Hues... Duty?... Love?

He kept staring at the blank space spread across the range of his vision. He could see her, waiting for him. She was growing impatient. He couldn’t see her clearly but then, he could tell. He knew her so well. She had started moving – now he could see her, now she was hidden, by the bright blankness that silhouetted her. 

It was taking him long, longer, much longer than usual. He wanted to go and console her. Tell her he was there, he would do what she wanted him to do. He wanted to assure her of his presence. He couldn’t see her this way. Looking at her tensed self pained him. He felt like he was being unfair to her. She was the one who had always been there for him, standing by him when he needed the most. She was the one who had inspired him, kept him going when he found it most difficult. She’d keep pushing him to go beyond what he thought were his limits. She was the one who threw challenges just for him so that he could overcome his own hurdles. She was a blessing, and all said and done, he couldn’t afford to make her restive. He didn’t like it.

On any other day, her restlessness would've been enough to force him to finish the job at hand as soon as possible. That was his cue. He'd finish get things done fast just so that he could calm her. That was his biggest challenge!

But today, it felt almost impossible. He couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t. 

Everyone around him was celebrating - celebrating a victory. Victory always comes with a price they say. A broken limb, a stretched muscle, a fractured shoulder, a swollen gut, a little blood, a few bruises here and there – they didn’t matter much, did they? 

Not to him at least, or his fellow men for that matter. A victory was a victory, a reward for their struggle. They were proud, proud to fight for the nation and their scars were proof of that struggle. They were proud of their scars. They didn’t mind donning them. 

He didn’t mind the bullet wound on his chest just a few inches above his heart. He was alive, and he’d won the battle for his nation. Nothing else mattered. 

These prices they could pay!

But today was different. This victory was unlike any other. This price was heavy. This time they hadn’t just brought bleeding soldiers back in those stretchers - they’d brought back a lifeless body. A precious life had been lost... 

He wasn’t the first ones to die in battle... Of course not! But his was the first death he needed to report. 

The rakhi that the dead soldier’s sister sent arrived that morning. The hand on which it was supposed to be tied, lay cold and lifeless now. He couldn’t understand what to say and how. For the first time ever, he fell short of words. Words refused to come to him. But he had to do it! 

He took the rakhi, tied it in his hand for strength and prepared himself. He looked up at the blank screen and she was there, playing her little peek-a-boo game. She was restless, and he knew it. He looked at his wrist once more, the rakhi firmly sitting on it providing the strength needed to do such a difficult job. He looked back at the blank screen. 

She blinked, as if smiling and telling him to go on. She didn’t mind him writing letters, as long as he kept writing. Somehow he found the words he wanted and suddenly he began typing fast... She vanished as soon as he began typing reappearing only when he needed space. He was glad to know that she was there with him throughout this painful process of drafting that letter. It hurt him beyond words to tell a sister that her rakhi gift would arrive in a huge wooden box , wrapped in the tricolor flag with her brother’s lifeless body inside. He finished typing the sad news and looked at her. She was blinking again… telling him to go on. But he had finished writing. And no matter how fiercely she, the cursor on the screen blinked, he couldn’t write anything more today.