Author: Unknown
Anyone who’s ever travelled through the great Himalayan belt en route to posts like Srinagar, Leh, or beyond will agree – Army transit camps are like purgatory with bunk beds. You’re neither here nor there, and neither is the weather.
We once found ourselves marooned in one such camp thanks to an enthusiastic downpour and a few leisurely landslides. Spirits were high, mostly thanks to the 24×7 supply of chai and the hope that we’d be airlifted out before developing moss on our uniforms.
On Day 3, however, our optimism began to wane – not due to the rain or delay—but because the dal tasted oddly familiar. That’s when we overheard a lady officer (clearly a first-timer) ask the Mess Havaldar, “Why is there no change in the menu?”
He smiled sagely, barely looking up from his ladle:
“Madamji, yeh transit camp hai… idhar saab log badalte hain… menu nahi.”
And therein lies the great truth of Army transit life: men may march on, but the menu—eternal and immutable – stays loyal to its holy trinity: aloo, dal, and whatever vegetable has most successfully defied nature that week.
The beauty of transit camps lies in their simplicity. Everyone’s equal—senior, junior, civilian, officer. You’ll all stand in the same line, eat the same yellow dal, and sleep on the same rusted cot that probably hosted a general in 1982.
There’s no Wi-Fi, no cell signal, and certainly no escape from the philosophical debates that arise post dinner – “Is this sabzi cabbage or just ambitious lettuce?”
Yet, it’s all part of the charm. In transit camps, camaraderie is brewed stronger than the tea, and humor is the only luggage that never gets wet.
Transit may be temporary, but the memories? Permanent.
Just like the menu.
