Kavya's First‑Person POV
The fire in the mess hall was more ritual than warmth. Ashes glowed orange in the hearth, and the smoke curled toward the ventilator like a silent prayer. Outside, the Siachen wind battered the corrugated roof, rattling shutters and carrying flecks of ice that seeped through every crack. Inside, it was an island of heat and humanity—officers loosening their tunic collars, sharing jokes that drifted as white smoke into the rafters.
I sat at the long table, not as a guest but as part of the ritual—my chair pressed against the polished wood, my teacup warming my palms. Around me were Colonel Rajput, glowering over his single malt; Captain Khanna, still a hint of sorrow in his quiet gaze; a scattering of lieutenants comparing frostbite scars; and, at the far end, Major Shashwat Rajput.
He hadn't been assigned to the mess this evening, but he'd appeared as if summoned by the fire's glow. The uniform hung on him now without the armor of ceremony—jacket unbuttoned, scarf loosened, sleeves rolled to reveal lean forearms taut with muscle and memory. His frostbite scars stood out, pale against the olive green, but tonight they seemed less like wounds and more like landscapes—valleys carved by wind and time.
I took a breath, reminding myself this was a social call, not a therapy session. But under the din of clinking plates and low conversation, I felt the invisible gravity between us—an unspoken conversation that spoke louder than any clinical term.
He caught my eye. The corners of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. He raised his teacup in acknowledgment, then leaned back in his chair. I returned the nod.
A silence stretched.
Then Colonel Rajput slammed his glass down. "You two look like you're plotting mutiny," he barked, voice echoing off the tin walls.
Heads snapped around. I startled, nearly spilling my tea.
Khanna cleared his throat and said, "Father, I believe Dr. Malhotra is teaching your son diplomacy."
Rajput Senior snorted. "Diplomacy," he muttered. "He doesn't know the meaning of the word."
Shashwat's expression remained unreadable. "With respect, sir, diplomacy is about compromise. And sometimes, that's the best way to win without firing a shot."
Colonel Rajput's sour frown deepened. He was the stoic warrior—arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "You're not here to campaign for Congress, Major. You're here to serve."
"I serve those who need me," Shashwat said softly. "Tonight, that includes Dr. Malhotra."
He looked at me then, and in that glance, I felt both invited and warned. The Colonel turned away, dismissing him with a wave of a trembling hand. Conversation resumed—a murmur of toasts, laughter forced bright as sparks.
I found myself seated beside Shashwat, the Colonel's thunderous presence even then felt behind us.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've been busy tonight," I said quietly.
He lifted an eyebrow. "It's called networking."
I smiled. "You're not so fond of it in uniform."
He let out a humorless chuckle. "I don't need to network. I need to be seen."
"And what would you be without the uniform?" I pressed, voice low.
His eyes flickered. Barely. "A man. A man who scares himself with his own reflection."
I studied him in the firelight. The familiar tension in his shoulders had eased—just a fraction—but it was enough. I reached out, steadying my teacup on the table. "You've been teaching me more than I've taught you."
He looked at me. Really looked. "You see through the uniform."
I nodded. "I see the man who broke down beside me in the radio room. The man who sketched mountains bending in his notebook. The man who cried when he thought no one was watching."
He swallowed. "You weren't supposed to see me like that."
"Why not?" I asked.
He turned away, gaze tracing the rafters. For a moment, the mess hall's chatter dimmed. He spoke, voice so quiet I nearly missed it: "Because that man is supposed to stay buried."
"Not anymore," I said firmly.
We sat in silence, the fire crackling between us, until Khanna's voice cut through.
"My spies report that Dr. Malhotra here has a new theory on combat group cohesion," he said, raising his glass in my direction. "Perhaps you'd like to enlighten our good colonel?"
All eyes shifted to me. I stood, heart pounding. "Sir, I believe that trust is built not just on the promise of duty, but on the acknowledgment of vulnerability. A unit functions best when its members know that their weaknesses will be met with support, not judgment."
Colonel Rajput snorted again. "Touchy-feely nonsense."
I met his glare. "Sir, have you ever tried telling a soldier to 'just be tough' when he's collapsed in the trenches? Words matter. How we speak to the wounded—even to ourselves—shapes recovery."
A lieutenant next to me murmured agreement. The Colonel's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Shashwat slid his chair forward, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder.
Khanna cleared his throat. "On that happy note, how about more food?"
Laughter rumbled. Bowls passed, plates clattered. Conversation spun away from clinical theories back to anecdotes of training drills and frostbite cures.
I sank back into my seat, Shashwat's hand still warm on my shoulder. Around us—armor, adrenaline, medals—I felt the soft thread of connection tying us together.
Later that Evening – Officer's Quarters
The mess hall's gaiety had worn thin. I returned to my quarters with my jacket caught on the doorframe and my mind replaying every glance, every word. I flicked on the single lamp—its pool of light too stark against the shadows—and slid into the chair beside my desk.
The journal lay open in the center of the desk, inviting and foreboding. I hesitated, then flipped to the page I'd marked:
"Every uniform is a mask. I carry mine with pride, but it hides everything I dare not feel."
That line had been scribbled in fading pencil—uncertain, jagged, almost as though he'd written it in a moment between breaths.
I pressed my palm to the paper. The words shimmered. I closed the journal and set it aside. There would be time later—time for letters, for poems, for confessions.
Tonight, I needed sleep.
I unbuttoned my boots, peeled off my socks, and lay back on the narrow cot. The quilt smelled faintly of mothballs and medicine. The furnace wheezed downstairs.
Outside, the wind lashed at the windows. The world was an unforgiving place.
And yet, beneath the uniform, I sensed a heart learning to beat again.
Dawn of the Next Day – Field Training Exercise
The sun rose pale over the ridges, illuminating the drill grounds in a trembling light. We stood in formation—soldiers in fatigues, civilians in jackets, the odd stray mountain goat wandering through the perimeter wire.
I'd been invited to observe a joint exercise—a trust drill, they called it. Each soldier would navigate an obstacle course blindfolded, guided only by the voice of a comrade. The goal: to foster communication, reliance, and the acknowledgment that no one succeeds alone.
I watched from the sidelines as pairs formed. When the Colonel's grunt of approval signaled start, the first soldier placed the rough cloth over his eyes while his partner—another major—guided him with calm instructions. There were tumbles, curses, hands grasping wrists, pants snagging on wire. But each pair finished, hug exchanged, trust sealed.
Then it was Shashwat's turn.
He stood tall, scarf tied around his eyes. His partner was a fresh-faced lieutenant, voice trembling slightly.
"Step forward. One... two... slightly to the right."
I held my breath as he moved. His steps were measured, but you could almost see the tension beneath each movement. The lieutenant's voice cracked. "Left! Left, I said!"
Shashwat halted. The cloth slipped. The lieutenant swallowed. "Sir—sorry—turn around."
Shashwat removed the blindfold. His gray eyes—uncertain, raw—met the lieutenant's.
"Trust doesn't mean blind obedience," he said. "It means knowing someone will guide you, but also knowing you can correct them." He re-tied the blindfold and then, in a different voice—soothing, patient—said, "Forward. Trust me."
They finished the course with smooth cooperation. When the cloth came off, the lieutenant's face glowed with pride.
I felt tears prick my eyes. This was more than a drill. It was metaphor in motion: vulnerability accepted, support embraced, leadership redefined.
Shashwat caught my gaze across the field. He gave a small nod—acknowledgment. Gratitude.
That Afternoon – One‑on‑One with Shashwat
He met me by the tent where our therapy sessions had begun. The tent was empty now—chairs stacked, whiteboard blank. Dust had settled on the ground.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
I leaned against the tent flap. "It was impressive. You—everyone—trusted you."
He looked down at his hands. "I've learned that people follow a man who shows his scars."
I nodded. "And you've shown yours."
He closed his eyes. "Only because you taught me to."
I stepped closer. "You taught yourself."
He turned to me then, the battlefield of his face unguarded. "You know, Kavya, sometimes I don't know who I am without these exercises—without the uniform, without a crisis to solve."
I reached for his hand. "You're the man who carries his brother here every year. You're the man who sang 'Life Without You Is a Kargil' into my ear. You're the man who taught widows to breathe again."
"No one has ever said that to me," he whispered.
I smiled. "It's true."
He swallowed. "I don't have much time left here. Orders come next week."
My heart lurched. Deployment orders. He wouldn't stay for the second half of the workshop.
His gaze hardened. "You should focus on the workshop, not me."
I shook my head. "I focus on people."
He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced the torn napkin from the workshop—a doodle I'd drawn of a heart broken in two halves, one half in gray and one in red. "You left this behind," he said.
I took it, unfolding the crease. I saw the drawing and remembered the sudden spark of connection when I doodled it, as if the room needed a heartbeat.
"I kept it," he said quietly. "Because it reminded me that even the strongest hearts can be whole again."
I pressed the napkin to my lips. "Go back to who you want to be, Shashwat. Not just the man the army needs."
He nodded, solemn. "Thank you, Dr. Malhotra... Kavya."
His use of my first name made me swallow a breath. We stood in the shaded tent, two hearts raw and exposed.
Then orders came. Deployment to a forward post. He would be gone before the sun rose again.
We said no goodbyes. Instead, he leaned in and brushed his lips against my forehead—gentle, respectful, and forever memorable.
"I'll come back," he whispered.
I didn't believe him. Instead, I closed my eyes and held onto that moment—the feel of his uniform against my cheek, the scent of gunmetal and earth, the unspoken vow between us.
Evening – Packing Up
The workshop closed with a final address. Soldiers filed out, grouping for farewells, laughter, and hellos. Colonel Rajput patted me on the shoulder with uncharacteristic warmth. Khanna embraced me, his lips pressed to my hair. The widows I'd met lined up for one last hug.
I found Shashwat by the transports—the stamped canvas backs of trucks waiting to take him away.
He looked at me, exhaustion and longing in equal measure.
"Take this," he said, handing me the silver coin he'd returned to me. "To remind you that people survive the impossible."
I slipped it into my pocket. "And you?"
He gave a slow smile. "I'll breathe again."
We stood in the gathering dusk, wordlessly commemorating what had passed between us.
When the truck roared to life, he climbed in, hands waving through the slats. I saluted him. Not as a major. Not as a soldier. As the man who carried me back from the edge of despair.
He saluted me in return—and then the canvas tarp dropped, and he was gone.
I stood there until the lights dimmed and my breath fogged the air.
And then I turned toward the tent where the workshop had begun, my heart carrying both the weight of a coin and the promise of a compass—hoping it would guide me back to him.