Soldiers Dead Body to his village

It was the unwritten rule in Jammu and Kashmir—one forged out of necessity and compassion. If a soldier from the south fell in the line of duty, his body would be accompanied home by a team from the north: a JCO (Junior Commissioned Officer) and four soldiers. If the tragedy was reversed, and a soldier from the north laid down his life, it would be the southern soldiers who would take on this solemn duty. The reason was simple yet profound. Language barriers could obscure meaning, and misunderstandings could arise during conversations with grieving families. This quiet system ensured dignity and respect, maintaining the silence necessary in the most vulnerable moments.

The morning Gurpreet Singh’s body was sent to his village in Ludhiana district, a JCO and four soldiers from the Deccan region were assigned to the task. Gurpreet, the young soldier whose steadfast loyalty and warm smile had been an anchor in our regiment, was now draped in the tricolor, heading home for the last time. I watched as the truck carrying his mortal remains left the camp. The men accompanying him stood stiffly, their faces revealing little, though I could sense the heaviness in their hearts.

When they returned days later, the JCO came to my office, a file clutched under his arm. He was there to submit the report to the adjutant, but the adjutant was out for the day. As the JCO stood before me, I felt a flicker of curiosity. The duty of returning a fallen soldier to his family was always emotionally charged, but every story held its own weight, its own heartbreak.

“What happened there?” I asked gently, my voice tinged with a mixture of concern and interest. The JCO hesitated for a moment, perhaps trying to decide how much to share, but then he began to speak.

As he spoke, the room seemed to shrink, and his words became the only sound I could hear.

“When we reached the village,” he said, “it was still early morning. The sun was just rising, casting its golden glow over the green fields. The village was quiet, save for the soft bleating of goats and the occasional cry of a rooster. We drove straight to the gurdwara, where the arrangements had been made. The gurdwara was a modest building, its white walls gleaming against the backdrop of mustard fields swaying in the gentle breeze.”

He paused, his eyes distant as if he could still see the scene unfolding before him.

“There were a few children playing near the entrance,” he continued. “One of them, a little boy, maybe four or five years old, came running up to us. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with the innocent curiosity of childhood. He looked up at me and said, ‘Uncle, my dad is also in the Fauj…’”

The JCO’s voice faltered, and he looked away for a moment. “I bent down and patted his head. He smiled, but before I could say anything, he ran off to join his friends. It seemed like just a fleeting moment, but it stayed with me.”

My heart clenched at the thought. That small child, unaware of the storm about to descend upon his world, his words carrying an innocence that would soon be shattered.

The JCO cleared his throat and continued. “When we took Gurpreet’s body out of the truck and carried it into the gurdwara, the whole village had gathered. Men, women, elders—they all stood there, their faces a mosaic of grief and pride. The air was thick with the smell of marigolds and incense. As we laid the body down and lifted the cloth covering his face, there was a collective gasp. The murmurs stopped, and the only sound left was the stifled sobs of those who couldn’t hold back their tears.”

I could picture it vividly: Gurpreet’s face, peaceful in death, his memory etched into the hearts of the people who had gathered to bid him farewell. His sacrifice wasn’t just his family’s loss; it was the loss of the entire village.

The JCO’s voice grew softer. “Gurpreet’s family was called forward. His father, stooped with age, stood still, his hands trembling as they reached out to touch his son’s face. His mother wailed, her cries piercing through the silence, and had to be supported by the women around her. But it was his wife who broke everyone’s hearts.”

He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “She was clutching Gurpreet’s framed photograph to her chest, her face pale and her eyes swollen from crying. She stumbled forward, almost collapsing near the casket. And then… then the little boy from earlier came running into the gurdwara.”

The JCO’s voice cracked, and he looked down at the floor. I could feel the lump forming in my throat, but I gestured for him to continue.

“The boy—Gurpreet’s son—stopped short when he saw the casket. He looked at his mother, then at the body, and then back at us. His innocent eyes were wide with confusion, but he didn’t cry. He just stood there, staring. And then he asked, ‘Uncle, my dad is also in the Fauj… he didn’t come?’”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt the air leave my lungs as the weight of those words settled over me. The room was silent except for the faint sound of the ceiling fan whirring above us.

The JCO’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “No one could answer him. His mother broke down completely, clutching him to her chest and wailing. The villagers began to cry openly, their grief filling the gurdwara like a storm. Even my men, hardened as they were, couldn’t hold back their tears. And I… I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, trying to keep myself together.”

I closed my eyes, trying to process the flood of emotions his story had unleashed. The image of that little boy, his innocent question hanging in the air, was unbearable.

The JCO looked at me, his face etched with exhaustion and sorrow. “Sir,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot in this line of work, but this… this was something else. That boy’s words will stay with me forever.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight, and tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I raised a hand to signal him to stop, unable to bear any more. The JCO nodded, understanding, and left the room quietly, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

As the door closed behind him, I let the tears fall. I thought of Gurpreet, the soldier who had shared his worries with me just days before. I thought of his wife, who had written him that desperate letter, and of his son, whose innocent words now haunted us all.

War had taken so much from us, from them. It had stolen Gurpreet’s future, his family’s joy, and the innocence of a child too young to understand the weight of his loss. And yet, life went on. The regiment would march forward, and the battles would continue. But in that moment, all I could do was sit there, mourning a soldier, a father, a friend. Gurpreet’s sacrifice would never be forgotten, not by me, not by the JCO, and not by the little boy who would grow up knowing his father had been a hero.