Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
The hospital wing smelled of antiseptic and hushed confession. I moved between beds in the makeshift ward, clipboard in hand, listening as soldiers – young and old – unspooled their nightmares beneath dim fluorescent lights. But today, I wasn't here to tend to strangers. I was here for Captain Daiwik Khanna.
I found him in bed twelve: dress uniform replaced by hospital blues, a single IV drip at his wrist. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling fan turning too slowly. He didn't seem to notice my approach.
"DK," I whispered, voice gentle.
He blinked. Recognition—and something like relief—crossed his features. "Kavya," he said, voice hoarse. "You came."
"I promised," I reminded him, seating myself on the edge of his cot. "How are you feeling?"
He shrugged. "Battered. Lucky." His gaze shifted to the floor. "You know, the others call me the surgeon's son—asks me to fix bodies. But tonight, it's my heart that's splayed open."
I traced a line on my clipboard and met his eyes. "Tell me what happened."
He drew in a shaky breath. "We were escorting a wounded sepoy back from the ridge. His leg was mangled—blood everywhere. I kneeled beside him, applied the tourniquet, started an IV. Then... the blast."
He swallowed, throat tight. "I don't remember the flash. Just sound, then nothing. Then I woke up here."
I watched his knuckles whiten around the sheets. "And Arjun?"
His head dipped. "Arjun..." The name hovered like smoke. "He didn't make it. He was thrown clear of the blast radius, but the shrapnel... too much. I held his hand until I couldn't feel his pulse anymore."
Silence settled between us, heavy as the night. Outside, a guard's muffled footsteps echoed. Inside, his confession hung like a wreath of grief.
"I should have done more," he whispered. "As a surgeon, I let him die."
I reached for his hand. "DK, you did everything you could. Sometimes, even perfect skill isn't enough."
He clenched my hand. "You don't get it. I've patched soldiers back together since I could hold a scalpel. I've saved lives—countless. But if you live through enough missions, you realize it's a lottery. Not skill. Not faith. Random chance."
I pressed my palm against his. "You're not defined by that loss. You're not your worst moment."
He looked at me, eyes glossy. "But that's where my guilt lives. In the space between survival and sacrifice."
I studied his face: the ink‑stained thumb he unconsciously rubbed, the haunted set of his jaw, the tremor in his voice. I thought of how he'd hidden my tears at the memorial, how he'd cradled me when I'd fallen apart, how he'd whispered apologies he could never fully voice.
"Let me help you hold that guilt," I said softly. "Let me help you carry it."
He exhaled, tension uncoiling. "When I first joined the corps, I thought medicine was a way to control chaos. To save lives. But I learned quickly that war is a tide—you can't stop it. And every time you save one, another sinks beneath the waves."
I squeezed his hand. "That's exactly why we need to talk about it."
He closed his eyes. "Alright. I'll talk."
Flashback: The Night of the Ambush
The night air was brittle, charged with premonition. We were on a routine patrol near the LoC, escorting a convoy of supplies and wounded back to base. I'd been at Kavya's workshop days before, teaching breathing exercises, grounding, the whole lexicon of trauma. That night, I thought I was the invincible surgeon who could fix bullet wounds and broken bones.
But war has a way of teaching you humility.
A sudden crack – the report of an IED. It exploded in a spray of orange fire and metal. The world spun. I remember the flash of shrapnel tearing through canvas, the scream of metal bending. Then darkness.
When I opened my eyes, I was on my back, staring at stars blurred by pain. I heard Rishi's voice – Sepoy Arjun Mehta – whispering, "Captain, I can't feel my left leg." Cold seared through me. I crawled to him, found his hand, and pressed my own against the gaping wound.
"Stay with me," I told him. Deep breath. "I'm here."
But the starved air filled my lungs with panic. I fumbled the tourniquet, my hands slick with blood – his and mine. I made the cut to probe artery, set the clamp. Professional training in motion.
He gave me a small, pained smile. "Thanks, DK," he croaked.
Then a second blast, closer. I turned to shield him, felt metal rip through my shoulder. Agony lanced, and suddenly I was on the ground, unable to breathe. Rishi crawled to me, pressing my hand against his chest. "Captain, stay with me."
Then silence.
I woke here, in this bed, haunted by the echo of his laughter, frozen in a moment that replayed every time my eyes closed.
Present: Healing Wounds Seen and Unseen
I finished transcribing his memory and set the clipboard aside. He watched me, vulnerability still raw.
"And that's why I can't dismiss my guilt," he said. "I keep expecting to fail again."
I leaned in, framing his face in my hands. "You won't. You'll learn from this. You'll grow stronger, wiser. You won't carry guilt alone anymore."
He inhaled, eyes glistening. "Thank you, Kavya. For listening."
I offered a small smile. "Always."
We sat in companionable silence, the hum of hospital life carrying on around us. And in that quiet room, I realized our bond had deepened – from healer/patient to something like kindred spirit.
That night, I walked back to my quarters under a quilt of stars. I carried his pain alongside my own. I understood then that healing wasn't a solitary act; it was shared. And in sharing, we became more whole.
Tomorrow, we'd return to Leh's clinic, resume sessions with soldiers and widows alike. But tonight, I held the memory of DK's confession close. Because in his voice, I heard the truth we all need: that guilt unspoken is a wound that festers, and that speaking it aloud is the first stitch toward repair.
I whispered into the night, "You're not alone, DK. Not ever." And somewhere in the darkness, I felt the promise of dawn.