The morning after the MiG crash, the country was reacting just as it always did after the martyrdom of a soldier—debates raged across news channels, hashtags trended on social media, and the youth of the nation… some expressed outrage, some remained oblivious, and for the rest, life went on as usual.

“This isn’t the first time it’s happened, you know. It keeps happening. Flying a fighter jet isn't child’s play. These young kids become officers too quickly these days—how well do you think they really know how to fly?” said a man casually at a local shop.

Naveen and his father, Mohan, had come there to pick up some groceries. Seeing the man, Mohan signaled his son to keep quiet. Naveen had always been passionate—almost fanatically so—about the army. If someone so much as muttered anything disrespectful about the forces, he would flare up and lash back without hesitation.

Despite his father's warning, Naveen could not hold back.

“Do you even know what aircraft they fly?” he finally asked, voice tight with restraint.

“Oh? And you do?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why I’m asking.”

“If you know so much, go ahead, educate us. These kids nowadays think they’ve got the entire world’s knowledge packed inside them,” the man laughed dismissively.

“Those MiGs are old machines. The country that sold them to us stopped using them years ago. And yet, our pilots still fly them. Do you know why?”

The man fell silent.

“Because our country doesn’t have enough funds to buy new and better aircraft. And when the armed forces ask for upgrades, they’re told money doesn’t grow on trees!”

His father gripped his shoulder firmly, trying to calm him down, but it was no use.

“So what? Does money grow on trees? The public pays taxes—hard-earned money. The army gets a lot of things free from that money. If we start buying jets worth crores, the nation will go bankrupt!”

“Nothing is free,” Naveen snapped. “They risk their lives every single day. That's why they earn what they do. But the day they decide that risking their lives with outdated weapons isn’t worth it anymore, then we will be the ones bankrupt—of peace, of protection, of pride.”

The man gave a slight shake of the head and smirked. “You’re getting too emotional.”

Naveen’s eyes burned. “If it had been your son in place of Flight Lieutenant Vikram Singh Sanger today, you’d be emotional too.”

“Naveen!” his father raised his voice in warning.

“How insolent this boy is!” the man exclaimed indignantly.

Muttering under his breath, Naveen stormed off toward home. His father followed slowly, understanding his son’s frustration. Not only had Naveen failed his NDA exam, but conversations like these—casual dismissals of a soldier’s sacrifice—set his blood boiling.

“In this country, people only become wise when talking about others. It’s only when it happens to them that reality finally hits,” Naveen grumbled as he entered the house. But no one was in sight.

The sound of the television came from the next room. He walked in to find his mother and sister seated in front of the TV, silently crying.

He turned toward the screen.

The final rites of the martyred fighter pilot, Flight Lieutenant Vikram Singh Sanger, were being broadcast live. With full military honors, the Indian Air Force—and the entire nation—was bidding farewell to a hero.

Naveen quietly took a seat on a nearby chair. His father entered a moment later, and without a word, sat down beside him.

The screen showed Vikram’s parents repeatedly. His mother was weeping, supported by women from behind, while his father stood tall, teary-eyed, saluting the flag-draped coffin that held the shattered remains of his young son.

What fate it must be—to watch your son’s funeral with your own eyes, to consign him to fire while you still breathed.

An officer removed the national flag from the coffin and handed it over to the father—Major General Yashwant Singh Sanger, retired—who lifted it with trembling hands and pressed it to his forehead.

For that flag, soldiers lay down their lives without hesitation. Beneath that tricolor rests the very soul of a nation.

The anchor spoke solemnly:

"A deeply emotional moment on your screen—what you're seeing is the father of the martyred Flight Lieutenant Vikram Singh Sanger, Retired Major General Yashwant Singh Sanger, saluting his son for the last time. Beside him is his grieving wife. We salute these parents, who have given their son for the nation."

The camera cut to a military panel discussion. The anchor turned to a retired officer seated beside her. “What would you say about this, Brigadier Sir?”

The man took a breath and adjusted his voice.

“First, I bow down to Flight Lieutenant Vikram Singh Sanger. He sacrificed his life to ensure that his crashing jet didn’t fall in a civilian area. I know this family personally—they are all brave souls who have made great sacrifices for the country. But today, that is not the point.”

He cleared his throat and continued:

“Through this platform, I want to ask the government—are we truly so helpless that we send our young men to fly jets that other nations retired years ago? Do you know what they call the MiG-21? ‘The Flying Coffin.’ Another nickname? ‘The Widow Maker.’ It’s a jet with a known history of technical failures. Engine failure, mid-air fire—you never know what might go wrong.”

He paused, then said quietly:

“This family also has an elder son—a serving Major in the Indian Army. And the irony? He couldn’t even attend his younger brother’s last rites because of duty. So many families in this country have all their children serving in uniform. And what do they get in return? They give everything to defend us. But do we send them to war prepared? I think we all know the answer.”

“You’re absolutely right, Sir,” said the anchor. “They’re fighting with everything that they have… but are they getting enough resources to fight?"

The funeral ended with full honors. The broadcast shifted to a studio debate.

“You’re not joining the Army, Navi,” his mother said suddenly, wiping her tears. Her voice trembled with emotion.

“But why?!”

“Just let go of this dream of joining the Army.”

“What are you saying, Ma? You know how important this is to me—it’s been my dream since childhood!”

“You’re our only son. We can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

“Oh God, there you go again,” his father sighed, half-laughing. “You always need an excuse to cry, don’t you, Nanda’s mother?”

“This is the root of our country’s problem,” Naveen muttered like a sage. “Everyone wants martyrs—but from someone else’s home.”

“No parent sends their child to become a martyr, but even the news channels are saying—we don’t even have the right weapons, so what—”

“Ma, you’re talking about Vikram Singh Sanger today, but did you hear? His brother couldn’t even attend the funeral because he’s on duty. His father was a senior officer. Do you think this family ever lacked anything in life? No. And yet, they chose the Army. Why? Because service to the nation doesn’t look at weapons or comforts. As long as breath remains, this nation’s youth will fight for Bharat Mata—no matter how mighty the enemy. We will stand our ground”

He ended with a wide grin, looking at his mother.

“Well said, oh Youth of the Nation,” his father chuckled behind him. “But tell us, what happened to your NDA exam result?”

“It didn’t work out,” Naveen replied, face fallen. “But I will join the Army. If not as an officer, then as a jawan. I will serve.”

“And how exactly will you manage that, dear sir?” his father teased.

“Baba,” Nandini interjected, “I was thinking… maybe if he gets one more year of coaching…”

Before she could finish, their father cut her off. “No, Nanda. We already gave him one chance. The harvest was poor last year. The fees saved for your university admission went to his coaching, and you lost a year. This time, you go to university. He goes to college. End of story.”

“I’m not talking about coaching, Nanda Di,” Naveen said quickly. “You focus on your studies. But I won’t go to college. I’ll enlist. Maybe not as an officer, but as a soldier. I will wear that uniform.”

“You will,” Nandini smiled at him.

“You’re the only one on my side in this cruel world, Nanda Di. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what these two would do to me!”

"Nanda has spoiled him silly with all her pampering. Once she's married off, how will she live without her adopted son?" Naveen's mother says with a laugh.

"He’ll follow her around like a tail, just wait and see," Mohan ji adds.

That day, one family was drowning in grief—while another remained unaware of the sorrow the future held for them.