Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
The ceasefire was announced at dawn—an unexpected gift that tasted of hope, sweetness, and fear. Six days had passed since the workshop began, and I had come to expect routine: morning sessions, late‑night debriefs, cups of bitter chai stolen beneath flickering lamps. But today promised something different: a half‑day ceasefire. No drills. No simulations. No soldier or civilian violence for twelve precious hours.
I arrived at the makeshift hall where the medical tents met the parade ground, a string of colored lights strung overhead like a moth's lure. "Peace mela" someone had scrawled on a battered chalkboard at the entrance. Inside, tables groaned under the weight of samosas, jalebis, hot chai, and the paper cups I'd insisted the cooks label "For All." Local musicians tuned their instruments—tabla, harmonium, a battered dholak—and children in patched uniforms darted between the lanterns, their laughter a curious echo in the valley.
I hovered at the fringe, my white coat swapped for a simple kurta and shawl, my clipboard replaced by a plate of pakoras. The energy was electric, tentative, alive. For once, soldiers and civilians mingled without suspicion. A Gurkha sergeant taught a schoolteacher to spin a spinning top; an engineer shared clove‑sweet "kadha" with a farmer. Everywhere, I saw barriers dissolving.
And there, beneath a cluster of fairy lights, stood Shashwat. Not in uniform today, but in a woolen sweater rolled at the sleeves, jeans dusted with workshop‑camp mud, scarf loosely knotted around his neck. The absence of rank stripped him to a man I barely recognized—humble, relaxed, eyes curious. He spotted me and waved, grin quick and shy, like a boy who'd stolen a glance at the girl next door.
I crossed the space between us, heart tripping. "Peace mela," I said, voice low. "You look like you're auditioning for a folk band."
He laughed, a deep rumble I'd only heard once before when I'd caught him off guard. "I'm thinking of starting a tabla troupe. Think you can play?"
I shook my head. "My musical talent peaked at karaoke night. You saw how that went."
He shrugged. "Not everyone can handle 'Channa Mereya.'"
I smiled, remembering the off‑key laughter of that night when we coaxed each other through a shared misery‑melody. "Fair enough."
The musicians struck up a gentle tune. Shashwat's jaw twitched. He tapped his foot once, twice, then beckoned me closer.
I stepped beside him, palms warm around my chai. "What do you think?"
He inhaled the spicy steam, eyes closing. "This," he said, waving a hand at the lights, the food, the people woven together in fragile truce, "this is proof we're not doomed."
I felt tears sting my eyes. "It's beautiful."
He turned to me, lips curved. "Not as beautiful as someone in a kurta."
Heat flared across my cheeks. I looked away, pretending to inspect the lanterns. They flickered like fireflies trapped in glass.
A dholak rolled into a faster rhythm. A circle formed—soldiers and villagers taking hands, dancing in time to a voice that soared above the valley's hush. Shashwat held out his hand.
"Dance with me?"
My heart stuttered. "I don't dance."
He smiled, mischief lurking in his gaze. "Just once. Please."
I studied his extended hand—strong fingers, home‑worn from rifles and rough rock. I placed my hand in his. It felt like coming home.
Music swelled. We moved into the circle, awkward at first—my shawl slipping, his steps too measured for the loose beat. But as the melody carried us, our bodies found a rhythm. He guided me through the steps—spin, pivot, weave—his hands at my waist soft but steady. I laughed when I misstepped; he chuckled and nudged me right.
Under the canopy of lights, laughter and song, we danced like two halves of a broken heart learning to beat in time. I felt his breath near my ear as the chorus rose:
"Tere bina jeena—ek Kargil hai..."
His lips brushed my temple. I froze. Then, gently, he spun me until I faced him. His gray eyes, lit by lantern glow, held my gaze. The music softened, as though every instrument waited for a single moment.
He reached for my shawl, sliding it from my shoulders, and let it drop. His hands settled on my bare arms, warm and sure. My breath caught. The world around us blurred—soldiers dancing, women clapping, children running rings around our circle—and it felt as though everything had hushed to watch what would happen next.
He leaned in. The scent of pine and gunmetal and chai filled my senses. My pulse thundered. I closed the last sliver of space between us, lips meeting in a kiss that tasted of cinnamon, courage, and long‑denied longing.
It was gentle at first—questioning, tender—then a slow deepening, as if two wounded souls discovered a place to breathe. His arms wrapped around me, one hand cradling my back, the other stroking my hair. I trembled against him, melting into a safety I'd never known in any clinic or battlefield.
Time lost meaning. Only his heartbeat kept me tethered to now. I tasted honey and smoke, heard the echo of that line he never spoke but taught me to feel:
"Life without you is a Kargil."
Then, like sudden thunder, the circle shattered. Boots thudded against the dry earth, rifles clicking into readiness, commands barked into the twilight. Harsh spotlights swung overhead, illuminating soldiers in combat formation. The music crashed to silence; lanterns guttered as men grabbed their rifles. Panic rippled through the crowd—women screamed, children cried, the peace melted into fear.
Shashwat pulled back, his expression hardening in an instant—a soldier re‑emerging from a dream. He pressed his forehead against mine, voice hoarse: "I'm sorry."
His apology barely registered before I was swept aside by bodies rushing for cover. I stumbled, shawl trailing, my cheek pressed against rough stone. I glimpsed Shashwat ahead—uniformed again, rifle at his shoulder, scanning the darkness. He barked orders. His posture snapped into warrior mode—urgent, lethal, unyielding.
Fear surged. I could barely breathe. I scrambled toward him.
"Kavya!" His voice cut through the chaos. He reached for me, scooping me into his arms as an explosive crack echoed overhead. I flinched, eyes watering, as he shielded me behind his body, scanning for threats.
"Stay down." He pressed me to the ground, body curled around mine. His voice was calm, clinical—my protector. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head, unable to speak. My heart pounded against his chest.
He half‑stood, peering over me. "Go back to the tents. Now."
Before I could resist, he lifted me like I weighed nothing and carried me through the panicking crowd. Soldiers parted to let us pass. One of them, Captain Khanna, blocked my way. "Is she—?"
Shashwat barked, "Take her." He pressed me into Daiwik's arms. "Cover me." Then, without another glance, he vanished into the melee.
I watched, heart clenched, as he sprinted into the shadows—lion re‑awakening, sacrifice reborn.
I don't remember how I reached the medical tent. Everything after that was a blur of antiseptic, bandaged limbs, wailing ambulances. But amidst the chaos, I felt the absence of his body like an ache in my bones.
I flung my shawl aside and peered through the slit of the tent flap. Soldiers were treating the wounded; villagers huddled behind makeshift walls. And there, amid the controlled confusion, I saw him—glass‑eyed, stoic, ferried to a stretcher. His hands were bloodied, uniform torn at the shoulder.
I bolted forward. The world slowed. Every footstep beat in my skull. I reached him as medics lifted him onto the cot.
"Major Rajput!" I shouted. He blinked, focus returning.
"Kavya—" His lips curved with relief and pain.
I dropped beside him, taking his hand. "What happened?"
He coughed, then whispered, "Sniper." His lips trembled. "The angle was... too clean."
A medic pressed a damp cloth to his wound. He hissed. I leaned closer. "You're going to be okay. I promise."
He squeezed my hand, eyes flickering. "You were there."
I pressed my forehead to his, feeling his pulse beneath my lips. "Always."
He closed his eyes, pain clouding his features. I cradled his head, tears streaming, as he drifted into sedation.
I stayed with him through the night—monitoring his vitals, holding his hand, whispering lines from the letters he'd never sent:
"If I return, let me be enough."
Soon, surgeons arrived, whisking him away for cleanup and repairing. I followed, heart in my throat, watching as they patched the man who'd opened my heart.
The corridor was empty except for me and the trash can overflowing with blood‑soaked gauze. I leaned against a wall and allowed the tears to come. Grief, relief, and love all tangled together in a storm of emotion.
A nurse approached. "He's stable. Will need rest."
I nodded, brushing hair from my face. "Thank you."
She hesitated. "He's awake. Do you want to see him?"
I closed my eyes, then inhaled deeply. "Yes, please."
She led me back. The door swung open to reveal him lying on the surgical table—pale, exhausted, eyes half‑open.
He managed a faint smile. "You stayed."
I lowered myself to the edge of the table and took his hand. "I wasn't going anywhere."
He sighed. "I owe you an apology."
I shook my head. "No. You owe me a lot more."
His lips curled. "Like a promise?"
I leaned in, pressing my lips to his cheek. "Promise?"
He closed his eyes, a small laugh escaping in a whisper. "I promise."
When I finally departed the field hospital the next morning, the world was quiet again. The ceasefire had ended. Soldiers marched away; villagers returned to their homes. The lights at the mela flickered off, the music faded.
But I carried the echo of that kiss under the lanterns—pressed beneath my heart like a hidden medal. I carried the memory of him shielding me against the sniper's aim. I carried the promise that even amid war's brutality, we could find a moment when the world stood still, and love prevailed.
As I drove away from the valley toward Delhi, I clutched my shawl and whispered into the wind, "Wait for me."
And somewhere in the shifting dust, I believed he heard.