There’s a quiet magic in a life untethered, a rhythm that hums softly in the creak of iron trunks, the scent of polished boots, and the rustle of olive greens.
Growing up as an army kid wasn’t just a childhood; it was a way of life, a legacy of being Born, Raised, And Transferred (code name BRAT) across landscapes and moments.
We were dandelions, carried by the winds of duty, blooming wherever we landed, finding joy in uncertainty.

My childhood, spanning the simpler decades of the 70s & 80s, wasn’t confined to one home or one place. It was a mosaic of memories woven from dusty outposts, snow-kissed mountains, and lush, tree-lined Cantonments.

Each move was an adventure, an opportunity to shed the old and embrace the new.

The iron trunks we packed for every posting weren’t just containers ; they held fragments of our lives. A dented corner spoke of a bumpy ride to a remote base, while the faint smell of mothballs and camphor carried whispers of places long left behind. Those trunks were the silent witnesses to our resilience, our adaptability, and the unbroken thread of family that anchored us .

Each relocation was bittersweet—a goodbye to familiar faces and places, tempered by the thrill of discovering new ones. We raced bicycles on long quiet roads shaded by huge trees, trees that we made our tree houses too sometimes,played hopscotch on cobbled streets, and turned army mess lawns into cricket pitches.

Friendships were made quickly, for we understood their fleeting nature. These weren’t just moments of childhood—they were lessons in finding beauty and belonging in the transient.

Yet, this life came with its own heartaches. The image of dad , a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, walking away to another field posting, remains etched in my memory. Those goodbyes were quiet but heavy, marked by unshed tears and the stoic acceptance of a soldier’s family. For months, we clung to letters that traveled across terrains, bridging the distance with words of love and stories of faraway land

Who can forget our sahayak bhaiya, our dad’s buddy. He would more than a helping hand; he was family. His quiet strength carried us through the little challenges of everyday life, from fixing jammed windows to comforting us with mangoes plucked from the tallest branches. In his steady presence, I found a unique kind of love and loyalty, one that never wavered.

Life in the Cantonment had its own charm and rituals. Pagal gymkhanas brought everyone together in laughter and friendly competition with sack races and tug-of-war. Jam sessions turned even the shyest among us into performers, while the annual Independence Day parade filled us with a pride that transcended words. These moments stitched a sense of unity and purpose into the fabric of our lives.

Through it all, we learned the art of resilience. Every farewell taught us how to carry the weight of separation, every new beginning showed us how to embrace change, and every goodbye reminded us to treasure the present. Like dandelions, we were rootless yet deeply rooted—in values, in love, and in the enduring spirit of a community that understood the cost of service and the strength it demanded.

Looking back, I see how profoundly this life shaped me. The chaos, the uncertainty, the constant goodbyes—they weren’t hardships; they were gifts. They taught me that home isn’t a physical space but the people we hold close and the memories we carry with us.

We are dandelions, thriving in the winds of change. We are BRATs, children of service and sacrifice. And wherever the wind takes us, we bloom.

—— Suvi’s Scribbles