It was a hazy Sunday. I was sitting by the windowsill, looking at the newly sprouted plantlets that my dear Kavi amma had planted. It was when I looked at my calendar—17th March 2040—that I realized the next day was the submission date for my English essay about my ambition in life. I had totally forgotten about it for quite some time. Then, with a lazy, irritated mood, I turned around to look at my space for anything I could pursue in the future—books, board games, a basketball lying around the corner, a half-eaten slice of pizza. I couldn't think of a single interesting thing that I could do for my entire life. I thought I had wasted 14 years of my precious lifetime without getting a single spark of interest in anything.
Then, the idea struck me.
It’s him, it’s my dad, whom I need to look to for understanding my interests. Since my childhood, my mother has always shown me his photo from her drawer whenever I feel down and mentioned that even though my father is not alive, he would always guide me through my difficult times. With a little hope and a positive mindset, I called out for Kavi—"Kavi, Kavi, where are you, ma? I need to look at..."
But then, I realized she had gone to the market. Not wanting to waste any more time waiting for my mom, I decided to get the photo myself. I’m tall enough now to reach those shelves, I told myself.
I stumbled my way toward the cupboard shelves, opened the old, cranky drawer, and analyzed its contents: a marriage photo of my parents, an old book (probably a diary), my dad's engagement ring, my certificate, my mother’s certificates and Aadhaar card, a bunch of keys, and a red jacket (weird, I thought, for something to be in the documents drawer). While looking under all these things, I couldn't find the photo of my dad with my mom when she was pregnant.
As a last hope, I picked up the old diary and sat down. As I flipped through the pages, I found the photo I was looking for. I took it in my hands for a better look, but when the book slipped from my lap and fell down, I picked it up again.
The page I landed on made my heart skip a beat—there it was... there was the news clipping about my father's death. It was something I had always wanted to know, and something that Kavi had always wanted to hide from me. I started reading the article:
PREGNANT WOMAN WHO LOST HER HUSBAND IN THE PAHALGAM MASSACRE:
"It was such a beautiful day to begin with, which turned dreadful by the afternoon. My husband and I had just felt our baby kicking in the morning. We had gotten down from our horses at Pahalgam during the worst time of all—during the attack. We were all set to enjoy the scenery and serenity of the place when we started hearing bullets, one after the other. Soon, everyone started running in all directions to get away from it. My husband and I hid behind a tent after running in the open for a few minutes. I could barely breathe or run anymore in my condition. Blood rushed in my veins, and suddenly, I started to panic as the sounds neared, and there was nowhere to hide. Kishore put his jacket over me and covered my tummy. His last touch was on my belly, to our baby. His second last sight was for me. I couldn’t get his sight out of my mind—those eyes which I had gazed upon for long hours, which I thought would be with me for the rest of my life. My daughter felt an emotion that I cannot explain. I don’t think any woman should look at her husband's eyes with that emotion or look.
Seconds later, he turned and looked at the man with a heavy rifle in his hand, who was demanding to know Kishore’s religion. He was quiet, took a gulp of air when the man noticed his sacred Hindu chain under his t-shirt. Without a thought, the man shot Kishore—one, two, three times in his forehead.
As I went near to save him, the smell of gunpowder and blood was all I could smell. He fell into my hands. Dead. I saw his lifeless eyes for a few seconds, and by then, I sensed the man with the rifle had moved on to the next victim.
What will I say to our child? Will I ever recover from this? Will I ever be able to tell that the best father it child could have is gone before it even set foot on this earth?"
Kavitha—A pregnant widow who lost her husband in the Pahalgam massacre—has given her story.
Tears rolled down my eyes as I finished reading the article. Soon, it became a river, and it landed on my father's photo in the newspaper article. I quickly took it in my hands and blew on it to dry it. I couldn't control the tears for an hour when I finally shouted, "Appa..." for the first time.
It was then that my amma entered the house, and I heard her basket drop.
I know that she knows.
I know that she knows... I know.
I had always felt something was missing inside me, but now the truth had come rushing in.
It was the most unforgettable day of my life—the day I came to know about him, what happened to him, and what had happened to my appa.
Without a second thought, I knew what I wanted to write for the essay.
The next day, I stood in front of my class, reading out my essay:
"My ambition, and all that I want in my life, is to be a good daughter, take care of my mother, and become a military official to protect my motherland. I want to make sure that no other child loses their father in such a way and that no citizen in my country is harmed.
That's all, that's all I want in my life!
Jai Hind!"
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