Between a beautiful lie and a painful truth lies the martyrdom of our soldiers. Though all men die in the same way, there are a few exceptions to this rule. The young officers, who lay down their lives to protect us, or while training to protect us, are celebrated even in death.
Haven’t we all have encountered death in one way or the other in our lives? Maybe with a close one or ourselves in a road accident, a medical ailment, old age or just a natural catastrophe? There are just some of the reasons, but to be martyred and not die is a privilege only a few chosen ones enjoy.
In the past few days of my rendezvous with my ‘fauji’ friends, I have noticed clear signs of depression, anger, revenge, and worst of all, helplessness. They’ve lost their buddies, torchbearers and guides. They’ve lost more than just a friend.
Sadness engulfs you when you lose someone so close, but what bothers me more is their helplessness. They have encountered death like none of us ever have or will do.
It’s become routine for them to recover or receive a body once in a while, of someone they have loved dearly, but their eyes are moist every single time.
When a soldier dies, a mother loses her son; a sister loses her brother; a wife, her husband; a child, his/ her father.
Most of all, a country loses a brave-heart!
Hoping against hope that this madness of revenge and avenge stops. Hoping against hope that our neighbours dwell in peace. Hoping against hope that the martyred could rise from their ashes.