Kavya's First‑Person POV
The morning after the ridge, thaw had come at night. By dawn, thin rivers trickled through the barracks yard, carrying slush and hope in their shallow currents. I stepped out of my quarters wrapped in three layers—scarf, shawl, windbreaker—yet every breath felt like a shard of ice. Today was different: today I would see him not as Major Rajput the soldier, but as Shashwat the man who laughed once, who bled in silence, who dared to love.
I found him at the training grounds, inspecting the newly laid communication cables. The sun glinted off his frost-scars, turning them into pale rivers across his cheeks. He glanced up as I approached, offering a brief nod.
"Ma'am," he said with a half-smile. "You're punctual."
I smiled back, because in this relationship—our strange, uncharted bond—punctuality was the only certainty. "Wouldn't miss it."
He led me down a muddy path toward the abandoned observatory on the western ridge. The building was little more than a crumbling stone shell, windows boarded, door unhinged. Inside, the walls bore the etched memories of generations: handprints, names, doodles of mountains and prayers. I shivered; the air smelled of earth and echo.
"This was once the forward lookout," Shashwat explained, voice low. "Soldiers used to monitor enemy movement from here. Now it's just ghosts."
I pressed my palm to the cold stone, imagining him sitting here alone on watch, miles from home, heart pounding with terror he couldn't speak. "You ever feel like a ghost?" I asked softly.
He was already there beside me, stare fixed on the valley below. "More like a shadow," he replied. "Always attached to something I can't control."
I studied him in profile—the soldier's bearing softened by fatigue, the poet's heart hidden beneath calloused lips. "Maybe you don't have to be attached," I offered. "Maybe you can choose where to stand."
He turned to me then, eyes catching mine. For a heartbeat, the world slipped away—just two people in an empty room of stone, carrying burdens neither had to bear alone.
But duty called first.
"Dr. Malhotra," he said, voice steady. "I have orders in an hour. We should return."
I nodded, although every fiber of me wanted to stay. "Of course."
Back at the clinic, the workshop attendees waited: a mix of infantry, engineers, medics—each carrying his own silent wounds. Today's focus was "Reintegration: Civilian Life After the Front." It was a topic that made soldiers bristle: the world outside didn't run on discipline and chain of command. It ran on traffic jams, gossip, bills, heartbreak.
I welcomed them in. "Today, we confront what happens when war's structure ends. How do you find purpose when every moment wasn't measured by survival?"
Several men shifted uncomfortably. One medic, Captain Singh, raised his hand. "I can't even look my neighbors in the eye," he confessed. "I pass them in the market, and they avert their gaze—like seeing a monster."
I nodded. "You're not a monster. You're a man marked by experience they can't fathom. You need strategies to bridge that gap."
I introduced role‑play: pairing soldiers with civilian volunteers from the local village, practicing simple greetings, small talk, sharing—steps toward rebuilding trust. There were stumbles: accidental insults, awkward silences, guardrails of posture giving way to genuine smiles. One soldier drew strength from a soft‑spoken schoolteacher who'd lost her brother in a border skirmish; they exchanged stories of grief in hushed tones, finding unexpected kinship.
Meanwhile, Shashwat moved among them like a silent sentinel. He knelt beside those struggling, offering a gentle nudge or a firm word of encouragement. I watched as he carefully calibrated each interaction—sometimes pushing, sometimes supporting. It was leadership distilled to its purest form.
When the exercise ended, he approached me. His uniform was spattered with mud; his cheeks flushed with exertion. "Why do you do this?" he asked. "Spend your days in circles of grief."
I gathered my notes. "Because healing isn't a solo mission. It's communal. We need each other to remember hope."
He studied me. "Never read that in a textbook."
"Not everything worth knowing fits in chapters," I replied.
He gave me a sideways glance. "You're full of aphorisms today."
I laughed, surprising both of us. "Maybe I'm learning from the best."
He didn't respond. Instead, he picked up a discarded helmet and held it out. "Your turn."
I hesitated. "My turn?"
He nodded. "Try on this uniform."
I blinked. "You want me to—?"
"Experience for yourself," he said. "Just for a minute."
I exchanged my shawl for the helmet, feeling its weight—a symbol of the world he inhabited. I slipped into a surplus tunic—oversized, stiff. I buttoned it wrong twice before he corrected me, his fingers brushing mine with an intimacy that set my skin alight.
When I finally looked at the mirror propped against a crate, I saw a stranger: a civilian's eyes behind a soldier's façade. For a moment, I felt the divide narrowing—the uniform didn't change who I was, but it reshaped how I moved through space. How I stood taller, felt braver.
He watched me. "How does it feel?"
"Heavy," I murmured. "But... necessary."
He smiled, then helped me out of it. "You don't have to carry every burden," he said.
I folded the uniform carefully. "But sometimes, I want to understand."
He nodded. "Then keep asking."
That evening, after the clinic closed, I stayed behind to organize files. The sun had dipped below the peaks, casting long shadows into the tent. I found Shashwat at the entrance, backpack slung over one shoulder, ready to leave.
"Can I walk you?" I offered.
He inclined his head. "I'll take the main road."
We emerged into the crisp air. I tucked my journal into my coat and pulled my scarf tighter. We walked side by side in companionable silence, boots crunching on gravel.
Without warning, he halted and turned to me. "I've been thinking... about my father."
I faced him. Colonel Rajput had been a looming presence—strict, unyielding, embodying duty's unforgiving edge. "What about him?"
"He... he saw vulnerability as failure," Shashwat said, voice tight. "He taught me to bury fear, to mask doubt. But every time I did, I lost a piece of myself."
I placed a hand on his arm. "You don't have to lose yourself to honor him."
He exhaled. "I know that now."
I squeezed his arm gently. "You're more than his son. You're your own man."
He looked at me. The twilight catching in his eyes made them glisten—half storm, half surrender. "Thank you, Kavya."
His use of my name unsettled me in the best possible way.
We resumed walking. I realized then that our connection went beyond therapy, beyond friendship. It had become something at once fragile and formidable—a bond forged in shared understanding of loss.
When we reached the barracks gate, he paused. "Tomorrow, I'm leaving for a month-long assignment in Kupwara."
My chest clenched. "Kupwara? That's close to where Neel's plane went down."
His jaw tightened. "I know."
I swallowed. "I—"
He held up a hand. "Don't say stay. I wouldn't ask you to."
"But—"
"Promise me you'll keep living," he said, voice fierce. "Promise me you'll keep teaching, keep healing."
I nodded, tears threatening. "I promise."
He stepped forward and pressed a lingering kiss to my temple. "I'll come back," he whispered.
I watched him walk away into the gathering darkness, carrying duty and heart in equal measure.
The month passed in a blur. Kupwara's frontier outpost was a world apart—steep ridges, razor-wire fences, the constant hum of artillery in the distance. I stayed in Leh, teaching, writing reports, keeping the clinic running. Nights were the hardest: I'd stare at the door, half-expecting him to walk in and shake the dust from his boots.
Then one morning, I received a message: "Urgent. Please come to HQ at 0800." It carried no name. My heart galloped as I donned my coat and drove up the winding road to the headquarters tent.
Inside, Colonel Rajput stood like a statue among khaki peaks. Beside him was DK, face drawn.
"Dr. Malhotra," the Colonel said, voice brittle. "Thank you for coming."
My stomach lurched. "Is he—?"
"Alive," the Colonel cut in. "But injured."
DK swallowed. "He was ambushed last night. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. He's stable, but..." His voice faltered.
My head spun. "Where is he?"
"Field hospital in Srinagar," the Colonel said. "We can't risk flying him to Delhi yet."
Tears welled. "I'll go."
They exchanged a look. "You can't accompany him," the Colonel said. "Orders."
I shook my head. "He's my patient—my friend. I have to—"
The Colonel's gray eyes softened. "He'd want you to live, Kavya."
I closed my eyes, feeling the knife-edge of fear and hope. "I'll go anyway."
I reached Srinagar by afternoon. The field hospital was a maze of tents and stretchers. I found him in a corner ward—draped in white, arm in a sling, eyes closed.
I knelt beside him. "Shash?"
His eyes fluttered open. Recognition—relief. Then pain.
"Kavya," he rasped. "You shouldn't—"
"I had to," I whispered. "You scared me."
He brushed my hair back. "I'm okay."
I examined the wound: shallow entry, clean surgical work, a steel plate beneath. "They'll keep you here for observation."
He grimaced. "Wouldn't want you buried alongside me."
I pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I won't let you go."
We talked for hours—him recounting the ambush: how he'd shielded his squad, taken the bullet meant for another soldier, collapsed in snow and blood. I guided him through breathwork, grounding, reassurance.
At dusk, the sky bloomed pink and gold. He reached for my hand. "Teach me to live again," he whispered.
"I always will," I vowed.
He recovered slowly. By week's end, bracing himself on crutches, he insisted on returning to Leh. I arranged his medical clearance, fighting orders at every turn. In the end, his father intervened—demanded it.
We traveled back together, side by side on the same troop carrier that had carried me to the ridge. He leaned against me, head on my shoulder, and for a moment, I let myself believe in ordinary joy.
Back in Leh, we resumed routines—the clinic, the mess hall, the training grounds—except everything was changed. His wound was a reminder of fragility; his presence, a testament to resilience. We leaned on each other in wordless ways: shared mugs of chai, late-night conversations under starlit skies, gentle touches that spoke louder than assurances.
On the last night before I returned to Delhi, we climbed once more to the abandoned observatory. Snow had fallen again, muffling the world in white. We stood in silence, watching our breath mist between us.
He turned to me. "Promise me we'll keep building this—whatever it is—for as long as we can."
I cupped his face. "I promise."
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against mine. "Then let's make tonight count."
We stood there, hearts entwined, as the Himalayan wind carried our promises into the vast, uncharted future—together, at last, neither soldier nor civilian, but simply two people daring to hope.