Kavya's POV
The air in the Leh community hall was warmer than the open courtyard, yet it felt suffocating—as if the ghosts of every scrutiny ever cast on a soldier's face lingered inside. I tucked my notes into the pocket of my fleece jacket and scanned the room. Twenty chairs arranged in a semi‑circle, a whiteboard scuffed at the edges, and a single window overlooking the snow‑dusted mountains. I reminded myself: these men had seen death up close. My civilian theories, delivered in neat PowerPoint slides, might not impress them—but they needed help just the same.
I tapped the microphone. "Good morning, everyone. I'm Dr. Kavya Malhotra, and today we'll talk about recognizing—and surviving—the silent wounds of war." My voice echoed once, twice, then faded under the weight of expectant stares.
A few soldiers shifted in their seats. Most wore standard-issue khaki, but a handful had scarves wrapped absurdly tight around their necks, like shields against vulnerability. I caught sight of a tall man in the back row—broad shoulders, frost‑scarred cheekbones, eyes cold as the standoff I'd felt when I first encountered him in that mess hall. He didn't look at me, but I knew it was Major Shashwat Rajput.
I inhaled deeply. "We'll start with a simple exercise. On the sheet in front of you is a single prompt: 'I fear...' Finish that sentence. Be honest. There are no wrong answers."
A hush fell. Pens hovered, then scratched. I drifted from soldier to soldier—Sepoy Arjun Mehta's hands trembling, Captain Roy's practiced flourish, Lieutenant Sharma's downturned gaze. When I reached Shashwat, he was staring at the ceiling as if the prompt above his head might read itself aloud.
I waited. His jaw clenched. Then, in precise block letters: "I fear forgetting him."
My heart skewered. I wanted to ask who "him" was, but protocol demanded I move on. Instead, I continued my rounds, demonstrating grounding techniques, deep‑breathing drills. Each time I turned, I saw Shashwat watching—silent, measured, inscrutable. But his presence gave gravity to the room. Even the most cynical COs leaned forward when he did.
Twenty minutes later, I invited them to share. Captain Khanna was first—his voice tight. "I fear that one day I'll wake up and not remember the face of the boy I lost." He flicked his gaze to me, vulnerability raw. "I survived. He didn't."
I nodded. "Survivor's guilt is common. It can convince you that memory is both a torture and a betrayal. But your memories honor them—they keep their stories alive."
Lieutenant Sharma spoke next. The recollection was clinical, detached—perhaps a shield. But when Sepoy Arjun Mehta finally whispered, "I fear that my nightmares will become reality again," the room shifted. He was clutching his dog tags like a lifeline, eyes haunted by something no one wanted to name.
Then came the moment I'd been dreading and hoping for in equal measure: Shashwat rose. His stature filled the aisle. My pulse thudded so loudly I feared he might hear it.
He approached the whiteboard. "I fear weakness," he said, voice low but unsteady. "I fear that acknowledging fear will make me a liability." He turned to face us: "I'm Major Rajput. I'm not here to expose wounds. I'm here to learn how to close them."
Silence stretched—so taut I could hear the blood in my ears. Then, as if on cue, the first snowflake drifted against the windowpane. A single, dancing white speck that shattered the tension and reminded me of the world beyond this room.
I swallowed. "Major, closing wounds doesn't mean burying them. It means cleaning them, tending them, and allowing them to heal." I raised my hands, palms outward. "Vulnerability isn't liability—it's authenticity. When you acknowledge pain, you regain control over it."
He studied me. His storm‑gray eyes flickered with something unreadable—anger, fear, curiosity. Then he turned back to the board and erased his sentence, replacing it with a new one in tight script: "I choose survival."
A murmur of approval rippled. I exhaled, relief flooding me. This was the breakthrough I'd trained for.
Later, in the Quiet of the Mess Hall
The workshop had ended. Chairs stacked, half‑empty tea cups scattered, the whiteboard now a tapestry of admission and resolve. I gathered my notes as soldiers trickled out. When I reached the door, I heard his voice.
"Dr. Malhotra?"
I paused. He stood alone under the window, framed by drifting snow. He held out a torn napkin.
"Found this in the trash after the break," he said, voice low. "One of yours?" On it, I'd sketched a diagram of the 'fight‑flight‑freeze cycle' in too‑neat circles.
I accepted it. "I always leave my work around."
He hesitated, then said, "It helped. Better than I expected."
I blinked. "I'm glad."
He tucked the napkin into his pocket. Then, without preamble, he asked, "Do you ever get tired of fixing broken things?"
I studied him. "Sometimes. But broken things remind us what matters."
He met my gaze. Something in his eyes softened—a crack in his armor. "And what matters to you, Dr. Malhotra?"
My pulse flickered. "Helping people live with their scars."
He nodded. "Even when the scars belong to someone else?"
I touched my map pendant. "Especially then."
He turned and walked away, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow echo. I stood for a moment, chest tight, sensing that this was more than professional gratitude—this was the ember of a bond that neither of us fully understood yet.
That Night, Outside the Base Perimeter
The snow had begun in earnest—thick flakes swirling in the sodium‑lit dusk. I wrapped my shawl tighter, breaths visible in the cold. The stars were hidden; the sky a milky void. I perched on a crate beside the barbed wire fence, notebook in hand.
I sketched a quick line: Major Rajput—emotional index: guarded, reflexive, latent empathy. Beneath that, I scrawled: Story to watch. Then I paused, pen hovering over the page.
I sensed footsteps. He appeared beside me, boots crunching in the fresh layer. He didn't speak. Didn't sit. Just stood, hands in pockets, gazing at mine.
"Why are you here?" I asked softly.
He shrugged. "Because I didn't want this day to end."
I closed my notebook. "We all have reasons," I said.
He exhaled a mist. "Mine used to be the mission. Now..." He glanced at his dog tags. "...now I'm not sure."
I swallowed. "It's okay to not be sure."
He gave me a fleeting smile. "That might be the scariest part."
I nodded. "Uncertainty can be the birthplace of change."
He looked at me then—really looked—and the world narrowed. The space between us crackled, filled with questions neither dared speak.
Finally, he turned away. "Good night, Dr. Malhotra."
"Good night, Major Rajput."
His retreating form blurred in the drifting snow. I sat a while longer, listening to nothing and everything: wind, white silence, the memory of his voice.
Next Morning, Inside the Medical Tent
I awoke to the clang of the mess hall gong. Today was the last day of the workshop. I poured coffee into my thermos and headed to the front lines of my temporary clinic—three cots, a heater, and a stack of pillows.
Soldiers streamed in. Some lit into me with questions; others waited for the earliest possible exit. I moved between them, guiding breathing, validating pain, teaching grounding.
Mid‑morning, I saw Major Rajput enter, flanked only by a medic. He looked... different. Less guarded. His shoulders still squared, but his eyes—they searched.
He approached my cot. "I need a session," he said.
My heart thudded. I gestured to a chair. "Of course."
He sat, eyes on his hands folded in his lap.
"I haven't written anything down," he said.
"That's okay," I replied. "Tell me why you came."
He exhaled. "Because I tried the breathing exercises last night. And... I didn't hate it."
I offered a small smile. "That's progress."
He sank back in the chair. "I keep dreaming of Rishi. Of him laughing when I saved him, and then... then the bullet." His voice caught. "I keep hearing his laughter in nightmares, and I can't stop it."
I leaned forward. "Tell me about the laughter."
He closed his eyes. "It was him, cracking jokes about the taste of MREs. He said my cooking made even cardboard taste like gold. And then—bang. Silence." He opened his eyes, tears glinting. "I couldn't save him. And now I can't save myself."
I placed a hand over his. "Major, you can't undo the past. But you can learn to live with it. Every breath you take now is a victory."
He stared at our clasped hands, vulnerability raw. Then he nodded, once. "Teach me."
We talked for an hour. I guided him through the cognitive reframing of guilt, we practiced bilateral stimulation for intrusive memories, and I listened as he whispered fragments of brotherly banter and remorse. When he left, he paused at the door.
"Thank you," he said simply.
I nodded. "I'm here whenever you need."
He disappeared into the white‑washed corridor.
By Late Afternoon, Workshop Conclusion
I stood before the soldiers, who now looked... human. Some nodded; some even smiled. The same Major Rajput sat in the front row, pen poised over his workbook. I realized then that healing wasn't a plateau but a path—one we walked step by trembling step.
As the final session closed, he approached once more. "Can I walk you back?" he asked.
I closed my bag. "Sure."
We stepped into the courtyard where the first snowflakes of morning still clung to the earth. We walked side by side, boots crunching through slush.
He stopped beneath the same window where our conversation had begun. He turned to me, breath shallow. "I'm glad you came."
I looked up at him, snowflakes melting on his brow. "Me too."
He met my gaze. "Maybe next time, we won't need a workshop to talk."
I smiled softly. "I'd like that."
He nodded, and without another word, he walked away—leaning into the wind, uncradled by medal or rank, just a man learning to be human again.
I watched him go, heart fluttering like fresh snow, knowing that some meetings turn the course of rivers—and this one would change both of us forever.