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.