Army Base Hospital

Srinagar, Jammu & Kashmir

Outside the ICU, Mr. Yashwant and Mrs. Kaveri sat in silence. Yashwant stared blankly at the wall ahead while Kaveri, struggling to hold herself together, kept wiping away the tears that quietly escaped her eyes.

Inside, Major Sangram was undergoing a critical surgery. A team of the Army’s finest and most skilled surgeons were doing everything they could.

Moments passed. The heavy silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching. Two men emerged from the operation theatre. The couple immediately stood up, their hearts thudding with dread.

Neither could gather the courage to ask about their son. What if the answer shattered them?

Understanding their fragile state, the colonel—an army doctor himself—chose to speak first.

“We’ve removed the bullets, sir… ma’am,” he said gently. “But I’m afraid that’s all I can say for now.”

“Please, speak clearly. We are not so faint-hearted that we can’t bear the truth,” Yashwant said, his voice like stone, though his soul trembled beneath it.

“The Major is not out of danger. He remains critical. We’ll need to monitor him for the next 72 hours. Only then will we know more.”

A wave of fear swept across their faces. Kaveri realized Yashwant had gripped her hand tightly—she softly patted it in return.

Yashwant, however, sensed there was more the colonel wasn’t saying.

And he was right.

“Sir… eight bullets were fired at Major Sanger. But only three struck him. The other five…” The colonel paused, his voice catching. “The other five were taken by his buddy commando. He shielded Major with his own body—like a living armor. A true soldier’s sacrifice.”

Both parents stared at him, stunned, unmoving.

“Who?” Yashwant asked, voice breaking, barely able to form the question.

“Lance Naik Naveen Kumar Pandey,” the colonel replied.

The moment the name fell from his lips, Kaveri's knees buckled. Yashwant and the colonel rushed to seat her.

“No… no, what are you saying? Naveen?” she whispered in disbelief. She had only met the boy days ago. Sangram never stopped talking about him—always smiling, always joking.

“Yes, ma’am. Eight bullets. We tried everything. But there was no saving him. He bled too much. Still, he fought, even while dying. Like a lion. He became a shield for your son. A true hero.”

Tears welled in Yashwant’s eyes. Kaveri broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably.

Memories of Naveen’s laughter, his light-hearted teasing, the ease with which he had made a place in their hearts—all flooded back. He was just like Vikram. And like Vikram... he too was gone. Just like that.

Suddenly. Forever.

---

Nariyapur Village

The village swarmed with media. Reporters from local and national channels had descended on the modest home.

“Your son achieved the highest form of martyrdom. A true hero born of your womb. Would you like to say something?” a reporter asked, thrusting a microphone in front of Naveen’s grieving mother.

She gave no reply, only sobs escaped her.

The reporter repeated the question. Still no answer.

Frustrated, he turned to Nandini, seated beside her mother. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her head resting silently on them, eyes fixed to the ground. She wasn't even crying.

He changed the word “son” to “brother” and asked again.

Still, no response. It was as if she wasn’t even present in that room. Her mind was elsewhere—far, far away.

Suddenly, a voice erupted. Naveen’s childhood friend Mahesh—red-eyed and shaking—stormed toward the reporter.

“Have you no shame?! Is this the time to shove a mic in someone’s face?! Let them mourn in peace! Let them cry, damn it! Let them say goodbye!”

Others joined in, scolding the journalist, forcing him and his cameraman to retreat.

As the media cleared, the politicians arrived—flashing smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. From local leaders to ruling party figures, they had all come—not to grieve, but to be photographed.

One particularly influential leader kept trying to hand Naveen’s father a cheque, subtly signaling his aides to capture the moment for social media glory. But the old man, sobbing, kept shaking his head in refusal. He folded his hands in sorrow and silence.

Finally, the leader muttered, “Perhaps this isn’t the right time,” and stood up to leave.

Then, with chants of “Naveen Kumar Amar Rahe!”, Naveen’s coffin arrived in Nariyapur—wrapped in the Indian tricolor.

He had returned home—sealed in a coffin, wrapped in the very flag he had once vowed to protect. Back to the courtyard where he’d dreamt countless dreams.

Commandos from his unit—the 9th Battalion of the Parachute Regiment—carried him in with solemn honor.

The air grew heavier with each step. Heavy with sacrifice, with grief, with pride.

Somebody brought Nandini forward, closer to the coffin. They opened it—for the family to see him one last time.

And then… screams. Wails. A storm of sorrow burst loose.

Nandini stepped forward and placed her trembling hand on his face. It was cold—so cold. She sat down beside him, gently stroking his hair, his cheek. Whenever someone tried to move her, she shook them off violently.

She sat there for a long time, staring into that coffin with empty eyes.

Then, she raised her hand.

Thak.

A soft knock on the wood.

Thak. Harder this time.

Thak. Thak. Thak. She kept knocking—again and again.

As if… as if she believed he might wake up and come out.

“Navi! Get up! Your sister’s calling you. Navi!!” Her scream tore through the silence.

Everyone around her broke down. All of Nariyapur knew how much she had mothered that boy. Rani Devi had been ill for years after his birth—it was little Nandini who had raised him, fed him, taught him. She had never stopped being his second mother.

And today, losing him felt no different than losing a child.

As they prepared to take his body for cremation, a woman whispered, “Pandey ji’s family is ruined. In a few months, the daughter was to be married. And today, her brother’s funeral pyre is being lit instead…”

Another added through tears, “TV says every soldier on that mission died. Dozens of terrorists were killed. It was massive. Only one officer survived… still fighting between life and death in a military hospital…”

For Naveen’s final journey, the entire village—and neighboring ones—had gathered. The air rang with cries of “Shaheed Naveen Amar Rahe!” and “Bharat Mata ki Jai!”

Even children spoke of his bravery. The earth itself seemed to rise with pride as it prepared to bid its son goodbye.

With full military honors, the Indian Army saluted their braveheart. And in the end, a father, weeping but proud, lit the pyre of his son.

As the flames roared higher and higher...

Suddenly, Nandini broke into a run.

Barefoot. Hair disheveled. Screaming.

“Get him down! He’ll burn—get him down! My brother—he’ll burn!”

People rushed after her, trying to stop her.

But the flames were already touching the sky. As if the earth itself had opened its arms to embrace the son who had given up everything for her.

Then, Nandini stumbled.

She fell face first in the dirt, her tears mixing with the soil. But she kept whispering one name—Naveen.

That name was all she remembered.

Slowly, her voice faded. Her eyes closed.

And silence fell again.