Sanger House, New Delhi

Morning

The old landline phone in the hall wouldn’t stop ringing. Outside, Mrs. Kaveri Singh Sanger was watering the plants. It took her a few moments to realize that the sound was not from the garden, but from inside. She put the watering can down and walked briskly in.

Lifting the receiver, she said, “Hello?”

Silence.

She waited.

Then again, more firmly, “Hello?”

A hesitant voice finally came through.

“Is this… Sanger House?”

“Yes.”

“May I know who I’m speaking to?”

“You’re speaking with Kaveri Singh Sanger. Go on...”

A breath. Then the voice on the other end wavered slightly, the weight of his words visible even through the line.

“Ma’am... your son has been injured in an encounter.”

The officer’s voice trembled. For those in uniform, delivering such news was always a wound unto itself—an honor-bound duty, but a devastating one nonetheless.

“Injured with a bullet or bullets?” she asked, her voice trying hard to stay firm.

“Bullets, ma’am.” The voice cracked again.

“He’ll live, won’t he?” she asked, the steel in her voice faltering, letting a tremor of desperation escape.

“We’re doing everything we can, ma’am.”

The call ended abruptly. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she collapsed onto the sofa like a building giving way to a silent earthquake.

It was happening again.

All of it.

The same pattern. The same fate.

Her eyes welled as they rose to the family portrait hanging on the wall—a perfect snapshot of love and pride. Yashwant in his Army uniform, Sangram in the middle, and Vikram in his Air Force blues. She, between them, laughing—radiant, proud, unbreakable. The picture mocked her now.

It was all too perfect.

Too full.

Perhaps fate had long decided that their family owed sacrifices to the nation.

First Vikram.

And now… Sangram?

“Oh Lord, how many more children must this womb give up?” she whispered, folding her hands in prayer before breaking into tears.

Yashwant was informed within minutes. He immediately called Sangram’s unit commander. The news was grave—Sangram was critically injured but still breathing. That one shred of hope was enough. He held himself together, steadied Kaveri’s breaking spirit, and together they prepared to leave for Srinagar. They knew the road ahead could bring any message. Any reality.

---

Nariyapur Village

Morning

Nandini had just arrived at her school. A smile lit up her face as she watched children running and laughing in the courtyard. Children always stirred something gentle in her heart. Today, they seemed even more precious—carefree, light as the morning breeze.

This—this was the future of the country.

And for such a future, some gave up everything.

Without hesitation.

Without question.

Her phone rang inside her handbag. Once. Then silence. Then again.

“Naavi!” she exclaimed, hope fluttering in her chest as she dug through her books and lunchbox.

Naveen always called in the early mornings. His missions usually ended by dawn, and he’d check in from base before doing anything else. Her heart danced with its usual anticipation.

But today, it was about to be shattered.

The screen showed: Raman.

Her smile faltered, but lingered. Raman rarely called. Nandini, shy and reserved, wasn’t one to expect much from acquaintances. She never complained.

She answered just as she was about to greet him, when his voice cut in—

“Nandini… where are you?”

“At school,” she replied. Something was off. He sounded... shaken. Her calm tone confirmed for him what he feared—she didn’t know yet. And he didn’t have the strength to tell her.

“Okay. Stay there. I’m coming to get you. Five minutes.”

“What? Why?”

“Just... something urgent.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes! Yes. Everything’s fine.” His words stumbled before regaining footing.

“I can’t just leave. I won’t get leave—”

“Papa’s already spoken to them.”

Something was wrong. She felt it. But asked no more questions.

She hung up and turned to see two teachers emerging from the staff room. But they saw her and quickly turned away.

Within minutes, Raman’s car pulled up outside. He ushered her in and drove off at a reckless speed.

“Why are you driving so fast?” she asked, anxiety rising in her chest.

“I have to get you home.”

“Is something wrong at home?”

A thousand thoughts attacked her—her mother’s health, her father... But Naveen? That never even crossed her mind.

He stopped the car not in front of the house, but in an open field nearby, pointing her toward her home.

She got out slowly.

Why were there so many people outside?

Why were the neighbors standing on rooftops?

Why were women wailing with their veils drawn over their faces?

And then someone saw her.

And screamed her name.

And then another. And another.

Her heart sank.

Something had happened.

She wanted to run. Her soul leapt toward the house, but her feet dragged, paralyzed.

She stepped inside. The veranda was packed with villagers. Inside, cries echoed, but one voice—one woman’s voice—ripped through them all like a blade: raw, guttural, as if her soul had been torn from her body.

"Ma..." Nandini whispered. Her chest pounded, her body drenched in cold sweat.

She stumbled forward. Her mother lay unconscious, surrounded by sobbing women. Her father sat quietly in a corner, hands covering his face.

Then who—?

“Naveen is gone!! Nanda! Your Naveen is gone!” Her aunt threw herself at her, beating her chest and wailing.

“He’s left us all! He’s gone, Nanda! Your Naveen is a martyr now!!”

Lightning struck Nandini. Again. And again. A thousand bolts at once.

“No. No, that’s not possible. He doesn’t go anywhere without telling me. No. This is wrong. It’s a lie.” She stumbled toward her mother, who now lay like a corpse.

“Maa... It’s all a lie. He’ll call this evening. He’s safe. He’ll say it himself. Maa, listen to me.” She turned her mother’s lifeless face toward hers.

Her mother saw her and raised her empty hands, spreading her saree’s pallu—her lap—like a plea.

“I am barren now, Nanda… my womb is empty! Your mother is empty now. My lap... it’s soaked in blood!” She clung to her daughter and wept.

“Nothing happened to him!” Nandini insisted. “He listens to me. Always. I’ll call him. I’ll scold him. You’ll see—he’ll come running. Just wait, Maa…”

She stood, frantically searching for her phone, knocking things over like a madwoman. Her mind refused to believe.

He couldn’t be gone.

People looked at her with tearful pity.

“Nanda!” her father called out, rising to stop her.

“You’re all lying!” she screamed, shaking his hand off. “You’re all liars! All of you!”

She ran toward the door, mumbling, “He must’ve called. My bag… where’s my bag? His call must be there…”

Her father gripped her tightly again, weeping, shaking his head, “No, beta. No.”

“Let me check once! Please, Baba! His call must be there. Just once…” She struggled in his arms, sobbing, pleading.

Eventually, her body gave up.

Her mind began to understand.

Her heart…

refused.

Mohanji pulled her into a crushing embrace, holding her close against his chest as though trying to shield her from the storm of truth that had just shattered their world. She was speaking—no, whispering—a string of incoherent words, her voice barely audible, trembling with disbelief. The truth had yet to settle in her heart, and yet… truth, no matter how monstrous, cannot be denied.

“Baba… our Navi… he’s gone! He left us all behind! Our Navi is gone, Baba! My brother… he’s gone!!”

She kept repeating the same thing over and over, like a broken prayer to a god who had stopped listening.

Father and daughter clung to each other, sobbing—grief washing over them in raw, wrenching waves. Their cries filled the silence, the only sound left in a world that had just lost its light.