The mountains of Pahalgam, once symbols of serenity and timeless beauty, now echo with something else—grief, fear, and uncertainty. Another attack. Another set of folded flags. Another night where sleep is a luxury I cannot afford. And while the world scrolls through headlines, I scroll through names, through uniforms, through faces that feel like my own.
They say those who wear the uniform "signed up" for it. That death is part of their duty. But let me ask you—did they really sign up to be reduced to breaking news? Did they sign up to be eulogised before they could live a full life, or to become case studies in geopolitics? Or did they sign up because they believed they could serve—not perish?
This isn’t just about soldiers. It’s about brothers. It’s about friends. It's about the women who wait—mothers, wives, sisters like me—those who don’t wear camo but carry the same weight in their hearts. We’re the ones who iron the creases in those uniforms, not knowing if we’ll ever see them filled again. We’re the ones who whisper "Be safe" as if those two words can shield them better than a bulletproof vest. And when we break, we do it quietly, because the world doesn't give medals to the ones who wait.
Ever since the news broke that our armed forces have been given a "free hand," I haven't known peace. The war drums may be distant, but their rhythm pounds loud in my chest. There’s too much noise in my mind—strategies, consequences, retaliation, and above all, loss. It's hard to concentrate, to write, to function. When death becomes a possibility hanging over someone you love, how can you focus on anything else?
There is a war outside, yes. But there’s another inside me—between pride and fear, between strength and sorrow. I know what duty means. I’ve grown up seeing it. I've had my beloved ones doing their duty. But I also know what love feels like. And love never gets used to loss. Not even in uniform.
No, I’m not here to argue about policies or geopolitics. I’m not here to sound wise. Today, I am just a sister. Just a friend. Just a fellow Indian who is terrified for a fellow woman, for a fellow family. And in that terror, I ask: is war the only answer?
To those who think fear makes me weak—let me correct you. This fear, this ache, this constant clenching of my chest—it doesn't make me less strong. It makes me human.
So I write tonight, not to preach but to pour. For the ones who left, for the ones still fighting, and for the ones silently standing tall behind them. For the ghosts we’ve buried and the prayers we haven’t stopped whispering.
May the ones in uniform return home. Alive. Whole. And may the rest of us not be forgotten in the fog of war.
Because behind every badge, there is a beating heart—and behind every warrior, a weeping soul.
To my loved ones standing there, battle hardened, I owe you, we owe you, the nation owes you! My prayers, all my sincere prayers, coz that is the only thing I can do, from far away, yet so close to you.
JaiHind....!
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