bhaskar saikia

Out in the desolate stretch where sand meets sky and silence is broken only by the crack of guns, a soldier runs—not away from death, but straight into its path. Bullets tear through the air like angry whispers, each one a sentence waiting to be written on his skin. But he does not falter. Ahead of him lies his comrade, bleeding and fading fast. The world narrows down to a single instinct—save him. Not for medals or glory, but because something deep within commands it. Something stronger than fear.

His courage is not loud. It doesn’t shout or parade. It’s a decision made in a moment when the cost is clear. He knows the battlefield well; he has seen friends fall. And yet, he runs. Because love—true love—for one’s country, for one’s people, often demands a price that is paid not with words, but with blood.

He reaches his comrade and drags him back, inch by inch, through the dirt and the heat and the chaos. Shrapnel kisses his side; pain becomes a distant echo. Dust and blood mingle under his touch—both sacred, both familiar. They survive, but the soldier knows it could easily have been otherwise. And that night, under a sky cracked with stars, he lies awake, listening to the breathing of the one he saved. There’s no triumph in his chest, only gratitude—and the humbling awareness of time.

What war teaches best is not hatred, but perspective. Those who live with the constant presence of death begin to notice life more keenly. The smallest things—a steaming cup of tea, the memory of a child’s laugh, the slow unfolding of dawn—begin to feel like miracles. The soldier doesn’t take life for granted. Every heartbeat is precious. Every sunrise, a gift. He does not postpone meaning; he lives with intent, because there might not be a next time.

In this way, the soldier is not just a protector of borders—he is a guardian of what it means to be alive. His love for the motherland burns brighter than the fear of death. And in choosing to run through bullets, in choosing to save a life at the risk of losing his own, he reminds us all: that to live with the awareness of imminent death is not a curse—it is a clarity. It strips away the unimportant, leaving only truth.

And in the end, it wasn’t the enemy he feared. It was dying without having loved enough, felt enough, lived enough. So he loved his country—fiercely, irrationally, completely. And somewhere between flying bullets and death, he found not just bravery, but purpose.