Outside, The rain poured relentlessly that night as Arjun sat in his quiet study, the faint hum of a ceiling fan blending with the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against the windowpane. He stared at a photograph on his desk—his younger self in uniform, surrounded by his comrades, his brothers in arms, their faces somewhat a mix of pride and joy. The memories of army were never far from his mind, but tonight, they felt closer, the past reaching out like an old ghost refusing to rest.
Arjun leaned back in his chair, the creak of the wood breaking the silence. His mind wandered to the events that had brought him here, to this quieter life. He had been just 29 when he returned from the war, a young, decorated Army officer with gallantry awards pinned to his chest . The ceremonial dinner was grand, with applause and cheers that would echo in his ears long after they stop. Amongst the crowd of dignitaries was the then-Defence Minister, Mr. Kalyan Rawat, a man whose sharp, calculating eyes seemed to see through the bravado of the uniform.
"Major Mishra," he exclaimed , his voice steady and commanding, "Men like you are rare, and it is in your honor that we are holding this. If you do not enjoy it, there is no need for us to feed these thankless bureaucrats and politicians." A subtle smile escaped his weathered but charismatic face.
"The Dinner is exquisite, sir," Arjun replied, artfully zealous but his voice tinged with exhaustion. "It's just that...I miss a few men who'd have loved it here , sir."
Rawat's expression softened momentarily, but his tone remained firm. "Tonight, the country thanks you and your men for your gallant acts, Major. But tomorrow, they will all once again be taken in by cricket and Bollywood. I must admit this , albeit shamefully but That is the very nature of our people. They have very short memories. And It is our duty to protect them, to bear the weight of their indifference. Whatever the cost, money , morals, dignity...lives, yours or mine—they does not matter in the larger scheme of things. We have lost great men, and we will keep losing them...And all of this to protect the many who can then point their fingers at us."
Arjun stood silent, the weight of Rawat's words pressing down on him.
"Enough said. You are an able officer, Arjun," Rawat continued, his voice lowering. "I need your assistance. Meet me at the Raksha Mantralaya tomorrow."
Before Arjun could respond, the minister patted his shoulder and turned away to greet another officer. The echoes of his words lingered in Arjun's mind, sparking a restless sense of foreboding.
The next day, dressed in civilian clothes, Arjun walked into the sprawling building of the Raksha Mantralaya. Rawat was waiting for him in his private chambers, flanked by two men who radiated an air of authority.
"Major Mishra," Rawat began without preamble, "this is the National Strategic Reconnaissance Division (NSRD), a covert arm of our national security apparatus. This unit...however exists beyond the very curtains of the stage our other units perform on. They handle operations that don't make headlines but keep the country safe. And I, want you to be a part of it."
Arjun's brow furrowed. "Sir, I'm not sure I follow. With all due respect , My skills lie in the field, not in espionage."
Rawat leaned forward, his gaze piercing, His voice, though still the same, suddenly had an extraordinary depth to it- "This...isn't about espionage. It's about tactical precision, able leadership, and swift decision making...all of it under tremendous pressure, National and international alike."
"These however" he continued "are qualities you've demonstrated time and time again. You'll be leading covert operations, saving lives before anyone even knows they're in danger."
Arjun hesitated, his mind flashing back to the battlefield—the chaos, the blood, the lifeless eyes of his fallen Brethren. "Sir, I've seen what this duty demands. I've seen and lived the sacrifices, sir. I do not know if I am ready to carry that weight again."
Rawat's expression hardened, but his voice remained calm. "The weight of this responsibility is heavy, Major, but it is not yours alone to bear. We are soldiers, bound by duty, not by comforts and pleasures. This isn't about what you're ready for; it's about what the nation commands. And the nation commands that you serve her." He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing.
"Your first mission will be in Pakistan," Rawat stated bluntly, looking outside his office window which overlooked a massive garden. "The details are classified, but I'll say this—it requires someone with your skill set and resilience. You'll operate under the guise of a businessman, infiltrating high-value targets and neutralizing threats. Our intelligence suggests a major terror outbreak.Very soon. You'll need to dismantle it before it reaches our Motherland."
Arjun felt a chill run down his spine. "And if I refuse, sir?"
Rawat leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk on his face. "Refusal is not on the table, Major. You've already proven you're capable of extraordinary things." He paused for a brief moment— " The motherland demands your commitment , son."
Arjun exhaled deeply, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He nodded slowly. "When do I begin?"
"Immediately," Rawat said, his tone final. "You'll be briefed by Shukla Ji and his NSRD team tomorrow. Dismissed." He commanded, turning his gaze towards the window again.
"Sir."
Arjun saluted sharply, turning on his heel and leaving the room. As he walked out of the ministry, his mind was a whirlwind of emotions—dread, determination, and a faint sliver of hope that he might prevent another tragedy.
The mission was unlike any Arjun had undertaken before. Intelligence reports painted a grim picture—a major terrorist infiltration planned with the help of non-state actors in Pakistan and facilitated by several influential businessmen , rogue elements from the army and politicians from across the border and beyond.
It was a delicate dance of deception and destruction. Arjun infiltrated Pakistan under the guise of a suave, affluent businessman, Yousuf Ahmed-an identity meticulously crafted by the National Strategic Reconnaissance Division (NSRD). Over the course of several months, Arjun had dismantled key elements of the Terror network, eliminating crucial personnel and feeding critical intelligence back to New Delhi.
His meticulous work uncovered alarming details: one of the operatives had managed to cross the Line of Control and infiltrate Kashmir. However, due to lack of key information and laid back attitude of on ground officials back in his homeland, The man could not be caught in time.
He had loaded several hundreds of kilograms of dynamite into a small sedan and parked it right in the midst of The Bada Bazaar, a market near the army cantonment area in jammu. When the worst happened several dozens of innocent lives , civil and military alike were lost. This sent shockwaves throughout the nation. With elections just months away and the Prime Minister ailing, the Cabinet and military top brass together ,convened an emergency meeting. A surgical strike was unanimously deemed the only acceptable response.
The operational logistics and on-ground support were entrusted to Arjun, now a seasoned operative of the National Strategic Reconnaissance Division (NSRD). His network in Pakistan became the backbone of the mission. A local family of a man namely Mukhtaar Ahmed, had become trusted assets of his, playing a critical role. Mukhtaar was trusted in the locality. While his wife, a seamstress, would overhear the talk through the town and make aware Arjun of the same. Mukhtaar's intimate knowledge of the terrain and militant networks proved invaluable, which would help coordinate strikes and ensure minimal collateral damage.
Only a week remained till the Action day, The amber glow of the metal bucket warmed the small room as the icy January winds howled outside. Mukhtaar's family sat huddled together, sharing dinner. Laughter filled the air, the kind that made the cold and the looming tensions of the Action day seem less biting. The younger daughter, barely four, was bouncing with excitement, her tiny hands clutching a half-eaten piece of roti.
"Yousuf Chachu!" she piped up, her eyes twinkling, "Do... you knoooow...it's my birthday in....umm...two days?" she said showing 3 fingers, although quickly realising her mistake and tucking one back. "2 days!" Sge said, this time showing precisely 2 fingers.
"Of course, meri jaan," Arjun replied, pulling her close. "How could I forget? What does our princess want for her birthday?"
The little girl giggled, whispering something inaudible into his ear. He smiled, nodding with exaggerated seriousness, "Done. You'll get it."
Saira, Mukhtaar's wife, watched the exchange fondly. "Yousuf bhai, aapka janmdin kab hai?" [Brother Yousuf, When's your birthday?] she asked, her tone light and teasing.
"April mein" [In april], Arjun replied, taking a bite of his food.
"Accha, April mein kab?" [Oh, When In April?]
"13," he said with a smile.
Their older son, Shehzaad, 9, narrowed his eyes playfully. "Aap Sach bol rahe ho Yousuf chachu?" [You aren't lying...Right Uncle Yousuf?]
"Haan, bilkul sach bol rahe hain Yousuf Chachu." [Yes, Indeed Uncle Yousuf isn't lying] Mukhtaar's wife said with a sheepish smile.
"Accha tujhe kaise pata?" [And How'd you know that?] Mukhtaar asked jokingly and dismissively.
Her lips curled into a knowing grin. "Mujhe pata chal jaata hai. Ankhon se sab pata chal jata hai." [I know. Eyes can't lie.]
Mukhtaar burst out laughing. "Sunlo inki baatein." [She's the one to talk.]
The room erupted into laughter, the moment so ordinary yet so precious. For a brief time, it was as though the world outside didn't exist.
A week passed in the bat of an eye... And The strike had now begun with utmost precision. In the span of a few hours, three of the four terrorist camps were neutralized. Highly trained Commandos moved with surgical efficiency, their actions guided by intelligence provided by Arjun and Mukhtaar. However, at the fourth camp, things spiraled out of control.
As the commandos moved in, a sudden burst of gunfire erupted. Amidst the chaos, Mukhtaar asked Arjun to duck and move from the west, where the high terrain game them an advantageous position. As they were moving out however, Mukhtaar was caught in the crossfire. Arjun, stationed nearby, heard the chilling crack of a sniper rifle. He turned just in time to see Mukhtaar collapse, blood pooling beneath him.
"Mukhtaar!" Arjun's voice broke through the comms, raw with anguish. He raced to his fallen comrade, but Mukhtaar's lifeless eyes stared back, unseeing. The loss hit him like a tidal wave, but the mission still wasn't over. Suppressing his grief, he directed the team to neutralize the remaining threats.
3 Hours later—
Upon successful completion of the operation, Arjun asked them to leave the now lifeless mukhtaar to him. He planned to take his body back home and bury him in the presence of his family.
He, however was soon made aware of the worst. In the aftermath, as the base was destroyed, Arjun realized the operation had come at a personal cost. During the firefight, a critical piece of his cover had been compromised—a stray document containing his forged identity was recovered by enemy forces. Where he ate, where he'd stayed , what he'd bought, whome had he talked to...all of it was compiled but they probably had had no time to act on the information. News of "Indian infiltration" began circulating in the local media before the operation was even complete.
Back in New Delhi, the Prime Minister, the Defence Minister, The high cabinet ministers and military top brass monitored the mission in real-time from the Operations Room. When the final report came through, the mood was somber yet triumphant.
"How many casualties?" the Prime Minister asked, his voice steady despite his frailty.
"Zero Indian casualties, sir," came the reply. "But… we have lost one on-ground reconnaissance operative in Pakistan."
A heavy silence filled the room for a brief moment. The loss of a life weighed on them all. After a moment, the Prime Minister straightened in his chair.
"Order our men to cross back," he commanded, his tone more resolute. "Let the world know we strike only in defense, never in anger. And let this be a message to those who dare harm our people—India will never forget. We pay all our debts."