A Heart of Stone with a Coat of Gold

A Slaughter of Brotherhood

Note - I apologise for the delay. I had wanted to upload yesterday but I failed. I am sorry.

* The tale of Dhruv's friend is retold in detail in a short story titled 'Of Flesh and Blood' 

*Kurti - is Indian clothing for young women. It's like a top with long sleeves and the bottom part is long up to the knees. 

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Dhruv stared morosely at the man lying on the ground, under a clear moonlit sky. The man's gut was spilling a river of blood, his uniform dyed with a splash of red, mixing in with the army green; quietly morphing into a morbid black, a black which was soon going to engulf the man.

The man - Raj Suryavanshi - lay dying. The man who was a soldier, a comrade, a friend. The man who had been shot when the militants had attacked their post. The man who had bartered with death, exchanging his own life for Dhruv's, saving him from the hail of gunfire.

*His friend who lay pleading for his father, his last cries tearing his eardrums, before his light would finally be snatched from this world, "I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I am not a soldier. I just came here because you didn't want me, Pa." The meaning of those words which he would come to know a few days later.

Dhruv held the man's hands, crusted under a layer of mud and blood, as he heard his last words. His throat choked in reply, a drizzle of rain poured from the recesses of his soul, even in the absence of clouds. When his friend's eyes finally turned lifeless, he got up trudging towards the water tank.

He walked silently, as the white light of the moon slowly darkened into a deep-greenish hue. He looked up, confused, and a canopy of green leaves greeted him. Where was he? How did the barren landscape of his post change into a forest?

He lowered his gaze again and he could make out two grown men ahead, hunting rifles slung on their backs. One among them, he knew. The crew-cut hair, the gargantuan build, a silhouette he could even recognize in his sleep. His father. And it hit him finally.

This was a dream.

A memory hidden in a solitary corner of his mind, which he was living once again. A gradual sense of calm washed over him. He felt strange knowing that this was a dream, but at least it made sense now. He glanced sideways at a young boy and a girl walking beside him in a file. The boy was around twelve, the girl was older: probably sixteen-seventeen. The girl had wavy curled hair, cropped to her shoulders. She was clad in a kurti* and a pair of jeans, her round face and small eyes exuding an aura of confidence.

His brother walked between them - a boyish face he recognized so well, the deep blue eyes which still held a fading gleam, the lazy gait which didn't want to run along with the rushing world beside him.

But he didn't recognise this other man and the young girl; who were these ghosts of the pasts he had forgotten?

"Neel, is that blood on your shirt?" the girl spoke, a hint of concern in her voice. She pointed to a shirt-tail which had come undone and glared with fresh crimson red. Neel's eyes grew wide with fear for an instant as he looked at his brother, and then back at the girl. He quickly tucked the tail back under his trousers.

"It's nothing, I slipped yesterday and the edge of the table grazed my back. It's just a scratch." He replied followed by a light chuckle. And a smile.

A smile hiding fear and pain. Yet, a smile that was warm and hopeful. How many years had it been since he had seen that curl of his brother's lips? An ache rose rhythmically in his heart with each step as the entourage moved forward. They continued in silence.