Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
Dawn arrived with a brittle hush over Leh, as though the world itself hesitated before unfolding. I slipped into my clinic robes and checked my reflection in the tent window—eyes rimmed with fatigue, hair escaping its braid. Today was the first day of the Siachen rotational shift: six new officers would arrive to relieve the medevac teams, and I'd run intake interviews all morning. In the afternoon, I was to lead a group session on coping with extended separation—ironic, given my own restless heart.
I stepped outside into the crisp air. The morning sun skirted the ridges, igniting the snow into pale fire. Soldiers moved in broken columns toward the landing pad—some jogging, others trudging under packs. I gathered my satchel and lined up the chairs beneath the mess tent's overhang. A thermos of tea steamed at my elbow; clipboards waited like blank pages.
0800 hours: The first transport lumbered in, rotors beating a hollow warning. I braced myself as the hatch rolled open and a dozen khaki uniforms spilled onto the ground. New faces—barely old enough to shave—blinked against the glare. I offered nods, smiles, and the warmth of a civilian presence in their soldier's world.
"Dr. Malhotra," Captain Singh—recent survivor of the LoC breach—called out, hoisting his pack. "Good to see you."
I greeted each officer with a quick intake: name, rank, unit, most recent trauma exposure. Their eyes flickered between me and the distant peaks, gauging whether this was sanctuary or trap. By the time the last sergeant introduced himself, my clipboard was a mosaic of manila tags and clinical notes.
1000 hours: I led a two‑hour workshop on "Sustaining Connection Across Distance." Laptops cast bluish light on tired faces as I guided them through role‑play exercises: drafting letters home, scripting video calls, using photography to bridge the miles. We practiced phrases—"I can't stop thinking of you", "Share a moment when I'm not there"—to keep the flicker of intimacy alive.
Shashwat sat in the front row, uniform impeccable, eyes focused. He took notes in a neat scrawl, wrist brushing the maple‑wood locket peeking from his pocket. Later, he raised his hand: "How do we maintain honesty without burdening loved ones with our worst days?"
I paused, considering. "Vulnerability is essential, but so is timing. Choose moments when you know they can hold your pain. Use 'I' statements—'I'm scared tonight' instead of 'You can't help me.' And always pair the fear with a hope—'I'm scared tonight, but I'll call you as soon as I can.'"
A sergeant muttered agreement; another nodded, relief on his features. Shashwat's acknowledgment met my gaze, a silent thank‑you.
1200 hours: I broke for lunch—beans and chapati by the mess kettle. The laughter around me felt hollow, a veneer of normalcy. Across the table, Daiwik joined me, cradling a bowl of dal. "You're good at this," he said softly.
I winced. "I'm good at listening."
He studied me. "Still... you transform classrooms into safe spaces."
I met his gaze. "Trauma demands trust more than technique."
He nodded, as if weighing a truth he'd long known. "I miss teaching you."
My heart thudded. "Me too."
He reached across, brushing my hand. "Soon."
1400 hours: The group session ended, but a few officers lingered—seeking guidance, reassurance, perhaps an extension of the cage‑free detachment they found in my clinic. I welcomed each candid confession: nightmares that woke them, letters lost in transit, guilt when days passed without contact. We practiced grounding one more time—five senses in five steps—until tent flaps rattled with wind, and fatigue claimed even the bravest.
Shashwat approached at the edge of the circle. "May I?" he asked, presenting a small, battered notebook. Inside, in familiar pencil, was the line I'd taught him: "When far from home, our hearts find voice in every echo of memory." Beneath, his own addition: "And in every echo, I hear your name."
I swallowed. "It's beautiful."
He shrugged, cheeks flushed. "It felt necessary."
He closed the notebook with a soft click and tucked it away. I touched his arm. "Thank you—for always bridging the distance."
He gave a small, bittersweet smile. "For you, I'll cross any gap."
1600 hours: After the group departed, I stayed behind to organize my notes. The sun dipped, casting long shadows through the tent. I spotted a lone figure just outside—Colonel Rajput, retired but present, his medal bar gleaming faintly. He nodded to me, face lined with the burden of fallen sons.
"Kavya," he said, voice gravelly. "Your workshops... they give these men purpose."
I closed my notebook. "They need to know they're more than their deployments."
He studied me. "You're... relentless."
I shrugged. "I've seen what withholding grief does."
He sighed. "My Shash—he learned to speak his pain, thanks to you."
I caught my breath. "He taught me too."
He gave a solemn nod. "Just... take care of him."
I reached out, touching his arm. "I will."
He ambled away, leaving me with the weight of a father's plea.
1800 hours: Evening slipped in. I made my way to the cherry grove—my haven and his. Lanterns hung from the branches, paper cups of tea set on a stump. I found him there, hands tucked in his pockets, staring into the distance.
"I thought I might find you here," I said.
He turned, surprise softening into relief. "I needed a moment."
I sat beside him, cups clinking. The blossoms whispered overhead. He took a sip of tea. "They're ready," he said. "For deployment."
I nodded, chest tight. "Twenty‑four hours."
He set his cup down. "I wish I could stay."
I reached for his hand. "So do I."
He closed his eyes, voice low. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll keep writing. Even if I can't read your letters right away—keep writing."
I smiled through tears. "I promise."
He opened his eyes, searching mine. "And promise you won't wait."
My heart lurched. "I—"
He squeezed my hand. "You deserve life. Love. Don't let my absence define you."
I swallowed. "I promise."
He leaned in, kissing my forehead. "Then live."
Late Night—A Letter in the Dark
That night, sleep eluded me. I sat by my desk under the lantern's glow, pen poised over stationary. I wrote:
My Dearest,
Your absence carves new hollow spaces in my chest, yet I fill them with hope—hope that your return will mend the fissures in my heart. While you cross glaciers and valleys, I will cross miles of paper, pouring my love into every line. I will live as you asked: fully, bravely, with courage born of your promises.
Until I feel your warmth again,
Kavya
I folded the letter and sealed it, slipping it into an envelope marked "DK, Kupwara Post". Then I held it in my lap, the weight of every word pressing my chest. Outside, the wind raced, as though sweeping my hope into the stars.
Epilogue—Dawn of Tomorrow
I placed the letter in the mail satchel at first light, watching the medevac runner carry it toward the outpost gate. My heart wavered between dread and faith. The world beyond the tent was vast—mountains unforgiving, orders unyielding—but our hearts had found a way to echo across every chasm.
As I returned to the clinic, the sky blushes with dawn, I whispered into the wind:
May love outlast every deployment, every distance, every storm.
And I believed it would.