When destiny wears olive greens

Every year, lakhs of young doctors in India lock themselves and struggle in their rooms, frantically competing for a handful of postgraduate seats. I was once one of them. My life was restricted to the peculiar smell of government hospital corridors and the relentless pressure of private practice. However, like all my contemporaries, I thought I was building a career. I didn’t realise then that I was merely going through a ‘graded preparation’.

At the age of seven, I did not idolise superheroes, but my maternal uncle. A war veteran from the 5 Rajput Regiment, he carried the ‘Never retreat, never surrender’ spirit of Operation Pawan in his very stride. He was fit, handsome, and unshakeable. I still get goosebumps when I recollect how immediately after completing his COMMANDOS from Belagavi, he was dropped by chopper into the dense jungles of Sri Lanka. Hence, subconsciously, my fate was sealed in the jungles of Sri Lanka through his stories. I belonged to the Olive Greens; I just didn’t know the route yet.

Destiny, however, took a detour. My academic record pushed me towards pursuing medicine as a practical choice. After completing my MBBS, I spent years sharpening my clinical instincts in high-pressure wards, thinking my childhood dream had faded into a beautiful memory.

Sensing the visible though silent love for the uniform that I had suppressed under layers of medical textbooks, my father did what I hadn’t: he filled out my Short Service Commission form without me knowing the ABC of the procedure. When that call letter arrived three months later, it wasn’t just a career change. It was a seismic shift. On the day I first wore my uniform, the stethoscope around my neck felt different. Medicine was no longer just a profession; it became a commitment to lead and heal where certainty is a luxury and clarity under chaos is a norm.

This reality hit home during a winter night in Jammu & Kashmir. A severely injured soldier was brought into our remote unit. The weather had shut the doors to the world; evacuation was impossible. In that moment, medicine got stripped of its hospital luxuries and reduced to its essence: judgment, composure, and the heavy weight of a unit’s trust. When that soldier was finally stabilised, I realised that a military doctor doesn’t just treat a patient, he is also responsible for the morale of the unit.

To the young doctors exhausted by the NEET-PG cycle, I say this: do not overlook the Armed Forces Medical Services (AFMS). It is a common misconception that the uniform limits your growth. In reality, the system offers specialisation and leadership opportunities that rival any civilian path. But more than that, it offers purpose. Burnout is the usual outcome of modern medicine, but ‘service’ is the cure. My years in the ward were necessary; they gave me the skills. But the uniform gave those skills a soul.