of marching drills. Metal chairs scraped softly against the stone floor, echoing in the stillness of the hour. Jack sat at a corner table, his grey eyes fixed on the horizon where the flag swayed lazily. Across from him, Jeeny rested her hands around a cup of steaming tea, her fingers trembling slightly as if holding a memory she didn’t want to spill.

Jeeny: “You ever miss the feeling of being protected, Jack? Of belonging to something bigger, something that wraps you in unspoken trust?”

Jack: (smirking) “Protected? You mean sheltered. The kind of bubble that makes you think the world is kind just because everyone around you wears the same uniform.”

Host: The light flickered against Jack’s face, casting sharp lines along his jaw. The murmur of soldiers outside faded as if the world itself was listening.

Jeeny: “It’s not about uniforms. It’s about connection. You grow up surrounded by people who’d give their lives for one another. There’s a kind of innocence in that — not ignorance, but faith. Anushka Sharma said once, ‘Boys used to call me Soda in school days... I miss those days when I had a very protected life; one could get close and bond with other army people that they gradually would become your extended family.’ That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging is just another word for dependency. People like to believe they’re part of a family, until that family stops serving their purpose. Then what? They leave, they move, they change. The army families you talk about — they’re bonded by structure, by discipline, by necessity. Strip that away, and what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Loyalty. Love. Shared pain. You talk like structure creates emotion, but maybe it’s the other way around. People endure discipline because they care for each other.”

Host: A motorbike passed by, its headlight briefly illuminating the glass window, revealing their reflections side by side — Jack’s stoic, Jeeny’s wistful. The moment hung between them like a thread stretched too tight.

Jack: “Care fades, Jeeny. You’ve seen it. Soldiers come back, families fall apart, people grow distant. That sense of extended family you talk about — it’s built on the illusion that everyone’s fighting the same war. But once the war’s over, what unites them?”

Jeeny: “The memories, Jack. The stories, the laughter, the grief they shared. My father used to say that when you live near a base long enough, even the sound of the morning bugle becomes part of your heartbeat. It doesn’t fade — it just rests in silence.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice quivered slightly as she spoke, her eyes drifting toward the photographs pinned on the café wall — black-and-white images of soldiers, wives, and children, smiling despite the distance in their eyes.

Jack: “You romanticize it. But that’s the danger of nostalgia — it makes chains look like embraces. When you say ‘protected,’ what you really mean is ‘controlled.’ You can’t grow under protection, Jeeny. You can only survive.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is growth. Maybe the roots that grow in safety hold stronger than the ones that fight in storms.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “No. The roots that face the storm learn to bend. They learn to find their own ground. You keep talking about protection, but tell me — how do you know who you are if you’ve never been unprotected?”

Host: The wind pushed through the half-open door, rattling the wind chime above them. The melody was soft, almost melancholic — the sound of something trying to remember itself.

Jeeny: “Do you think knowing yourself means cutting away everyone who ever held you safe? There’s strength in unity too, Jack. Look at the Gurkhas, the Indian Army, the Red Cross volunteers — they live and die by collective faith. Not because they’re told to, but because they believe in each other.”

Jack: “Belief can be dangerous. It blinds you. Remember 1971 — soldiers marched believing they were defending an ideal, while politicians played chess. That’s the problem. Protection breeds obedience, and obedience kills questioning.”

Jeeny: (raising her voice slightly) “And isolation kills compassion, Jack! You think rebellion is freedom, but it can be loneliness too. Those people in cantonments — they live knowing death might knock on the neighbor’s door tomorrow, yet they still share food, celebrate, sing. That’s not blindness; that’s courage.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. A shadow passed over his face as if her words had struck something raw. The rain began outside — slow, steady, rhythmic. It drummed against the window, like the sound of distant boots returning home.

Jack: (quietly) “You talk about courage like it’s soft. But courage isn’t in staying within walls. It’s in walking out of them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But those walls teach you why courage matters. They give it shape.”

Host: There was a long silence. The rain grew heavier. Jeeny reached for her cup, the steam blurring the space between them. Jack looked at her — really looked — for the first time that evening. His eyes softened.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father was posted in Kargil. I remember hearing the radio one night — a unit nearby didn’t make it back. My mother held me so tight I could barely breathe. After that, she stopped going to the mess. Stopped talking to anyone. Said she couldn’t stand the waiting. That’s what your protection does, Jeeny. It makes people prisoners of hope.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And yet she held you, didn’t she? Even if it was out of fear — she still held you. That’s love, Jack. Maybe protection isn’t a cage — maybe it’s a form of prayer.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered on Jeeny’s face, her eyes wide, her voice trembling between tenderness and defiance. Jack’s hand brushed against his glass — the condensation slid down like the memory of a tear.

Jack: “You think love justifies everything. But love is fragile. Once the structure breaks, it can’t hold.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Love doesn’t need structure. It builds one. That’s what Anushka meant. The army wasn’t just uniforms and drills — it was people creating families out of strangers, finding home in transience.”

Host: The café’s lightbulb flickered, briefly casting them in darkness, before glowing again. The rain eased into a drizzle. The tension softened too, like an orchestra quieting after a crescendo.

Jack: (sighs) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just... tired of watching people cling to things that eventually break.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re tired because you still care. You call it cynicism, but it’s just disappointment in disguise.”

Host: Jack gave a low laugh, the kind that sounded half like surrender, half like pain. Jeeny smiled faintly, the kind of smile that comes after a long storm.

Jack: “So, you think we should keep believing? Even when it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially when it hurts. That’s when belief becomes real.”

Host: Outside, the flag fluttered again — this time in the calm air after the rain. The pavement glistened, reflecting the soft light of the café. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant but no longer cold. Jeeny traced the rim of her cup again, slower now, as if savoring the warmth that had returned.

Jeeny: “Maybe protection isn’t about being shielded. Maybe it’s about being seen — by people who’d stand between you and the world without asking why.”

Jack: “And maybe independence isn’t about leaving them behind. Maybe it’s about walking far enough to still hear their voices.”

Host: The two sat in silence, the kind that feels full, not empty. The camera of time pulled back — through the glass, across the damp courtyard, over the distant barracks where a lone soldier stood, watching the sky. The rain had stopped. The flag moved gently, not with force, but with grace. And for a moment, everything — the past, the present, the protection, and the freedom — seemed to belong to the same breath.