Engineering Regt. Soldier

 The wind carried a strange stillness that morning, a silence that felt unnatural, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. The men from Bona Devsar arrived at our camp with expressions that spoke of horrors before they even uttered a word. Their voices trembled as they explained that a body—a soldier’s body—was lying in a ditch not far from the village, a bag discarded nearby like an afterthought. The moment those words left their lips, a cold weight settled in my chest.

Havildar Major was immediately sent with a small contingent—four or five guards, no more. I was among them. As we moved through the rugged terrain, the morning mist clung to our skin like a shroud. There was no need for conversation; we knew what we would find would not be pleasant. The villagers led us in uneasy silence, their eyes darting around, afraid of who might be watching from the shadows.

And then we saw him.

He lay twisted in the ditch, his body contorted unnaturally as if he had fought against death itself. He was dressed in military uniform, the flaps on his shoulders unmistakably belonging to an engineering regiment. His hair, long and disheveled, revealed his Sikh identity, but his turban had been ripped from his head. It lay a few feet away, crumpled beside the bag he had tried to escape with.

I forced myself to move closer. His face was swollen, bruised beyond recognition, his hands stiff and curled as if they had once been clenched in agony. But nothing could prepare me for what I saw next.

A thick iron nail had been driven into his chest, deep enough to pin flesh to bone. It was not just an act of murder; it was a message. Two English letters—H M—were crudely carved into his skin, the mark of Hizbul Mujahideen. My stomach churned, and a cold fury coiled in my gut. These weren’t just men who killed; they were butchers, reveling in cruelty.

The horror did not end there. As we lifted his body carefully, our eyes fell upon another gruesome discovery. His genitals were missing. Cut off. Discarded somewhere like trash. It was a savagery beyond war, beyond hatred—it was a statement.

My hands trembled as I adjusted his uniform, attempting, in some small way, to restore the dignity that had been stripped from him. The guards remained silent, their faces pale, their jaws clenched so tight they might shatter.

Later, we pieced together the tragic truth.

He had been desperate to go home, but his leave had not been approved. Unable to bear the thought of staying, he had chosen to escape. He must have planned to remove his uniform along the way, to blend in with civilians before reaching safety. But the uniform betrayed him. It marked him, made him a target, and in a cruel twist of fate, delivered him into the hands of monsters.

For days after, I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his body in that ditch, his vacant eyes staring at nothing, his mouth slightly open as if he had died mid-scream. I imagined the fear he must have felt, the desperation in his final moments. The pain. The humiliation.

The earth had swallowed his screams, but I heard them still. And I knew I always would.