Code name: Ishq

The small garden behind the base's administrative building had become an impromptu gathering spot, string lights borrowed from the mess hall casting a warm glow over mismatched chairs and a few logs arranged around a makeshift fire pit. Captain Arjun Sharma sat cross-legged on the ground, dramatically unwrapping a samosa with the reverence of a religious ritual.

"And this," he announced to the gathered group, "is how a real soldier handles street food." He took an enormous bite, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction while maintaining perfect eye contact with Captain Vikram Singh, who sat slumped in a plastic chair looking thoroughly miserable.

Captain Rohan Nair pulled out his own samosa, inspecting it with mock scientific precision. "Notice the golden-brown exterior, the perfectly spiced potato filling. No suspicious green bits, no questionable meat of unknown origin." Another pointed look at Vikram. "This is what happens when you don't eat from vendors whose hygiene certificates are written in crayon."

"I get it," Vikram muttered, nursing his third glass of water. "You've both made your point very clearly."

"Have we though?" Arjun wondered aloud, wiping his fingers on a napkin. "Because I distinctly remember someone saying, and I quote, 'What's the worst that could happen? It's just a samosa.'"

Dr. Aditya Kapoor nearly choked on his beer. "He actually said that? Those exact words?"

"Those exact words," Rohan confirmed solemnly. "Followed immediately by consuming what can only be described as a biological weapon disguised as street food."

Dr. Yamini Singh looked up from where she was attempting to prevent Princess Buttercup from investigating everyone's plates. "Wait, stop bothering him you two, he's learned his lesson."

"Oh no, retelling the lesson is important," Arjun said, his grin widening. "There we were, maintaining radio silence for a critical surveillance operation, when suddenly we hear this pitiful groan from Vikram's position."

"It wasn't that dramatic," Vikram protested weakly.

"Wasn't dramatic?" Rohan's eyebrows shot up. "You literally radioed in saying, 'Falcon to Base, requesting immediate medical consultation. Situation critical. Repeat, situation critical.'"

Dr. Neha Patel, who had returned from her cousin's wedding in Delhi just that morning, looked fascinated. "What did you think was wrong with him?"

"We thought he'd been shot," Arjun said, shaking his head. "Or poisoned by enemy agents. The way he was moaning and carrying on, we were preparing for chemical warfare protocols."

Major Mayank Kashyap, seated slightly apart from the group, allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. "The situation report was... colorful."

"Colorful is one word for it," Rohan agreed. "Another word would be 'catastrophic.' We had to abort a twelve-hour surveillance operation because our communications specialist was having intimate conversations with the nearest tree."

"Alright, alright," Vikram said, waving his hand in defeat. "I've learned my lesson. No more street food during operations. Can we please talk about something else?"

"Oh, but we're just getting to the best part," Rohan said, clearly enjoying this. "What happened when you got back to base?"

Arjun's expression turned theatrical. "Three days of khichdi. Doctor's orders. Nothing but bland, boring khichdi because his poor stomach couldn't handle anything more adventurous than rice and lentils."

Vikram groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Three days of culinary torture. Do you know how much I hate khichdi? It's like eating liquid cardboard. It has no flavor, no texture, no soul. It's the most depressing food known to mankind."