They call it an inquiry when they want it to sound formal; I call it a room full of men and a single truth that refuses to be polite. The operations tent has been reconfigured—maps folded away, a long table set with plastic chairs, and a circle of faces that look like they were carved from different kinds of stone. I arrive with my folder under my arm and the photograph of the pendant folded like a small hand grenade in my coat pocket.
Colonel Rajput stands to one side, his shoulders a little straighter than the day before. For him, this is not only procedure; it is personal. He nods to me as if to say: you did right to bring the paper. I take that as permission to breathe.
Nandini is already there, sleeves rolled up, the kind of white-coat steely she reserves for operating rooms and ugly truths. Daiwik arrives last, carrying that habit of a man who has watched too many monitors through the small hours—his brow cut into furrows that never used to be there. He meets my eyes for a second and then looks away, and in that motion I measure the distance the last week has made us walk.
The officer in charge of the inquiry clears his throat and tries to make the beginning official. "We are here to determine the origin of the media leak and to verify chain of custody for the recovered remains and personal effects."
He might as well have said: we are here to decide whether a man's life will be written by families or by headlines. There is little ceremony in that choosing.
They call in witnesses, one by one. First, Corporal Arora, who signs documents with an even hand and a small tremor in his jaw when he says, "I logged the transfer. It left the forward ops with an OS directive." He refuses to assign blame—"I followed orders"—and for that he gets the safe protective shrug of men who do not want to be remembered for asking why.
Then Lieutenant Verma, whose face is pallid under the tent's lights. He says the forensic tent received the items in sealed containers; he tells the story the way a man reads a manual—fact, time, stamp. He is careful to put the responsibility into the system's language. "Temporary custody under OS directive," he repeats, following the phrase like a prayer he cannot unravel.
My throat is dry. I wait for the moment where paper becomes person and the finger can be pointed. Instead the finger keeps curling back into the glove of procedure.
Finally, they call a witness from communications: a small man with a shaved head and the kind face of someone who has seen too many nights without sleep. He brings printouts—server logs, IP traces, and a trail of metadata that will make a bureaucrat salivate. The top line, highlighted in bright blue, reads: request initiated by administrative node X. The node X is mapped to Rathore's operational domain.
When the investigator translates that into plain words, the tent seems to shrink. "Node X sits in Rathore's operational cell," he says. "The request used administrative privileges to extract the field report. The contractor number—" he pauses and looks at my folder as if to ask whether I want to hear the rest—"—was then messaged, which reached a civilian contact who sent the data to the press."
Aditya Rathore's name ripples through the tent like a thrown stone. He sits at the far end with that polished air, as if a tent full of accusation is just another press conference for him. His smile is the same one I saw under floodlights when the reporter asked him to repeat a line—calm, practiced, without a tremor of conscience.
"You have evidence it originated from my cell?" he asks, voice measured.
"We have access logs," the investigator answers. "They show administrative access tied to your domain. We need to show who signed off on that access."
Rathore's eyes flicker—just a glance—and in that fraction of time he looks less composed. He has patrons and habits that smell of privilege; the tent seems smaller and the air thinner around him.
"I didn't authorize anyone to leak anything," he says. "If someone in my team used privileges, it was without my knowledge. I am an officer. I follow orders and I expect my men to do the same."
He shifts responsibility like a practiced man shifts blame—light, and with the trademark confidence of those who move in circles that protect them.
I stand then because there is a moment where formalities must be unbalanced by a single human insistence. "If someone used privileges," I say, "it was because those privileges were assigned and not revoked. Someone allowed administrative access. Someone in command must be accountable."
Rathore's jaw tightens. "You are a civilian, Doctor. You should not be speaking in operational terms."
"I am a clinician," I say, and I let my voice find its hardness. "But I am also a person whose life has been made into a headline without my family being informed. That is not merely operational; it is moral."
The tent goes quiet like a field stilled by snow. Even Rathore's smile seems to recalibrate.
The investigator calls him to testify. Rathore rises and speaks in a tone that smells of cameras: "I have nothing to hide. If access logs show an abuse, we will find the culprit. It is in everyone's interest that we do so. But I will not have my unit accused without proof."
His word is a gauntlet. He expects me to back down. But the thing about having a ledger—names, timestamps, contractor numbers—is that it gives you permission to be loud with paper. I lay out the sequence: the contractor text to Aditya, the forwarded screenshot, the OS node query, the time stamps. Each item is small and bureaucratic, but together they form a geometry I cannot let be invisible.
The investigator suggests a break while they pull in the communications team to subpoena logs and interview the contractor. In the lull, an entire press van blares beyond the tent as if to remind us that the city is waiting like a consumer at a market.
When the contractor is brought in, he looks like a man who has been paid for his silence and then paid again for his honesty. "I got a text," he says, voice small. "Someone told me—someone I call when I need info from the forward. He sent a photo. I sent it to a friend. The friend's friend had an editor. It spread."
"Who sent you the photo?" Colonel Rajput asks.
The contractor covers his mouth and counts beads on an invisible worry chain. "I don't know the name," he says. "Only a number. The number came from an administrative account. It looked like a forwarded system message."
"That number," I say, "is traceable."
"Yes," the contractor says. "But I gave it to the press."
Some part of me wants to shake him. Another part of me wants to forgive him because he is, in the end, a pawn. He is the low-level node paid to move information. The higher nodes make the shape of a scandal.
The investigator turns to Rathore and asks bluntly, "Who had administrative access to Node X in the last seven days?"
Rathore's voice is smooth. "Administrative access is granted by operations command for exercises and rotational purposes. Anyone with admin privileges can request a field report."
"Then who signed the admin request?" I press.
Rathore finds a new smile, this one a thin shield. "You should let the process run its course, Doctor. Accusations are dangerous. We will follow the logs and the chain."
Dangerous. He uses the word like a blade aimed at the chest of truth. This is exactly what men like him mean: make procedure the wall between the public's right to know and the family's right to dignity.
After the contractor leaves, the investigator calls in Verma. He is quieter this time. "I authorized the transfer to rear for forensic analysis," Verma says. "The OS directive was noted. The signature on the digital transfer is recorded. But there is a gap: the OS authorization shows an admin token. The token was invoked remotely."
The tent feels like a wound being opened and examined. Each explanation is antiseptic; each antiseptic washes over a place I want to be raw. I want to scream and demand names. This is what I have: paper, timestamps, and the smell of a man's privilege in the air.
When Rathore is finally asked if he recognizes any of the administrative accounts, he says, carefully, "Some administrative functions are ephemeral. During exercises, an officer may be granted temporary privileges. I cannot vouch for every ticketing entry in the system."
"Temporary privileges that produce headlines?" I ask. "That leak a man's status and make his absence a public spectacle before the family was told?"
Rathore's smile is a glove again. "We operate under constraints. Information flows. It is not always possible to contain leaks. The press will always claim something; we will always push back. What matters is that we follow up."
He is practiced in the language of plausible deniability. It leaves me empty and angry. The words "follow up" are a courtesy to the bereaved; they are almost a mockery.
When the hearing adjourns for the day, the investigator promises an accelerated audit, subpoenas for phone records, and the practical humiliation of people who must surrender their phones to hand over the truth. Rathore leaves with his retinue—calm, as if the tent had been a stage on which he merely performed.
Outside, Aditya poses for a camera and offers the line he will repeat on the radio: "We report what we are given. The public deserves transparency."
Daiwik's hand finds mine when the tent empties. His fingers are warm, and when he speaks there is a fatigue that sounds like contrition. "I told the truth," he says simply. "In there. I told them I saw him."
Telling the truth is a violent act in this context; it tears the veil and exposes the tender parts. He looks at me as if asking whether the damage can be repaired. I want to say yes, out of habit and because part of me clings to the man who saved me. But another part—wounded, practical—knows that trust is a currency that must be earned.
"What did you tell them, exactly?" I ask.
"That I saw him alive after surgery," he says. "That he asked me to keep silence for the mission. That he gave me the pendant to hold if something happened. I told them I followed orders."
"And you told them nothing about who authorized the OS node?" I ask sharply. "Was that part of your silence?"
He looks down. "I don't know who used the admin token. I only know what I was told. I thought keeping silence helped keep people alive. I thought it protected the mission and you."
"You made that decision for me," I say quietly. "You decided what I could hold. That is not just silence—it's choosing for me."
He closes his eyes and releases a breath that sounds like a surrender. "I know. I am sorry."
Apologies float in the air like fragile things. I have to decide what to do with them.
The papers move slowly. The audit confirms the OS node's involvement and the forwarding to the contractor's number. Colonel Rajput, who has the procedural patience of a man who has lost before, moves with deliberate force. He orders Rathore's operational access restricted pending a full investigation and demands an internal review. It is the first official red line drawn in the sand.
Rathore protests, of course. When you have built your life on being first, being second feels like drowning. He performs indignation for the cameras and calls for a proper investigation—one that will, if he can help it, place blame on a lower-level admin or an overeager contractor.
That night I am exhausted in a way I have not been since I watched a man die in my arms during residency. The difference is that now the death is not confirmed, and the withering is public. I sleep with the pendant photograph tucked into the page of my journal and the note—his Forgive me—folded beneath. The two objects are both proof and puzzle.
Before I sleep, Daiwik comes to the grove and kneels in the snow beside me. He does not demand forgiveness; he only sits. The snow around the stump is dimly lit by the lanterns we relight like beacons. We are small in that light and large with questions.
"I will do anything to help," he says.
"Help how?" I ask. "By keeping secrets? By obeying orders that silence me?"
He flinches. "No. By testifying. By pulling every record. By helping your legal petition. By being honest in every hall. I will not be quiet anymore."
His promise is a thing I can hold. It does not erase the past; it is not an absolution. But it is new behavior, and new behavior is the only thing that can repair old damage.
In the dim, a text comes through on my phone. It is from an unknown number, a short line that reads: We have additional items from grid sector. New evidence. Come to the tent if you want to see.
I do not know who sent it; I do not know whether it is kindness or a trap. But the truth has already proven messy. Paper and blood will continue to be partners in this story. I fold the phone under my pillow and breathe slow, as Daiwik taught me to teach others. Tomorrow will be another day of forms and faces and, I hope, of names brought to light.
For now, the lanterns in the grove keep vigil. I press my palm to the stump, to the wood that knows how to hold small things. I fold my hands and say the only prayer I have left: not for answers—those will come, in paper or in testimony—but for a man who once carved my name in his breath to be remembered as more than a headline.