Waiting to be His

I remember the first time I saw the uniform. It wasn't shining brass buttons or a perfectly creased turban that caught my eye, but the way he stood—shoulders squared against the wind, as if daring the world to knock him down. I was fresh out of residency, nervous and eager, standing behind a podium in the PTSD clinic at the Army War Memorial grounds. My hands trembled as I tapped the microphone; my first workshop on trauma survivors.

Then he appeared. Major Shashwat Rajput. They called him "Lion," but there was no roar—only a silent, gray intensity that swept through the room like an avalanche.

I press my hand against the cool glass window of my office, watching the last of the morning light dip behind the memorial's granite pillars. The sky turns rose-gold, but I see only shadows. I told myself I would be strong today. After all, I've stood in front of dozens of wounded soldiers, guiding them through nightmares, guiding myself through mine. Yet here I am, my reflection fractured by the rain-dappled glass, heart pounding like a morse code I can't decipher.

Behind me, files and journals lie strewn across my desk. Bullet casings arranged in neat rows, each one a testament to a soldier's battle—and a widow's grief. But tonight, I'm not the healer. I'm the patient.

I drop into my swivel chair, unclip the bronze pin from the collar of my lab coat—the pin shaped like the map of Kashmir, silver veins tracing its frozen rivers. Shash gave it to me on our first meeting, half-joking that I needed something solid to hold onto. I close my eyes and feel the cool metal warm against my palm.

Phones buzz. My assistant knocks gently. "Dr. Malhotra, the memorial service starts in thirty minutes."

I inhale, tasting metal. "Thank you. I'll meet them there."

I tell myself I'm going to be composed. I tell myself the tightness in my chest is just nerves. But I know it's not. It's grief.

The parade ground is bathed in floodlight, rows of soldiers standing at attention like living statues. The air smells of wet grass and diesel engines idling behind the ceremonial stands. Families of the fallen press into chairs along the perimeter, faces pale in the glare. I move through them with measured steps, gloved hands brushing against cold metal railings.

On my left, DK—Captain Daiwik Khanna—loiters near the dais. He's in uniform, but the cut of his tunic looks awkward on his lanky frame. His wire-rim glasses catch the light; I see the stubble on his cheeks, the way he bites his lower lip. He spots me and offers a small, tight smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.

I nod, barely. I can't bear the weight of any more sympathy.

An officer's voice rings out. "Family and friends of the late Major Shashwat Rajput, please rise."

I stand before I know it, gloves popping as I stretch my fingers straight. They call my name—Kavya Malhotra—and I step forward, the flag presented to me by a young lieutenant whose eyes flicker with awe. The cloth is crisp, its colors vivid under the floodlights. Three folds, then five, then eight, until it becomes a mathematical geometry of loss. I cradle it against my chest and feel every heartbeat in my veins.

"On behalf of the President of India and a grateful nation, we present this flag in honor of Major Shashwat 'Lion' Rajput, PVC."

His rank, his honor, carved into the granite memorial behind us: PARAM VIR CHAKRA. Four words. Four syllables that echo in the hollows of my ribs.

I mount the dais with steady steps. Beside me, DK's uniform is spotless, but I see the crease in his brow. He inhales too sharply, as if the act of breathing itself demands effort. We exchange a brief glance—one of those wordless conversations. Of guilt. Of regret. Of love we never spoke aloud.

I reach the microphone. The hush is deeper than night. My throat thickens. I clear it once, twice, and find my voice.

"Major Rajput believed in duty above all," I begin, words trembling at the edges. "He believed that love was a distraction—a luxury soldiers could not afford. Yet he gave me this."

I touch the pendant against my heart. The silver map glints. I take a breath. "He believed that silence could protect me from his battles. But silence is not protection. Silence is a prison."

A cough ripples through the crowd. I let my gaze drift to the granite wall, names in endless columns. A soldier next to me shifts, and I see fresh tears on his cheeks. I swallow again.

"I have studied trauma. I have guided men and women through the darkest nights of their souls. But no textbook prepared me for losing him."

My voice cracks. I close my eyes, willing the sobs away. The world tilts. I smell incense and wet earth. Memories flood: his hesitant smile when I first introduced myself as a civilian psychologist; the way he cradled my hand after I spoke about survivor's guilt; the storm in his gray eyes when I flashed my map pendant and said, "This is home."

I press my palm to the lectern. My fingers tremble. I want to tell them about the letters he wrote—letters I never sent. Letters I burned because I was afraid the words would tear him apart.

Tere bina jeena... ek Kargil hai.

I whisper it under my breath. Life without you is a Kargil.

They finish the ceremony with a volley of gunfire. Three shots. Three echoes. Three goodbyes I wasn't ready to say. The bugler's final note lingers like a question.

I step down from the dais, flag clutched to my chest. I move through a gauntlet of soldiers tapping their rifle butts gently against their boots—salutes for me, for him, for a promise that we'll remember. My knees ache. I feel nauseous.

DK falls into step beside me. He hands me a folded piece of paper—my name on the front, in Shash's handwriting. I stare at it.

"Open it?" he asks, voice soft.

I cradle the flag tighter. My fingers brush the paper's edge. I don't know if I can face the words.

"I'd rather remember him brave," I say. "Not... broken."

His shoulders slump. "He wanted you to have this."

I glance at him, eyes stinging. "He's the one who told me love makes us vulnerable."

DK's voice is barely above a whisper. "He was wrong."

I retreat to the small waiting pavilion behind the memorial, lacquered wood benches, the scent of jasmine garlands still clinging in the air. The other families file past, condolence bouquets in trembling hands. I slide onto the last bench, flag on my lap, and close my eyes.

My thoughts churn: funeral rites, the flash of gunsmoke, the hush of a nation mourning. Each image cuts me open. I see Shash standing on icy ridges, frostbite numbness crawling across his skin, writing letters to me in the margins of his field journal. I see him burning them later, wrists bent against the fire, as if erasing the very agony of missing me.

I fold my legs beneath me and let my head loll back against the post. A single petal drifts down—white jasmines, angels' tears. I let it land on my coat.

The paper trembles in my hand. Snow-white. Unmarked except for my name. Inhaling, I peel it open. His cursive is neat, each stroke deliberate.

Kavya,

I fought battles I did not choose—against mountains, against ghosts, against myself. You were my only certainty. I burned your letters to spare you pain, but every line I destroyed felt like tearing out my own heart. Please forgive me for leaving you to carry his weight alone. I thought I was protecting you. Instead, I left you unanchored.

If you ever read this—know that I loved you more than duty, more than the flag, more than life itself.

Yours, in every silence,

Shash

My breath hitches. The paper grows wet as tears fall, erasing ink. I fold it back and press it to my chest, above the silver pendant. I feel the weight of a promise unfulfilled.

DK watches me, distance in his eyes. He steps forward, hesitates, then places his hand on mine. His touch is cool, but it grounds me.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Words feel useless. Instead, I rise, tucking the letter into my coat. I stand before him, before the marble pillars, before a sky that seems too vast for this grief.

"I have to go," I whisper.

He nods, mouth tight. "I'll walk you."

I take the flag, the pendant, the letter—all my anchors to a man gone—and follow him into the damp evening. The bugler's echo fades behind us, replaced by my own unsteady heartbeat.

Tonight, the memorial lights will dim. The soldiers will file out. The petals will wilt. But I will carry this weight—of flag, of love, of silence—into the darkness, hoping that one day I learn to breathe without him.