A rough translation of the soldier’s song: Politicians don’t seem to care two hoots about youths who are in military. They go to sleep after wishing good night, we celebrate Diwali on borders. When Delhi and Mumbai are fast asleep, we ready ourselves to move towards trenches. We don’t care for salad and fried foods, whatever we get cooked in our community-kitchen, satisfies us. While you eat your dinner at Taj, we get only pickle on our roti. When we broad-chested soldiers stand in trenches, no one can dare to cross the border. An AK 47 on our shoulder feels like paternal blessing. It has been ten months now, I am not getting days off, all the tears have fallen from her eyes. One who is married to us, she feels neither married nor unmarried.