Permission to Grow, Sir?

    You could grow a beard on civvy street. No one would care. In the army, a clean-shaven face isn’t just expected—it’s enforced. The day begins not with the sun, but with the sound of running water and the scrape of a razor. It doesn’t matter if you’ve had three hours of sleep, stood night duty in freezing rain, or are recovering from viral fever—if you can lift a hand, you shave. It’s not vanity. It’s muscle memory. A ritual that prepares you for the uniform, the salute, the responsibility. The moment the razor touches your skin, the civilian is gone. The soldier stands ready.

    And then there are our brothers from the Navy. God bless them. They can keep beards. Real ones. Groomed, shaped, elegant. I once told a naval officer, “You’ve cheated the system, sir. Beard and uniform—too much style in one man.” He smiled, tugged at his magnificent salt-and-pepper beard, and said, “Sea air demands insulation, my friend. And dignity.” I looked at him with real affection. And deep, helpless envy.

But the moment I go on leave, I stop.

    Not dramatically—just gently. I take off the stars, slide my boots under the bed, and drop the razor into a drawer like a prisoner slipping out of handcuffs. A day passes. Then two. A faint stubble emerges, hesitant at first, like it’s unsure of its welcome. I look in the mirror and nod. There you are. 

    My wife notices around day three. “You’re growing a beard again?” she asks, like she’s watching a rerun. “I’m letting it grow,” I reply. “Small difference. Big meaning. She shrugs. She’s seen this many times. She knows it’s not about the beard.

    The next day, my daughter reaches out and runs a finger across my chin. “Papa, your face is scratchy.” I grin. “I know. It’s freedom.” She looks at me, puzzled. Freedom, to her, is no homework on Sunday. One day, she’ll understand that there’s something deeply symbolic about freedom (of not shaving). It’s not laziness—it’s liberty. The kind that doesn’t need a speech or a salute. It’s a small, silent protest against routine. A man reclaiming his face, one prickly inch at a time. And this joy of not shaving becomes so precious that even on a Sunday, if it’s a day off, and if we know we won’t run into the Commandant—we sometimes risk it. We sit in the house, sipping tea, sporting our one-day stubble like a medal. In case we meet someone from the unit, the leave (मैं छुट्टी पर हूं.....) is automatically implied. No one asks us, but everyone notices.

    Still, when leave ends, or Monday arrives, I shave. No grand farewell. Just the razor meeting skin, sweeping away the freedom. The soldier returns. But inside, a part of me still carries that Sunday feeling. The warm defiance. The soft rebellion :)

    And I promise myself, as I rinse the blade and dry my face, that when the next Sunday comes—if the stars align and no duties call—I will let it grow again. Just for a day. Just for me. Because it’s not about the stubble. It’s about a choice. In the army, our days are ruled by structure: wake-up calls, drills, uniforms, salutes, orders. We don’t choose what to wear, when to eat, or even how to walk. And that’s okay—it’s the price we pay for being part of something larger than ourselves, something which makes us better than the rest. Discipline is the spine of the Army. It builds trust, cohesion, and efficiency. It shapes men into teams and transforms intent into action. Without rules, there is chaos—and we soldiers know that better than anyone. And in that rigid world, choice becomes sacred. A choice made not by command but by instinct. Something small. Something silly, perhaps. Like not shaving.

    So when you wake up on leave, or on a quiet Sunday, and your hand reaches for the razor—and then stops—that’s not laziness. That’s liberty. That’s your mind whispering, “Today, I decide.” The beard, the stubble—it’s not beautiful in itself. But it carries the sweetness of stolen freedom. Of breaking a small, invisible fence. It’s a rebellion that harms no one but heals something deep inside you. Like kids hiding chocolates under pillows, we guard that single day of unshaven bliss—not because we need it, but because it’s ours.

    That one-day stubble doesn’t disrespect the Army—it reaffirms our humanity within. It reminds us that beneath the uniform, there’s still a thinking, feeling man. A man who serves with conviction, but also breathes with longing, rests with gratitude, and occasionally looks in the mirror and says, “Today, just for a while, I’ll be me.” These moments don’t weaken discipline—they strengthen resilience. They renew the soldier's mind. They soften the hard edges of service, allowing us to return to our duties not resentfully, but willingly.

    So even if it lasts only a Sunday, even if it vanishes by Monday morning’s inspection, that fleeting taste of freedom matters. Not because it challenges the system—but because it restores the self. And then, razor in hand, we return to the rhythm of the Army. A little lighter. A little more whole. In a world of orders, disobedience (even tiny, harmless ones) reminds you that you’re still human. Still capable of choice. Still your own.

And that, perhaps, is why it feels so nice.