In the heart of Jalpaiguri’s Dakshin Berubari, nestled near the Indo-Bangladesh border in north Bengal, lives a man with memories stitched together by shrapnel and sirens. Sardaprasad Das, now 70, may seem like any other retiree—but behind his wrinkled eyes lies the steely resolve of a child soldier of circumstance.

He was just in eighth grade when the 1971 Indo-Pak war exploded mere kilometres from his home. Back then, the young Sardaprasad was hauling ammunition on his shoulders with friends, helping Indian soldiers and freedom fighters fighting to liberate Bangladesh. He built a bunker from a drained pond and when shelling began, he’d dive in, hoping the earth above him held firm.

Today, as tensions again stir along the border under the shadow of Operation Sindoor, Sardaprasad is ready to take to the field once more—not out of romanticism, but out of duty. “War isn’t glory. It’s blood, hunger and the scream of the innocent,” he says quietly, his voice worn but unwavering.

Sardaprasad grew up where history didn’t knock—it broke down doors. His village was a front-row seat to both the 1965 and 1971 wars. In December of ‘71, the flames of conflict reached Chiladanga, just five kilometres from his home in Naljoa Para. The Indian Army and BSF stationed at the Binnaguri Army Camp played pivotal roles in aiding Mukti Bahini fighters and ordinary villagers like Sardaprasad became part of the war machine.

“We weren’t soldiers, but we carried shells on our backs—from Manikganj to Singh Road, Kairi Hatkhola, Jadarbhanga, Bara Shashi,” he recalls, naming the war-torn landscape like faded postcards from a time he cannot forget.

His school teacher, Sudhanshu Majumdar, a revered freedom fighter and torchbearer of the Berubari movement, had planted the seeds of nationalism early. He taught history with the fire of Netaji’s dream in his voice. That classroom was no less than a war room. Inspired, Sardaprasad and his classmates, like Nazir Hussain Haque and Bidhan Roy, chose to carry not just books—but bullets.

Yesterday’s volunteer, today’s sentinel

Today, Sardaprasad serves as the joint secretary of the Indo-Bangladesh Border Defense Committee, still watching the frontier with vigilance. After the grisly killings by Pakistani militants in Pahalgam, the spectre of war looms once more. And even now, he’s willing to shoulder a rifle, if the call comes.
“I may be old, but my spine hasn’t bent before aggression,” he says with a grin that hides grief.

Yet, for all his readiness, he is no warmonger. A card-carrying member of the Forward Bloc, Sardaprasad voices unwavering support for the government’s crackdown on extremism, but draws a sharp line at war itself.

“I support Operation Sindoor. But war… war should always be the last resort. Convince the radicals. Solve it at the table, not in trenches,” he opined.

Sardaprasad has seen the true toll of conflict. He’s seen families torn apart, villages emptied overnight, and refugees flood across borders with only memory and misery in their arms. He remembers when people abandoned homes to the flames, when death arrived not with flags, but with silence.

His voice cracks slightly when he says, “We want the fundamentalists to stop. Not with bombs, but with understanding. The sword may silence, but it never solves.”

At 70, Sardaprasad is more than a relic of past wars. He is a living testament to resilience, a quiet patriot who knows that sometimes the bravest thing isn’t to fight—but to hope for peace.

And in this brittle borderland between memory and threat, Sardaprasad Das stands firm: a sentinel of history, a soldier of conscience.