Indian Airforce, that I avoided !!

For nearly 28 years—27, to be precise—I’ve carried this story in my heart. It’s a weight, a whisper, a tangle of feelings I’ve never fully let out until now. Today, I need to vent, to pour it somewhere permanent, somewhere it can breathe. This is that place.

I was 19 when I joined the Indian Air Force, a wide-eyed craftsman in the 1994 batch at the Communication Training Institute in Bangalore. Back then, I held the Indian defense forces in awe—an unshakable respect born from a boyhood dream of serving the nation. But that reverence has faded, not into disdain, but into something more complicated. My experience left scars, lessons, and a warning I feel compelled to share: if you’re thinking of joining, pause. Think twice. Not because I hate it—never label me that—but because my journey through the Air Force was unlike anything I’d imagined when I was that dreamy kid who once wanted to be a chemical scientist.

In 12th grade, I was like any other boy—restless, curious, chasing vague ambitions. My friends knew their paths: engineering, medicine, literature, veterinary studies. Me? I had no clue. I’d wander nearby villages, climb mountains, breathe in the scent of wildflowers and paddy fields, fish in ponds, and lose myself in nature. That’s where I felt alive. I even thought I’d found a soulmate, a girl who understood me—until a tragic accident took her ten years after we met, leaving a void I still feel. Meanwhile, my dreams of science drifted away, and somehow, I ended up in the IT world. But that’s another tale.

Back then, after 12th grade, I was adrift. My friends applied for the Karnataka Common Entrance Test, so I did too—grabbing forms from a bank, filling them out, sitting for exams with no real direction. My father, the sole breadwinner, couldn’t afford to guide me toward professional studies. My family—Mom, Dad, my sister—wanted me close, safe, studying nearby. But I was restless, craving escape, especially as my friends left for their own journeys and I felt left behind.

Then I saw it: a small ad in the corner of a newspaper. The Indian Air Force was recruiting aircraftsmen for a 20-year stint. It wasn’t just a job—it was a lifeline. A like-minded friend and I debated it, argued with those chasing “professional” paths, and convinced ourselves this was our chance. I applied, sent a covering letter, and when the call letter arrived from Bangalore, I was on cloud nine. I bragged to my friends, imagining a career that’d let me explore the world, earn a salary before they did, and secure my future. A close friend in network engineering cautioned me: “Think twice. What if you pass? Will you leave this town? Halt your graduation?” I was already in my first year of a computer science degree—a subject I barely grasped, with Pascal and COBOL flying over my head—but I said, “I’m ready.”

Four of us took the entrance test. Two passed, including me, out of thousands from my district. We were euphoric—top of the world, celebrating like we’d cracked the toughest nut. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t that hard, but for us, it was everything. I chose electronics; my friend took mechanics. I thought I’d made it—salary soon, family supported, a life with my soulmate. She encouraged me, her maturity beyond her years: “Go explore. If you don’t like it, the world’s still here.” That dopamine hit carried me to Bangalore.

Leaving home was a tear-soaked blur. My family saw me off at the bus stand—Mom and my sister crying, Dad and my uncle escorting me. I broke down when they left me at Shivaji Nagar, alone, boarding an Air Force bus to the training campus. A North Indian sergeant greeted us, and we were ushered into a long dormitory. Iron cots with woven plastic ropes became our beds; we were handed uniforms, boots, gloves, plates, and books. The next morning, a stern briefing set the tone.

I bonded with a few Kannada-speaking trainees—guys from HAL, Dharwad, Golla, Anantapur. We shared a language and a creeping doubt: Why are we here? That first night, staring at gifts from my graduation friends in my diary, I missed home. I wondered if I’d made a mistake. A friend, Mrityunjay Singh, warned me: “You’re in a non-civilian world now. Getting out isn’t easy.” Another, from the Kerala regiment, added, “Defence isn’t creative. It’s a machine—you follow orders, that’s it.” Those words hit hard. I’d always been a dreamer, not a cog.

The training was grueling—2½ years of it. I stood guard with a .303 rifle slung over my shoulder, boots polished, posture rigid, watching over officers’ quarters, the stadium, even a burial ground. Sleepless nights toughened me, taught me discipline, but creativity? None. I’d gaze at the moon during night shifts, imagining my soulmate looking at it too—a silent connection across miles. Near our dorm, a railway track ran toward my hometown. I’d sneak out, touch the cold steel rails, and feel closer to my family, my love, my past.

Inside, I faced a different battle: cultural and regional divides. North Indian trainees mocked us non-Hindi speakers, calling us “Kudukudi”—a humiliating jab. The hierarchy ignored our complaints; junior and senior officers turned a blind eye. That discrimination scarred me, clashing with the sensitivity and manners I’d grown up with. It wasn’t everyone, but enough to leave a mark.

A warrant officer noticed my misery. “You don’t belong here,” he said. “Get out before you’re commissioned—it’s harder then.” He gave me advice I can’t share here, but it worked. I quit, mid-training, and returned to civilian life. My family rejoiced, though pressure mounted to settle down. I finished my graduation, stumbled through computer science (finally understanding it), earned a postgraduate diploma, and landed an IT internship. That’s where I am now—far from the Air Force, far from those dreams.

Looking back, the Air Force gave me discipline but stole my freedom. It toughened me but dimmed my spark. The memories linger—old letters, faded pictures, the moonlit nights, the rails I touched like lifelines. The breeze has shifted, the tides have turned, but those moments still pull at my soul. I see them, feel them, and sometimes, they spill out like this.