Dawn light filtered through the frosted windows of the Leh clinic tent, painting every speck of dust in gold. I arrived carrying my worn leather satchel—filled with journals, case notes, and the little wooden box of relics I used to ground my patients. Today was meant to be routine: I'd lead three back‑to‑back sessions on coping strategies for soldiers returning to active duty. Instead, I found myself haunted by the echo of Captain Khanna's admission of guilt from yesterday, and I knew I had to carve out space for one final, unhurried conversation with him before he left on his next assignment.
He lay on Cot 3, propped by two pillows, his surgical dressing wrapped tightly around his shoulder. The bruise at his temple had faded to a dull purple, but his eyes still carried the weight of sleepless nights. When he saw me enter, his face softened into a tentative smile.
"Kavya," he said, voice hoarse. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
I set my satchel on the small table beside him and brewed peppermint tea. "I promised to see you through," I reminded him, lifting the steaming mug. He accepted it gratefully, hands wrapping around the warmth.
I sat on the edge of his cot, studying his profile. Sunlight glinted off the edge of his medal bar on the cot stand—a silent testament to bravery under fire. But beneath that gleam, I saw a man raw with conflicting emotions: duty, remorse, and a fierce desire to find peace.
"Today," I began gently, "we're not talking techniques or exercises. I want to dive deeper—beneath the surface of coping—to understand what truly sustains you, even when guilt and grief rise like tides."
He set down his cup with care. "I'm ready."
I opened my notebook to a blank page, but instead of diagrams, I wrote a single prompt at the top in my neatest handwriting:
"What I carry
And why."
I passed the notebook to him. "Write whatever comes to mind—no censorship. Then we'll talk through it."
He closed his eyes, pen hovering, before scrawling:
"I carry Arjun's last laugh...
his blood on my hands...
the orders I obeyed...
and a promise I fear I'll never keep."
He handed it back, voice barely above a whisper. "That's all I can see in me."
I read it aloud softly, letting each line settle between us. "You carry his laughter—joy amidst terror; his blood—reminders of loss; the orders—duty's weight; and a promise—your own vulnerability. These are the pieces of your story."
He blinked. "But it feels like a burden."
I nodded. "Let's transform it. What if each item you carry also serves a purpose—like tools rather than weights?"
His gaze lifted, curiosity flickering. "How?"
I tapped the notebook. "Arjun's laughter—carry it as resilience, proof that even in darkness, life persists. His blood—carry awareness, a commitment to compassion. The orders—carry responsibility with self‑compassion, acknowledging you did your duty under impossible conditions. The promise—carry the courage to admit your limits."
He exhaled, nodding slowly. "That... reframes it."
I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the quiet shift between us. I slid the notebook aside and placed my hand on his. "Now tell me one thing you want to carry forward—one positive seed planted by that burden."
He paused as though tasting the question. Then his voice warmed: "Hope. That if I can endure this, I can help others endure theirs."
My heart swelled. "That's the truth you need: you carry hope."
He squeezed my hand. "Thank you, Kavya."
We sat in silence, letting the words settle. Outside, frost melted into rivulets, just as I could feel the edges of his guilt beginning to dissolve.
Flashback: The Night of the Letters
I remember the night he first showed me his poetry—unsent, scribbled in the margins of his field journal. It was past curfew; the tent heater had died, and the only light came from a single lantern. I sat across from him at the radio shack, pretending to review intake forms.
He slid the journal across the table without a word. I flipped to a page stained by smudged ink and frostbite scars—his lettering jagged, raw:
"In the hush before dawn,
I count the cost of each breath,
and write your name in the air,
hoping it holds me afloat."
I looked at him, searching his storm‑gray eyes. He was vulnerable in a way no uniform could conceal. "Why show me this?" I whispered.
He swallowed. "Because I need you to see the man I try to hide."
Present: Ritual of Release
Returning to Cot 3, I retrieved the little wooden box of relics—a silver coin, a shredded map fragment, a bullet casing cleaned to a dull sheen. "These belong to your story," I told him, placing each on the cot's side table.
I handed him the coin—Sepoy Yadav's "lucky rupee," once carried by his brother. "Hold it. Speak aloud what you surrender."
He closed his eyes, finger tracing the coin's edge. Then, softly:
"I surrender the belief that strength demands silence."
He placed the coin into the box. Next, I handed him the map fragment—the corner of a Kashmiri battlefield. "What do you let go here?"
"I surrender the illusion that controlling every outcome saves lives."
He folded the map into the box. Finally, the bullet casing. He held it like a prayer bead.
"I surrender the fear that one misstep doom us all."
He sealed the box, breathing out a long, trembling sigh.
I smiled. "You've given your burdens boundaries. They no longer live in you—they rest here, contained."
He opened his eyes, moist and resolute. "I feel... lighter."
Later, as I packed up my satchel and prepared to lead the first group of the day—soldiers returning from leave—I paused to watch him gather his things. He buttoned his uniform with deliberate care, each movement measured, confident.
He looked at me, standing in the tent's entrance. "I leave tomorrow," he said.
I nodded, heart squeezed. "And I stay. But we both carry hope."
He smiled, the faintest curve that spoke volumes. "Carry it well."
I stepped forward and embraced him—gently, firmly—our roles momentarily dissolved. "Thank you," I whispered.
He rested his cheek against mine. "Thank you—for seeing me."
When he released me, he picked up the wooden box and tucked it into his satchel. The weight was anchored, contained, transformed into a promise rather than a prison.
He walked away under the pale morning light, every step purposeful. I watched until the tent flap fell closed, carrying his resolve into the world beyond our sanctuary.
As I resumed my rounds, greeting soldiers who walked in with stoic faces and staggered exits, I carried with me the resonance of his release. Beneath the surface, healing had begun—not just for him, but for me and for every life we touched in this fragile frontier of hope.
And in the hush before the next dawn, I whispered to the wind:
"May we all learn to carry our burdens with grace, and to find strength in surrender."