The average age of a person in my profession is 23 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer in the capital of his country, but old enough to die for his country.
He's a recent school or college graduate; he was probably an average student and had a girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He is 5 or 7 kilos lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting the insurgents or standing guard on the icy Himalayas from before dawn to well after dusk or he is at Mumbai engaging the terrorists.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.
His pride and self-respect, he does not lack.
He can save your life - or take it, because he's been trained for both.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humour in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed to do so.
He feels every note of the Jana Gana Mana vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hands from their pockets, or even stop talking.
In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the nation's Fighting Man that has kept this country free and defended everybody's right to Freedom.
He has experienced deprivation and adversity, and has seen his buddies falling to bullets and maimed and blown.
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