soldiers are part of the scenery in J-K. Patrolling the road with mine-sweepers and plump sniffer dogs, gun at the ready, taking position in orchards, or just marching.

It’s on the highway that we meet a swarthy CRPF man from Nanded. Rain beating on his head, he’s a forlorn figure despite the gun. It’s just the beginning of his 12-and-half hour duty on the road. ‘‘We are eight jawans led by a havaldar on a stretch of one km,’’ he says. Their job: to keep militants at bay.

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‘‘It’s a nerve-racking exercise, we’ve to be constantly alert,’’ says this veteran of Manipur and Assam anti-insurgency duties. Ask him if militancy is on the wane, and he snaps: ‘‘Only the government seems to think so. Two days ago, one man sprayed bullets on us from a car, do you think that’s normal?’’

It’s not. Nor is his accommodation. His longish barrack with tin sheets squeezes in 40 persons. The less said the better about the two toilets. Food alone is the saving grace. ‘‘But there is no meat on Tuesdays or Fridays (Jumma). We’re very religious here,’’ he lets a smile peep through.

Another constable from Burdwan in West Bengal who’s come by to check our I-cards, says what rankles the most is lack of communication with their families. ‘‘There is no PCO in our camp and we run the risk of dismissal if we’re found using one in civilian area.’’ So they rely on snail mail which never seems to reach. ‘‘Even the drafts we send home are sometimes filched on the way.’’

Mention polls, and he tells you they are conducted by the Rashtriya Rifles. ‘‘That’s what their havaldar said.’’ It’s not something that the RR men, more guarded in their response than their CRPF counterparts, tell you. ‘‘Well, it’s our duty to get people out of their houses to vote,’’ offers a young RR jawan from Jagraon in Punjab. He’s part of a road opening party, frisking the countryside for mines. ‘‘It’s better than being on a cordon and search operation, or in an ambush which can last 48 hours,’’ he frowns.

His first ambush was terrible. ‘‘We lay motionless in the freezing forest for four hours. And then suddenly there was a sound and my buddy (they move in pairs) shouted Kaun hai? After that, there was firing from all sides.’’ When it stopped, he touched his buddy’s face and felt something sticky. It was blood. ‘‘It took us five hours to take him to the roadhead, but luckily he survived.’’

But no jawan worth his salt banks on luck. ‘‘We never drop our guard,’’ says a thickset havaldar from Rajasthan. ‘‘We search every man who enters our camp no matter how many times he’s visited us. We don’t let any burqa-clad pass by, it could be a militant.’’ And at night, they switch off the camp genset, for it leaves them open to rocket attacks.

Watching their back is their second nature. ‘‘There is no other way to survive, everybody here hates us,’’ he shrugs.

For entertainment, they have a VCD but the frequency of viewing depends on the company commander. Which is why they’ve also kept some dogs, ducks and cats in the camp. ‘‘It’s quite a menagerie,’’ he grins. ‘‘Besides, the dogs act as another line of defence.’’ But they can also be a cause for heartbreak. Kaloo, their gaddi dog, recently died in a crossfire when they were conducting a cordon and search operation.

‘‘I couldn’t eat that day,’’ says the havaldar. But he did remain on guard.