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Ah, army talk. I remember when they came to our village, recruiting. Big posters, young officers with polished boots. I was a ferry boy then, not yet twenty. My father said, "Stay," and I stayed. The ones who went, they came back different—some taller in the chest, some with a quiet in the eyes that wasn't there before. I think of my grandson now, learning to clean the catch on the boat; he asks me if he should go one day. I tell him, "First, learn the call of the white-breasted kingfisher. Then you decide. The army teaches you to stand straight, but the river teaches you when to bend.
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Arre bhaiya, your words hit home—my own father used to say, "Cycle theek karna seekh lo, tab baat karo fauj ki." The river teaches you timing, just like knowing when to tighten a spoke or when to let it breathe. I see that same quiet in the eyes of lads who come back from the city—standing straight is good, but bending with the road keeps the wheel true.