The Melancholy Melody - K. L. Saigal and the Voice That Defined an Era

            In the annals of Indian cinema, few names are uttered with as much reverence and nostalgia as that of Kundan Lal Saigal. Known simply as K. L. Saigal, he was more than just a singer or actor - he was a phenomenon that laid the foundation for playback singing in India. Long before the rise of Lata Mangeshkar, Kishore Kumar, or Mohammed Rafi, it was Saigal’s resonant voice that held the nation spellbound. With a voice soaked in emotion and a heart pierced by poetry, he gave Hindi cinema its first true musical icon.

 A Childhood in Melody: Early Life and Influences

            Born on April 11, 1904, in Jammu, Kundan Lal Saigal hailed from a modest Punjabi family. His father, Amar Chand Saigal, worked as a tehsildar (a minor revenue official) while his mother, Kesarbai, was a deeply religious woman with a passion for music and Bhajans. Though his father's rigid attitude never supported a career in music, young Saigal’s soul was already soaked in rhythm and ragas by the time he was a teenager. The sacred strains of temple music, the soulful recitation of classical compositions, and folk songs of Punjab swirled around him like a spiritual orchestra.

             He dropped out of school early - academic life never interested him. Instead, he took on odd jobs, including a stint as a timekeeper and typewriter salesman. One of his jobs in the Indian Railways led him to various towns in northern India, exposing him to local music traditions and strengthening his ear for diverse melodies. While in Shimla, he worked as a hotel manager, where he would often sing to entertain guests. His voice soon became the talk of the town.

             His true spiritual and musical calling began to crystallize after he moved to Calcutta in the late 1920s - a city then pulsating with cultural ferment, Bengali literature, and artistic renaissance. It was in Calcutta that destiny nudged him toward immortality.

 Calcutta Calling: Breakthrough at New Theatres

             Saigal’s life changed dramatically when he met R. C. Boral, a pioneering music director at New Theatres, the most sophisticated film studio of its time. Recognizing the raw, emotional power of Saigal’s voice, Boral offered him a place in the studio’s talent bank. In those days, actors had to sing their own songs on screen, and Saigal's soulful renditions were perfect for the medium.

             In 1932, Saigal made his acting debut with Mohabbat Ke Ansu, followed by Subah Ka Sitara and Zinda Laash. These were modest efforts, but by 1933, he became a sensation with Yahudi Ki Ladki, and especially with the non-film songs “Jab Dil Hi Toot Gaya” and “Premnagar Mein Basoongi Ghar Main.” These recordings became instant classics. Saigal’s voice, full of pathos and unfiltered emotional purity, was unlike anything the Indian audience had ever heard. His tonal balance between sadness and sweetness struck a deep chord.

 Devdas (1935): The Birth of a Tragic Icon

             The real turning point in Saigal’s career came in 1935, when he was cast as the doomed lover in Devdas, directed by P. C. Barua and based on Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s novel. The film, a tragic tale of lost love and self-destruction, mirrored Saigal’s own melancholy disposition and love for poetry. His portrayal of Devdas was haunting, with his gaunt expressions, trembling voice, and soulful eyes, becoming etched in cinematic history.

             Songs like “Balam Aaye Baso More Man Mein,” “Dukh Ke Ab Din,” and the immortal “Dukh Ke Din Beetat Nahi” made him a national obsession. Audiences wept in cinema halls. Literary critics and musicologists called him the “voice of Indian sorrow.” Many believed Saigal’s identification with the character was not merely performance - it was autobiography.

“Devdas wasn’t a role for him,” said fellow actor Pahari Sanyal, “It was his inner life speaking through cinema.”

The Saigal Sound: Musical Innovations and Legacy

             K. L. Saigal’s voice was so distinctive that it transcended genres. From classical Ragas to Bhajans, Ghazals, film songs, and folk tunes, Saigal brought an emotional truth to every syllable. He was among the first singers to introduce the idea of voice modulation to reflect a song’s changing emotional textures - often shifting from whisper to cry within a single line.

             He sang in several Indian languages - Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, Punjabi, and Tamil. His Bengali songs under music directors like Pankaj Mullick were masterpieces in their own right. His rendition of Rabindranath Tagore’s compositions won him great admiration from the Bengali intelligentsia. Tagore, in fact, personally praised Saigal’s Bengali pronunciation and emotive power.

             One of Saigal’s most famous non-film songs, “Piya Bin Nahi Aavat Chain,” is often cited as an example of his ability to blend Indian classical with popular idiom. The song is based on Raag Yaman and yet remains accessible and deeply moving even to the uninitiated listener.

 Poetry of the Soul: His Inner Life

            What separated Saigal from other stars of his era was not just his musical genius, but his poetic soul. He was not a man of flamboyance or industry gossip. Instead, he was deeply introspective, sensitive, and almost mystically attuned to life’s fleeting beauty. He often quoted Urdu and Persian poetry, especially the verses of Ghalib, Zauq, and Faiz. Even in his conversations, he spoke like a poet, often lost in metaphor and emotion.

             Friends say he would sit alone on Calcutta’s riverbanks or walk through smoky alleyways at dawn, whispering lines of poetry to himself. His inner world was filled with a strange sadness - a melancholy that found perfect expression in his songs.

 “His was a soul born out of longing,” observed musicologist Raghava Menon. “Every note he sang was like a tear-shaped pearl falling into the ocean of time.”

 Struggles Behind the Curtain: Alcohol, Solitude, and Decline

             Despite his fame, or perhaps because of it, Saigal was not a happy man. He suffered from acute loneliness and gradually fell into the grip of alcoholism. What began as a glass for courage before recordings became a daily dependence. By the early 1940s, it was said that Saigal could not sing without liquor.

            His health began to deteriorate rapidly. Despite warnings from doctors and pleadings from friends, Saigal continued drinking, convinced that his creativity resided in his intoxication. He moved to Bombay (now Mumbai) in 1941 to work with Ranjit Movietone but his condition worsened.

             By 1946, Saigal's health had declined alarmingly. He looked frail, his liver was damaged, and his voice - once golden - had begun to crack. And yet, even then, he recorded some of his most moving songs. His last song, “Jab Dil Hi Toot Gaya” for the film Shahjehan (1946), became a requiem for his own life. The song begins with resignation and ends with near silence - as if his voice is walking into eternity.

 Personal Life: Marriage, Family, and Isolation

             K. L. Saigal married Asha Rani in 1935, and the couple had three children - two daughters and a son. Yet despite the domestic setup, Saigal remained emotionally distant. His melancholic nature, frequent travels, and growing dependence on alcohol kept him away from a stable family life.

             He loved his children dearly but struggled to communicate in ways beyond gifts or songs. His wife stood by him, but their relationship was marked by long silences and moments of sadness. Those close to him believe he was torn between his love for family and his deeper sense of existential alienation.

 Death of a Legend: A Nation Mourns

             K. L. Saigal passed away on January 18, 1947, in Jalandhar at the age of 42. The news spread like wildfire. Across India, people wept as if a family member had died. His body was draped in white, and thousands gathered to pay their respects. Radio stations played his songs in tribute, and newspapers declared, “The Voice of the Soul is No More.”

             Lata Mangeshkar, then a teenager, once said, “We all wanted to be like Saigal Saab. His death was like the setting of the moon.” Kishore Kumar kept a photo of Saigal in his recording room till the day he died. Mohammed Rafi said, “I learned singing by mimicking Saigal Saab’s voice in front of a mirror.”

 Legacy: More Than a Memory

             K. L. Saigal’s legacy is not merely musical; it is cultural, emotional, and spiritual. He laid the foundation for modern playback singing. He proved that songs could be more than entertainment - they could be emotion, philosophy, longing, and art.

            In 2004, on his birth centenary, the Government of India issued a commemorative postage stamp in his honour. Music academies across the country organize annual programs in his memory. And yet, his songs remain eternally young - played at midnight by insomniacs, sung by lovers under the stars, and studied by aspiring singers who know that real singing begins with feeling.

 In the Words of Others: Quotes and Testimonials

 ·         Naushad Ali (Music Director).  “There is only one Saigal. He was the original. We are all just echoes.”

 ·         Kishore Kumar.  “If God ever sang, he’d sing in Saigal’s voice.”

 ·         Lata Mangeshkar.  “He didn’t just sing songs - he became the song.”

 ·         Manna Dey.  “To understand Indian music in cinema, you must begin with Saigal.”

 ·         Amitabh Bachchan (on a radio show).  “I remember my father playing Saigal’s songs in the evenings. They taught me about heartbreak before I knew what love was.”

 Conclusion: The Eternal Echo

             More than seven decades after his death, K. L. Saigal’s voice still travels across generations. In an age of remix culture and digital distortion, his pure, untouched melodies feel like a whisper from another world. His songs are not just pieces of music - they are fragments of his soul, preserved in gramophone grooves and in the collective memory of a nation.

             K. L. Saigal was not merely a singer or actor - he was a feeling. A melancholy melody that continues to echo long after the curtain has fallen.

The Flames of Ladakh: Unrest, Protests, and the Shadow of Governmental Indifference

Introduction

On September 24, 2025, the serene Himalayan vistas of Leh, the heart of Ladakh, were shattered by an eruption of violence that has sent ripples of concern across India. What began as a peaceful demonstration for regional autonomy escalated into chaos, with protesters setting ablaze the local office of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), the ruling party at the national level. Four lives were lost in the ensuing clashes with security forces, over 70 individuals were injured, and a curfew was swiftly imposed across Leh district. This incident marks a tragic culmination of years of simmering discontent in Ladakh, a Union Territory (UT) carved out of Jammu and Kashmir in 2019 amid the abrogation of Article 370. The protests, led by prominent climate activist Sonam Wangchuk during a 35-day hunger strike, demand statehood and inclusion under the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution—provisions for tribal autonomy that the region sorely lacks.

The unrest in Leh is not isolated; it reflects a broader pattern of grievances against the Indian government's centralizing tendencies. Reports indicate early signs of solidarity protests in adjacent regions of Jammu and Kashmir, with former Chief Minister Omar Abdullah describing the violence as a "wake-up call" for the denial of statehood across the erstwhile state. Whispers of similar agitations in other peripheral states, such as Arunachal Pradesh and Sikkim—regions sharing tribal and border sensitivities—suggest a potential contagion. At the core of this turmoil lies a profound failure of both internal and external policies under the BJP-led administration. Internally, the government has prioritized political reconfiguration over genuine empowerment, eroding local governance structures. Externally, mishandled border tensions with China have militarized the region, diverting resources from development and fueling local alienation. As these external missteps ignite internal infernos, the persistence of what can only be termed a "kingdom-era" attitude—marked by top-down diktats and disdain for federalism—threatens to transform sporadic protests into a national crisis. This article examines the roots of the Ladakh unrest, its expanding footprint, the government's policy lapses, and the dire consequences should this imperial mindset endure.

Historical Context: From Autonomy to Subjugation

To understand the current conflagration in Ladakh, one must trace its origins to August 5, 2019, when the Indian Parliament revoked Article 370, stripping Jammu and Kashmir of its special status and bifurcating it into two UTs: Jammu and Kashmir, and Ladakh. For Ladakhis, who had long chafed under the Valley-dominated administration in Srinagar, this promised liberation. Buddhist-majority Leh, in particular, had petitioned for separation as early as 1949, citing cultural, religious, and economic marginalization. The BJP's manifesto had explicitly pledged safeguards for Ladakh's tribal identity, including Sixth Schedule protections akin to those in Northeast India, which empower autonomous district councils to legislate on land, forests, and local customs.

Yet, four years on, these assurances have evaporated into thin air. Ladakh's elevation to UT status came without a legislature, rendering it directly beholden to New Delhi's Lieutenant Governor—a bureaucratic overlord with veto powers over local decisions. The Hill Development Councils in Leh and Kargil, once semi-autonomous bodies, have been emasculated, their budgets slashed and authority curtailed. Unemployment soars above 20% among the youth, exacerbated by the absence of a local Public Service Commission; jobs in government sectors—once a bulwark against economic precarity in this high-altitude desert—are now funneled through opaque national quotas favoring outsiders. Environmental degradation, from unchecked mining to glacial melt accelerated by climate change, further compounds these woes, with locals bearing the brunt of policies that prioritize strategic infrastructure over sustainable livelihoods.

Sonam Wangchuk's hunger strike, commencing on September 10, 2025, crystallized these frustrations. Hospitalized after 35 days without resolution, Wangchuk's fast drew thousands to Leh's streets, transforming a sit-in at Martyrs' Memorial Park into a mass mobilization. The Leh Apex Body (LAB), an umbrella group of civil society organizations, issued a shutdown call that spiraled into violence when protesters, predominantly Gen Z youth, marched on government buildings and the BJP office—symbols of perceived betrayal.

The Anatomy of the Protests: Demands and the Violent Escalation

The protesters' core demands are threefold, each underscoring a betrayal of electoral pledges. First, full statehood: Unlike the UT model, statehood would restore an elected assembly, enabling Ladakhis to legislate on local matters without Delhi's micromanagement. Second, Sixth Schedule inclusion: This constitutional provision, applicable to tribal areas in Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, and Mizoram, grants legislative autonomy over land and resources, shielding indigenous communities from demographic influxes and exploitation. Ladakh's 97% tribal population—predominantly Changpa nomads, Brokpa agriculturists, and Monpa herders—fears cultural erasure without such buffers. Third, two dedicated Lok Sabha seats for Leh and Kargil, severing the anomaly of the region's representation being bundled with Anantnag in Kashmir.

These calls, peaceful for weeks, ignited on September 24 when frustration boiled over. Eyewitness accounts describe a sea of masked youth—urged by Wangchuk in prior videos to conceal identities for safety—storming the BJP office in Leh's heart. Flames engulfed the structure as chants of "Statehood Zindabad" mingled with stones hurled at police lines. A Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) vehicle was torched, and clashes spread to the Deputy Commissioner's office. Security forces, outnumbered, resorted to tear gas and baton charges; reports of live rounds fired remain unconfirmed but have fueled outrage. By dusk, four protesters lay dead—victims of what Al Jazeera termed the "bloodiest day" in Ladakh's recent history—and over 50 were detained under prohibitory orders.

The BJP has deflected blame, accusing Congress-linked figures like Councillor Phuntsog Stanzin Tsepag of instigating the mob, while labeling Wangchuk a "deep state agent." Yet, such rhetoric obscures the organic rage of a generation that views the 2019 bifurcation not as emancipation but as subjugation. Social media amplifies this narrative, with X posts decrying the violence as an "outburst of the young generation" against unkept promises.

The Spreading Shadow: From Ladakh to the Periphery

While Leh remains the epicenter, the unrest's tendrils are extending beyond Ladakh's borders, portending a wider crisis in India's federal fabric. In Kargil, the Shia-majority district, parallel shutdowns have drawn thousands, with LAB affiliates vowing to sustain the agitation until October 6, when tripartite talks with the Centre are slated. Jammu and Kashmir Chief Minister Omar Abdullah's intervention—framing Ladakh's plight as emblematic of the entire region's disenfranchisement—has galvanized cross-community solidarity. Sporadic demonstrations in Srinagar echo these sentiments, linking Ladakh's demands to the broader quest for restored statehood.

Beyond J&K, analogous unrest simmers in other border states. In Arunachal Pradesh, tribal groups under the Sixth Schedule have protested against the dilution of autonomous councils via the 2023 Arunachal Pradesh Reorganisation of District Act, mirroring Ladakh's fears of land grabs. Sikkim's Bhutia-Lepcha communities, facing influxes from Nepal and West Bengal, have revived calls for enhanced safeguards. Even in Manipur's hill districts, where ethnic violence rages since 2023, Kuki-Zo militants cite central neglect as a flashpoint. Analysts warn that Ladakh's violence could catalyze a "protest wave" across the Northeast, where 68% of India's tribal population resides, amplifying demands for federal devolution.

This expansion is no coincidence. It stems from a shared perception of New Delhi's extractive approach: militarized borders displacing communities, resource exploitation without consent, and cultural homogenization under the guise of "one nation, one policy." If unaddressed, these embers could ignite a pan-Indian conflagration, straining the Union's cohesion.

Internal Policy Failures: Centralization at the Cost of Cohesion

The Indian government's internal policies toward Ladakh exemplify a profound failure of governance—one rooted in hubris and ideological rigidity. Post-2019, the Centre promised a "new normal" of development, yet investments have skewed toward strategic assets: the Darbuk-Shyok-DBO road, the world's highest airfield at Nyoma, and vast solar farms that encroach on pastures without local input. The Hill Councils, intended as bulwarks of local democracy, have seen their powers eroded; for instance, the 2021 amendment to the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council Act centralized fiscal controls, leaving councils as mere advisory bodies.

Unemployment, a tinderbox for youth unrest, underscores this neglect. Ladakh's literacy rate hovers at 67%, but joblessness among graduates exceeds 25%, as national recruitment boards bypass local quotas. The absence of a dedicated Public Service Commission means civil service posts—over 1,000 annually in the region—are contested by non-domiciles, fostering resentment. Environmental policies fare no better: The 2024 push for lithium mining in the Reasi district, touted as an "Atmanirbhar" triumph, ignores ecological risks to the Nubra wetlands, vital for migratory birds and herders.

This internal sclerosis is compounded by a disdain for pluralism. The BJP's Hindutva agenda, while resonant in the heartland, alienates Ladakh's Buddhist and Muslim majorities. Promises of cultural preservation ring hollow amid reports of monastic lands eyed for tourism circuits. As one LAB leader stated, "We voted for development, not domination." The government's response—deploying CRPF contingents and invoking sedition laws—only entrenches this divide, transforming legitimate dissent into "anti-national" narratives.

External Policy Lapses: The Dragon's Shadow and Domestic Backlash

If internal failures have sown the seeds of discontent, external policy debacles have fertilized them. Ladakh's 3,488-kilometer Line of Actual Control (LAC) with China makes it a geopolitical fulcrum, yet the Modi government's handling of Sino-Indian tensions since the 2020 Galwan clash has been a study in strategic shortsightedness. The skirmish, which claimed 20 Indian soldiers' lives, exposed intelligence lapses and diplomatic naivety—hallmarks of Prime Minister Modi's much-vaunted "personal chemistry" with Xi Jinping. Subsequent disengagement talks have yielded little; China retains de facto control over 2,000 square kilometers in eastern Ladakh, including the tactically vital Depsang plains.

This external vulnerability has cascaded into internal strife. Militarization has ballooned: Over 60,000 troops now patrol the LAC, requisitioning pastures and water sources from nomads, whose traditional migration routes are severed by razor wire and bunkers. The BRO's (Border Roads Organisation) frenetic infrastructure drive—lauded as "defensive"—has displaced communities without rehabilitation, while black-topped roads accelerate glacial thaw, threatening the Indus River's flow that sustains 300 million downstream.

Diplomatically, India's "neighborhood first" policy lies in tatters. The 2023 border pact with Bhutan, ceding Doklam enclaves, and the stalled QUAD initiatives signal isolation. China's "salami-slicing" tactics—encroaching via dual-use villages in Arunachal—embolden perceptions of weakness, eroding public trust in New Delhi's stewardship. As external pressures mount, internal resources are siphoned: Ladakh's development budget, a paltry ₹6,000 crore annually, prioritizes barracks over schools, leaving youth without outlets beyond protest.

The linkage is stark: External failures breed internal fury. The 2020 Galwan veterans, hailed as heroes, now protest alongside civilians, decrying pensions delayed by bureaucratic red tape. This fusion of border betrayals and domestic neglect has weaponized alienation, turning Ladakh into a microcosm of India's policy paradoxes.

The Peril of Persistence: Consequences of a "Kingdom-Era" Mindset

Should the government cling to its "kingdom-era" attitude—evoking the autocratic edicts of pre-colonial maharajas, where subjects' voices were ornamental—a cascade of catastrophic outcomes looms. First, escalation of violence: The BJP office arson, far from an aberration, signals a tactical shift toward property destruction, potentially evolving into armed insurgency. With over 40 arrests already, radicalization among the 100,000-strong youth cohort could mirror Manipur's ethnic militias, fracturing social cohesion.

Economically, isolation beckons. Tourism, Ladakh's lifeline contributing 40% to GDP, could plummet as curfews deter visitors; the 2024 influx of 3 lakh tourists might halve, starving homestays and handicrafts. Infrastructure projects, already stalled by protests, face sabotage, inflating costs and delaying connectivity to the heartland.

Geopolitically, the fallout would be seismic. China's state media has amplified Ladakhi grievances, portraying India as a "colonial oppressor" to justify LAC assertiveness. International scrutiny—from the UN Human Rights Council to Amnesty International—could intensify, labeling the crackdown as "disproportionate force" and inviting sanctions akin to those on Kashmir post-2019. Neighboring Pakistan, sensing opportunity, might stoke proxy unrest in Kargil, reigniting the 1999 Kargil War's ghosts.

Federally, contagion risks unraveling the Union. A "Ladakh effect" could embolden demands in Nagaland, Mizoram, and even Telangana's tribal belts, overwhelming security apparatuses and budgetary allocations. The Supreme Court's pending hearings on Article 370's legality might accelerate, forcing constitutional reckonings that expose the BJP's centralist overreach.

In extremis, this trajectory portends a "Balkanization lite": not outright secession, but de facto autonomies enforced by blockades and boycotts, eroding New Delhi's writ. The human toll—widowed families, orphaned aspirations—would be incalculable, as the "Viksit Bharat" vision crumbles under the weight of its own indifference.

Conclusion: A Call for Course Correction

The fires raging in Leh are not mere sparks but symptoms of a deeper malaise: a government adrift in policy failures, blind to the imperatives of federal empathy and strategic prudence. Internal centralization has hollowed out democracy; external adventurism has invited peril. As Wangchuk vows to persist, the onus falls on Prime Minister Modi to transcend partisan blame and convene inclusive dialogues—granting statehood, enacting Sixth Schedule safeguards, and reforming recruitment.

Failure to pivot invites not just Ladakh's perdition but India's. In the words of a protester captured on X: "We seek not separation, but belonging." Heeding this plea is not magnanimity; it is existential necessity. The kingdom's throne may endure, but only if it bends to the winds of its people's will. 

About the Author

            Kanwaljit Bhullar is a retired Indian Army veteran whose two-decade-long military journey (1978–1998) exposed him to the stark realities of war, the brotherhood of service, and the psychological toll of life in uniform. He served with distinction in counter-insurgency operations, intense field postings, and high-pressure environments, all of which deeply shaped his inner world and now inform his literary voice. 

            Born on June 14, 1958, at the Military Hospital in Patiala, Bhullar’s early education spanned Model School and Punjab Public School, Nabha, followed by Vatican Public School and later Mohindra College, Patiala, and Doaba College, Jalandhar. He joined the Indian Army before completing his formal graduation, but later pursued academic and literary interests while in service, including completing his degree and enrolling in the Army Cadet Course.

            Bhullar’s literary life began during college with short stories and poems in Punjabi newspapers. Even amid the rigors of military duty, his passion for writing remained undiminished. His poetry and prose have since appeared in reputed Punjabi and Hindi magazines like Nagmani, Akkhar, Vartman Sahitya, among others.

            A versatile and multilingual author, Bhullar has written across genres - poetry, social commentary, military memoir, investigative journalism, and children’s literature. His published books include:

• Kiran Vihuna Suraj (Punjabi Poetry) 
• Takih Sanad Rahe (Punjabi Poetry)
• Kabhi Aana Zindagi (Hindi Poetry)
• With An Apology From Mr. Adam (English Poetry)
• Waqt Belagaam (Punjabi Poetry)
• Dumb Tears (English Poetry)
• Whispers Beneath Our Sky (English Articles)
• Racial and Ethnic Discrimination: Understanding, Impact, and Strategies for Equality
• Dreamland Diaries: Stories for the Children
• Screened Stories: Bollywood’s Voice of Social Issues
• 36 True Tales of Criminal Minds (Crime, Robbery & Assassination)
• Pleasure Destroys Prominence: 31 Global Sex Scandals
• The Rahul Dilemma: Between Burden and Battle

             His latest work, A Soldier in the Fog, is his most personal - an emotionally raw, viscerally honest military memoir blending realism with literary elegance. This book brings to light not only the blood and burden of a soldier’s life but also the quiet poetry that survives in moments of death, fog, and forgotten friendships.

             Now serving as Assistant Registrar at Akal University, Talwandi Sabo (Punjab), Kanwaljit Bhullar continues to write, guide, and inspire. His stories are deeply rooted in lived experience, animated by a rare authenticity, and speak to readers across generations—soldiers, civilians, and dreamers alike.

 “A soldier is remembered at home, but a storyteller lives in the hearts of strangers.”

  

The Fog Between the Lines

"Words once shared never truly vanish; they wait in the quiet for a voice to find them again."

    The golden sun cast a shimmering glow over the rippling waters of the Beas, as I sat on its grassy banks, the pages of my book fluttering in the gentle breeze. The scent of the river, mixed with the earthy fragrance of the surrounding trees, created a calming aura - a perfect setting to lose myself in thoughts. My pen glided across the pages of a letter, not to a superior officer or a family member, but to Toshi, the girl whose presence in my life had turned mere words into poetry. 

     The letter was filled with half-written sentences, scratched-out phrases, and emotions I couldn’t fully express. Love, longing, and uncertainty interwove in my mind like the currents of the Beas. Would she read between the lines? Would she understand the soldier’s heart, caught between duty and desire? 

     The river had become my silent confidant, a witness to my struggles - not just of love, but of ambition. I had enrolled in a correspondence B.A. course, determined to educate myself while serving in the Indian Army. The dream of becoming an officer was within reach, but something else had begun to take root within me, writing. Stories no longer remained simple thoughts; they demanded to be shaped, given form, and sent out into the world. 

     After my training, I was transferred to Jammu, a land where the mountains stood tall like silent sentinels, watching over the shifting tides of conflict. It was here that my journey took a turn, leading me to the Army Cadet Course (A.C.C.), a golden opportunity to rise in rank. My officers saw my potential, recommending me for the course with the hope that I would embrace the path of leadership. But even as I attended classes, another fire burned within me, the passion for storytelling. 

     The barracks were a strange mix of discipline and chaos, the sounds of marching boots blending with the hushed voices of soldiers sharing letters from home. Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, one stood out, Tarsem Singh Bhangu. He was the motorcycle rider, the Dak Runner, responsible for carrying letters and official documents between our unit and the divisional headquarters. He was two years older than me, his eyes filled with the wisdom of someone who had seen more than he let on. 

     It began with a simple request. One evening, as he prepared for his daily ride, I handed him an envelope. "Veere, put a two-rupee stamp on this and drop it in the civil post box." 

     Tarsem frowned, eyeing the envelope suspiciously. "No censor stamp?" he asked. "I can’t post it like this. If the security officer catches me, what do I say?" 

     I smiled, knowing his caution came from years of experience. "It’s just a story," I assured him. "Nothing military. Just words meant for a newspaper." 

     His brows lifted in surprise. "You write stories?" 

    That night, he read my file of published works. When he returned, there was a new light in his eyes. "Bhai, if I write a story and send it, will it also get published?" 

    "Why not?" I said. 

    That night, Tarsem sat under the dim glow of a barrack light, scribbling furiously. His pen raced across the pages, as if he were afraid the words would escape him. By morning, he placed the draft before me. "Read this," he said, his voice laced with hesitation. 

    It was a love story - raw, unpolished, but filled with genuine emotion. The words carried weight, though some parts meandered without direction. I edited the piece, adding a crucial line of dialogue from the female protagonist’s perspective. "Call it The Death of a Relationship," I suggested. 

    He nodded, rewriting the story with renewed confidence. From that day, we were inseparable. Each morning, he would deliver official letters, and each evening, he would return with stories - some real, some imagined. We made a promise to stay in touch, even when duty would send us down different paths. 

    Months later, as I flipped through a freshly delivered newspaper, my eyes landed on Tarsem’s name. His story had been published. With a grin, I cut out the article, placed it in an envelope, and sent it to him with my best wishes. 

 

Scribbled Between Marches

 

"In the army, we’re trained to shoot, march, and obey. But some of us also learn to write between the lines, between rumblings of duty and the silences of longing. A pen doesn’t lessen the weight of a rifle, but sometimes it helps carry the burden."

 

                        - From a soldier’s forgotten notebook

     Time moved forward relentlessly. The Army became our world, and with it came new postings, new duties, and new challenges. Letters became scarce, then stopped altogether. The fog of life had consumed our friendship, leaving only a memory of shared dreams and hurriedly written manuscripts. 

    Years turned into decades. Retirement came, bringing a slower rhythm to life. I had settled into a teaching position at Akal University in Talwandi Sabo, guiding young minds while still weaving stories in my free time. The past seemed distant, until one evening when a message blinked in my Facebook inbox. 

    "Are you Kanwaljit Bhullar, the Wazir Bhullar who revised my first story?" 

    The name beneath the message made my heart pause, Tarsem Bhangu. The fog had lifted. 

    A flood of emotions surged through me as I stared at the screen. Memories of that barrack, the dim light, the sound of his pen scratching against paper, it all came rushing back. 

    Our first phone call lasted for hours. His voice, now older but still filled with that same warmth, carried stories of his own journey. "You were my first guide," he said, his tone sincere. "I kept writing. I became a poet, Bhullar. You never knew, but you were always the beginning of it all."  

    I laughed, shaking my head even though he couldn’t see me. "The disciple has surpassed the teacher." 

    "Not at all," he replied. "A soldier is remembered at home, but a mentor is never forgotten." 

    Life had come full circle. Our friendship, once lost in the fog, had found its way back through words, the very thing that had connected us in the first place. And in that moment, I knew that stories, like friendships, never truly fade. They simply wait for the right time to be rediscovered.

And just like that, through the static of time, an old friendship crackled back to life,  not by chance, but by the ink that had always connected us. 

The Keeper of Stories

"Some battles never end; they just grow quieter, echoing in the hearts of those who return."

             The parcel was heavier than expected.

             It had arrived wrapped in brown kraft paper, tied with a fraying jute string, bearing the seal of the Army Records Office. No sender’s name. Only my full service details typed in official black ink. At first glance, it looked like a mistake - after all these years, what more could the Army want?

             I hesitated before opening it. Something in the air changed, the way it does before a storm, though the room was still. My study at Akal University, quiet as ever. A framed photo of my battalion gathering dust in the corner. And on my table, a half-written short story. Or was it a memory disguised as fiction?

             I untied the string.

             Inside was a faded army-green envelope and a dog tag. The tag had a name I hadn’t spoken aloud in over two decades:

"Balwinder Singh, Army No. ____238-A"

             My throat tightened.

             Beneath it lay a handwritten letter - brittle paper, careful script. The date on the top corner: 22 April 1998.

 “To whoever finds this but I hope it’s you, Bhullar Sir…”

             I was no longer in my study.

             I was in Kulgam, back in that suffocating fog, where visibility dropped to whispers and you couldn’t trust the silence.

             That night had returned.

             We were the Quick Reaction Team led by Captain S.K. Singh, codename Falcon. Three terrorists were spotted holed up in a mud-house near an apple orchard. The call came late, but we were always ready. Lakhan, Raghav, Balwinder, and I jumped into the Gypsy, rifles loaded, adrenaline surging. I remember Lakhan was humming ‘Jai Shiv Shankar’ to calm his nerves. I told him to shut up - but deep down, I was grateful for the chant.

             We reached the edge of the orchard, night swallowing sound. Captain signaled a three-pronged surround.

             Then, chaos.

             Gunfire cracked open the silence. Lakhan went down first, hit in the thigh. Raghav dragged him to cover but got grazed on the shoulder. I crawled up the rear wall with Balwinder covering me.

             One of the terrorists broke from the rear exit, firing wildly.

             Balwinder didn’t hesitate, he tackled the man head-on.

             They rolled into a trench, blades drawn. I remember rushing in, my boots sliding on wet grass. The third terrorist tried escaping through the orchard, but I shot him down, automatic reflex.

             When I returned to the trench, Balwinder was still, his shirt torn, his dog tags missing.

             He wasn’t breathing.

            The fog in my mind cleared.

 Back at the study, I stared at the dog tag in my hand, the very one he had lost that night.

 And the letter…

 

“I knew I’d never rise to rank or make it back to Punjab. But I saw how you looked at people,  like their stories mattered. If I don’t make it, tell mine. You’re not just a soldier. You’re a keeper of stories. That’s your war, and your peace.

 

Jai Hind,

Balwinder Singh”

I closed my eyes.

             That night had haunted me for years, but this letter brought a strange peace. His words were more than closure, they were a command.

 ***

            That same evening, I stepped outside to get air. The sun had dipped below the Talwandi Sabo fields, golden light washing over the gurdwara domes. The evening Rehraas Sahib prayer echoed gently.

             A ping broke the silence.

 WhatsApp Message: Laxman (Chitra Gali fame)

             “Bhullar bhai... I saw your name in an article today. Is it really you?”

             My hands trembled as I typed back. “Yes, brother. Laxman…? After all these years?”

             “Still alive. Still limping. But still fighting the good fight. I in Indian Railways now. I never forgot you, Bhulli.”

            Tears welled up. That name Chitra Gali carried so much: blood, brotherhood, betrayal, bravery.

            Laxman had been declared presumed dead after a 1994 encounter. I had held his broken ID card myself. But there he was, alive, scarred, still in the game. Still believing.

             That night, I couldn’t sleep.

             Something stirred deeper than memory, a longing I hadn’t acknowledged in years. I opened my old steel trunk, the one that held yellowed letters, diary pages, fading photographs. Among them was her face.

 Toshi

 Not her real name, but always her real soul.

             I had written her hundreds of letters during my early postings. Most unsent. Some scribbled into stories. She had married, under pressure - religion, caste, family. The usual betrayals of Indian love.

             But she had taken something with her - the part of me that still believed in ‘forever’.

            I closed my eyes.

             And that’s when I saw her.

            We were back by the Beas River, where I once wrote poetry to her across the rippling water. She wore a white salwar-kameez, her dupatta fluttering like in those Yash Chopra films we once watched secretly. Her smile,  God, it hadn’t aged.

            "Why didn’t you stop me?" she asked softly.

             "I wore my uniform instead of sherwani," I replied, smiling bitterly. "Thought medals would matter more than mehndi."

             She touched my cheek.

             "You still write like it’s 1987."

             "And you still look like heartbreak."

             We sat in silence, the way old lovers do when words are no longer necessary.

             She leaned against me, our fingers entwining like they used to.

             "I have a daughter now," she whispered. "She reads your stories. Doesn’t know they’re about me."

             "And I have a grandson," I said, blinking. "But he doesn’t know about you."

             She kissed my forehead.

             "Thank you for remembering."

             I whispered, "I never stopped."

 “Daaa-daaa… uth jao naaa...”

 The voice broke the dream.

             I opened my eyes. My 3-year-old grandson was standing beside the bed, one sock missing, hair like an electrocuted owl, holding my specs in his tiny hand.

 I blinked, disoriented.

 The river was gone. So was she.

Only the morning sunlight filtered through the curtains of my room.

             “Story sunao?” he asked, climbing into my lap.

            I pulled him close, inhaling that baby shampoo scent. The warmth of his small body softened something deep within me.

             “Yes, beta,” I said. “Let me tell you a story about a soldier... and his stories.”

             He looked up, wide-eyed. “Was he brave?”

             “No,” I said, kissing his forehead. “He was just a little foggy sometimes... but always tried to find his way.”

 Somewhere, in the layered fog between war and memory, a story ends… and another begins.