I was afraid to talk about that war. I dealt with the process of getting his body back home, buried him in a cemetery nearby and even thanked the numerous people who attended the funeral. This was all done in a mechanical fashion. We had no kids so the healing and recouping was solitary affair for me. The war was a pointless battle where he had lost his life. But I thought the war was stupid even in the beginning when he received the intimation to prepare for his dispatch. The realisation hadn’t dawned on me simply after his death.
We had discussed his commitment even before we were to be married. He told me I should be prepared for his body to return in a body bag. I laughed it off then but realised the trauma of it only while he was off fighting the enemy. I always assumed it wouldn’t happen with me. Somehow, this last call, we were both uncertain and hesitant. The war by then had lost its meaning even for him. It had been 19 years of reporting cycles and nothing had changed. But he reported to field like the dedicated man he was. Hundreds were dead on both sides. Those in power remained untouched while soldiers fell like flies. But that was every war this country has fought. This war wasn’t special.