Page 23 of Mrs. Pandey
"Lieutenant Solanki!"
The words pierced the air, shrill and merciless. I froze, my stomach sank. His voice was a physical shock. Slowly, I turned,my eyes meeting his. They were cold, sharp, and devoid of any warmth at all.
"What are you doing with that water bottle?" he asked, his voice very low.
"Umm..." I stuttered, my mind searching for excuses. I looked at the soldier standing next to me, who also looked equally scared. He started to stutter, but Prashant interrupted him.
"Now he will run two more rounds with that sack," Prashant said flatly, without taking his eyes off me.
The soldier next to me panicked, his eyes wide with disappointment.
"It wasn't his fault," I said in shock, my fear replaced immediately by anger. "I gave him water. He tried to refuse." My grip on the water bottle tightened, and for a moment, I imagined I had his neck in my hands.
"Then you run two rounds," he said coldly, his voice emotionless. "With the sack. For breaking protocol."
He turned and walked away without another word, his back straight.
"Sir!" I called out, but he didn't even acknowledge me. He returned to his post, his attention focused on the other soldiers as if I were just a ghost, a momentary inconvenience he had already ignored.
"Ma'am, you don't have to do that..." the young soldier began, voice full of concern, but I interrupted him by shaking my headvigorously. It wasn't about him anymore. It was about Prashant, his brutality, and my insubordination.
I stood, rolling up my sleeves, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Fine. He wanted to punish me? I'll show him I can handle it. I'll show him his tricks won't break me, won't make me compromise my humanity.
I walked toward the starting point, every step a declaration of defiance. Someone, a grim-faced corporal, strapped a twenty-kilogram sack to my back. As it rested on my shoulders, a sigh escaped my lips and a sharp pain shot through my spine.
My old backache, a persistent shadow from an injury I'd suffered months earlier, returned instantly, like a sharp, unwelcome guest. My body, a mere fifty-five kilos, seemed insignificant in the face of that enormous load.
Still, I straightened my shoulders, not letting the pain show on my face. I looked straight ahead, my eyes fixed on the dusty path in front of me. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
Prashant didn't even look at me. His eyes were fixed on the other soldiers, his expressions incomprehensible, as if I didn't exist.
I took a deep, shaky breath, steeling myself. Then, I ran. And as my boots hit the ground, I swore to myself that I would always remember this cruelty, this unjust punishment.
"You have to finish this in five minutes," Prashant's voice echoed across the field, and my eyes widened in surprise. Five minutes? With this weight and this heat, it was an impossible task, a deliberate attempt to break me.
I didn't look at him, I just ran. My lungs were burning, every breath a painful wheeze. My back screamed in protest, a constant, throbbing agony. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. I bit my lip hard, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth, and I pushed forward, groaning as sharp, piercing pain ran down my spine with each jolt. The sack was heavy and shaking mercilessly, slamming into my body. On the first swing, I nearly fell to the muddy ground, my vision blurred, but I heaved the sack higher on my shoulders, took a sharp breath, and, filled with a rebellious rage, increased my speed.
"Two minutes left!" Prashant yelled, his voice echoing like a whip across the training ground.
I pushed harder, my legs burning, my muscles screaming in protest. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lips were cracked and dry. Sweat dripped from my temples, soaked my arms, and dripped down my back, creating tiny streams that stung the angry red marks forming on my skin. Every breath was a struggle, every step a tremendous effort.
"One minute!" A shrill whistle echoed through the air, signaling the rapidly dwindling time.
I forced my feet to move faster, my vision blurring as I neared the finish line. My lungs were burning, my heart pounding against my ribs. I stumbled, almost fell, but somehow, I found a reserve of strength I hadn't known I had. I got there just in time, falling to my knees in the mud, gasping for breath, my arms shaking uncontrollably. My body felt like it was being ripped to pieces, every fiber of my being screaming in protest.
A water bottle appeared in front of me. I looked up with sweaty eyes. Prashant stood there, holding the bottle, his face unreadable, his gaze fixed on me.
Gritting my teeth, I refused, pulling myself up with trembling limbs. My back ached unbearably, but I kept my chin high and met his gaze with a challenging look. I left without taking the bottle, every step a proof of my unwavering determination. I didn't need his pity; I didn't want anything from him.
I entered my office, the familiar smell of stale paper and antiseptic not calming my pounding heart in the slightest. I headed straight for the attached bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, enjoying the slightly numbing cold on my reddening skin. I wiped the sweat off my skin with a towel. My olive-green shirt was soaked through, clinging to my back. I pulled it off, and the fabric clung to the soft, angry skin underneath, making me shudder. Turning to the mirror, I saw angry red marks on my spine and shoulders, clearly visible on my brown skin.
It hurt more than it should have. I had lifted heavy sacks before, in other training exercises, but not since the injury. He knew about it. He knew my weakness, and he had deliberately used it against me. The realization fueled a new wave of anger.
I wiped my body with tissue paper, trying to keep my hands steady despite their shaking, then put on a fresh olive-green shirt, the clean fabric providing some relief on my aching skin. I walked out of the bathroom.
Prashant was standing beside my chair, idly playing with a pen as if he had all the time in the world, waiting for me.
"Captain," I said through gritted teeth, clenching my hands into fists, suppressing the urge to flare up.
