Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
Morning light in Leh is a soft thing—pale gold filtered through frost, as if the world begins each day half‑asleep. I arrived at the makeshift clinic behind the main medical tent before dawn, my breath pluming in the chill. The marquee read "War Widows' Support Group", though I'd privately renamed it "Voices in the Silence." I'd planned this outreach to coincide with the PTSD workshop, hoping to remind my soldiers that healing extends beyond the battlefield.
Inside, plastic chairs formed two semicircles around a low table strewn with tea, biscuits, and my father's old relics: dog tags, letter fragments, a tarnished locket. Each item was an entry point into grief—a talisman to coax stories into the open.
I straightened the map‑pendant at my throat and glanced at the door. It swung open a moment later, and there he was—Major Shashwat Rajput—his boots crunching on the gravel, eyes trained on me with that same storm‑gray calm I'd come to recognize.
"Major," I said, voice steady. "I wasn't expecting you here."
He offered a small, curt nod. "You asked for family attendance. I brought two."
My heart thudded. Not two family members, but two Army wives—young women in chaddars, clutching prayer beads like lifelines. They stood shyly at the threshold, fear and hope intertwined in their eyes.
"Thank you," I said, stepping aside. "Come in."
He guided them forward. "Lieutenant Joshi and Mrs. Mehta. Both lost their husbands three months ago."
I inclined my head. "Welcome. Please—sit anywhere."
The women slid in beside each other, clasping fingers that trembled like captive sparrows. I took my seat, offering tea—saffron‑tinged, sweet as remembrance. The Mrs. Mehta closed her eyes as she sipped, mouth quivering.
"Thank you," she whispered. "It's been... hard."
I folded my hands. "I know. This group is for sharing what's unspoken. There's no judgment here—only ears."
Lieutenant Joshi cleared her throat. "My name is Sandhya. He—Captain Amit Joshi—died in Kupwara. I... I don't know how to sleep without expecting his voice."
I nodded, watching Shashwat lean against the side‑wall, arms crossed. He didn't speak, but his presence was a reminder: he carried grief, too.
I prompted gently: "Sandhya, when did the silence become your companion?"
She blinked back tears. "The moment the telegram arrived. I woke that night, expecting a knock. Instead... everything was quiet."
Her words hung between us. I turned to the other widow. "Mrs. Mehta?"
She swallowed. "My Ranjit—Sepoy Arjun Mehta's brother—was killed halfway through our marriage. I... I never thought I'd be here, explaining how to live."
Shashwat shifted, as if drawn. He caught my eye for a moment—something like respect flickering.
I took a breath. "Grief changes shape. Sometimes it's a mountain; sometimes it's the echo of a footstep. But you are not alone."
I led them through breathing exercises, grounding techniques—simple tools to steady panic's rise. At one point, I realized Shashwat was kneeling beside Sandhya, turning her trembling hands palm‑up.
"Major?" I whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he guided her through a fingertip‑touch sequence. Light pressure: index to thumb, middle to thumb, ring to thumb, pinky to thumb—then reverse.
I recognized the technique from my training: piezo‑tactile focus. I smiled inwardly. He was applying it instinctively.
When the exercise ended, the wives looked calmer—eyes brighter, shoulders less stooped.
I met Shashwat's gaze. "Thank you. You... learn quickly."
He nodded. "I had good teachers."
He rose and retreated to the back of the tent. I continued the session, weaving in memories—how holding a relic could anchor pain, how writing unsent letters could externalize grief without silencing it.
When the group dispersed, the two women hugging me, I gathered my journals. Outside, Shashwat stood alone.
"Impressive," he said quietly.
I shrugged. "It's borrowed from you, too."
He cocked his head. "From me?"
"Your silence taught me more than any book," I said. "I saw you kneel. I saw you guide her. You've done this before."
He studied me. Then, without preamble, asked: "Will you join me at the ridge tomorrow? I want you to see where he fell."
My breath caught. It was reckless—dangerous—but I sensed his need to show me, to share the terrain of his grief.
"I—yes," I managed. "I'll come."
He gave me a rare, small smile. "Meet at first light. Bring your coat."
Pre‑Dawn, Next Morning
I climbed into the back of the troop carrier, the metal bed cold beneath me. I wrapped my scarf tighter, listening to the engine's rumble and the wind's wail. Around me sat Gurkha soldiers—stoic, alert, a silent guard.
Shashwat climbed in last, padding to my side. He offered a thermos. "Tea?"
I took a sip—smoky, sweet. "Thank you."
He looked ahead, hands folded. "You don't have to watch me climb."
"I want to," I said softly.
He nodded and turned away. The vehicle lurched forward, carrying us toward the high ridges where the air thinned with every meter.
On the Ridge
The world above 14,000 feet is barren and brutal—pocked rock, brittle ice, wind that feels like a rasp against exposed skin. I pressed my boots into the snow, each breath a conscious effort.
Shashwat led me along a narrow ledge, rifle slung across his back. He moved easily, as if the mountain were home. But I felt his tension—every so often he paused, hand on a jagged boulder, head bowed.
Finally, he halted at a weathered cairn of stones—Shash's last camp before the ambush.
He knelt and brushed the snow aside. Beneath lay a half‑buried plaque: "Sepoy Rishi Mehta, 1998–2018." A bullet hole in the metal, weathered by decades.
He sank onto one knee, touching the inscription. "He was six years younger than me. He didn't want any of this—didn't understand why I joined."
I knelt beside him on the icy rock. "What did you tell him?"
He stared at the plaque. "I told him I was doing it for him—for our father's pride. For the coin. For duty."
He closed his eyes. "I failed him."
I placed my hand on his shoulder. "You kept going. You carried him here. That's not failure; that's love."
He opened his eyes—misty, raw. "When I carried his body down the mountain, I thought I was saving his honor. Instead, I saved mine."
He rose, the first tears I'd ever seen him shed glinting in the dawn. "I've come back here every year since. To remind myself what survival costs."
I rose too, brushing snow from my pants. "Then let me help you carry it."
He looked at me, vulnerability and gratitude in equal measure. For a moment, he closed the distance, thumb brushing my cheek. The wind caught us both. I felt the cold fade.
But he pulled back, stepping away as if startled by his own softness.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice thick. "For coming."
"I'll come every year," I said, "if you'll let me."
He nodded. "I'd like that."
We stood in silence, two figures on the edge of the world. Below us, the valley yawned—farms, rivers, tiny villages—life carrying on. Above, the sky burned with sunrise.
And between earth and sky, we found a fragile truce: that grief need not be borne alone.
Return to Base
The descent was quiet but for the crunch of snow beneath our boots. I glanced at Shashwat—strong, scarred, human. He offered me the coin he'd carried in his pocket.
"I want you to have it," he said. "For your clinic. So they know every wound is worth remembering."
I hesitated, then accepted it. The metal was heavy, warm. His gift—his trust.
We walked back together, side by side, footsteps aligned for the first time.
That night, in the mess hall, I sat with DK and Nandini. I showed them the frostbitten coin and the plaque photo from the ridge. They listened, rapt.
"Your work is making a difference," DK said, pride shining in his eyes.
Nandini nudged me. "And you've broken through the Lion's armor."
I smiled, pressing the coin to my lips. "Sometimes, even lions need someone to see their scars."
Across the table, Shashwat caught my eye and gave a small nod. Not a salute. A nod—an acknowledgment.
And in that pause, I knew our paths had entwined beyond professional courtesy. We carried each other's stories now—wounds, scars, and all.