It was raining from morning. Not loud rain, not lightning thunder one. It was quiet kind. Like sky was crying without showing emotion. A kind of soft pain you can't see but can feel. That type rain.
I was sitting near my window with one cup of chai. Holding it tight. I always hold it tight when mind is thinking too much or nothing at all. Today it was second one. No thoughts, just silence. Even my dog Sheru was sleeping without bark, like he also feel something in air.
And then it happen.
Knock knock knock.
Not sudden. Not angry. Just calm and firm like someone who know what they doing.
I look at the door.
Three knocks. That also not too fast. Like code or message.
I got up slow. Legs feeling something strange. Half fear. Half respect. Don’t know why. Just feeling.
I open door.
There he stood.
Tall. Very tall. Like pole where flag sit. Shoulders straight like line in math book. Boots muddy, uniform wet from rain, but eyes clear like mirror. He had no umbrella. Only pride standing on his body.
“Ma’am,” he said and did salute so sharp that wind also stopped.
“I am Captain Armaan Raj. From Indian Army. Can I come in?”
I was already frozen like ice. But somehow, I moved to side and said yes without saying. Just nod.
He enter. Removed boot outside. I noticed that. Respectful.
He sat only when I offered chair. Then he remove his cap and kept on lap.
“Ma’am,” he said again, “I am here for your son. Amar.”
When I heard Amar, something in my chest jump. Like someone ring bell inside me.
“What... what happen?” I said. Voice shake like loose roof in storm.
“He is safe. Don’t worry,” he said fast. “I am here with good news. And big salute.”
I feel like breath came back.
“He was in Siachen. Very hard post. Snow storm came. Big avalanche. Everyone thought all gone. But your son... he fight.”
I was listening like world depending on his words.
“He save 19 soldiers. Carry 3 on his back. Break snow to make space. Use gun barrel to keep breath going. Gave his food to junior. Used torch to signal helicopter in fog. Everything he do, he do for others first.”
My tears was coming now. But not sad tears. These were proud ones. Different taste. Salty but sweet.
“He is in hospital now. Recovering. Minor frostbite. But soul not frozen. Heart still warm with mission. He told me, ‘Sir, if I don’t reach my home, you go. Tell my Ma, I did not forget her stories.’”
That broke me.
He give me one box. Inside was badge, small medal and letter folded like prayer paper.
I opened letter. It was Amar’s handwriting. Bit shaky but full of heart.
Ma,
If you reading this, means I made you proud. I always wanted to be brave like Papa, but you are braver than both. You make me soldier. Not army. You. From childhood, you told me about Bhagat Singh and Subhash Chandra and even that lady spy Noor Inayat Khan. I didn’t just listen. I kept them inside me.
Today, I was scared. But your voice came. ‘Don’t be afraid of death, be afraid of forgetting who you are.’ So I remembered. I remembered I am your son.
I not die, Ma. Just little broken fingers. But heart is full. I will return soon. If I take time, you don’t cry. I am okay. I am happy. I am doing what you made me to do.
Yours, always,
Amar
I hold the paper close. Like holding him. My Amar.
I look up. Captain was wiping eye but acting like dust went in.
“He is hero, ma’am. Battalion want to recommend him for Shaurya Chakra. He not just save people. He save hope. In such cold, he warm people with courage.”
I didn’t know what to say. Only “Thank you, sir” came out.
He drink tea I offered. One sip. Then he stood.
“I must go, ma’am. Other mothers also wait for news.”
Before leaving, he did something I never forget.
He touch my feet.
I pull him up. “What are you doing?”
He say, “We salute officers. And you made one.”
He left. Quietly. Just like he came.
I closed door but world inside me opened. A big door. Door of meaning.
Next day, neighbors come. They hear. All want to meet. Many mothers bring sons and say, “Look at her. She made soldier.” I didn’t speak much. I just smiled and gave sweets. Amar liked boondi ladoo, so I made that.
Every day, I read the letter. One time in morning, one at night. Like prayer. Like medicine.
News channels came. Paper people wrote about Amar. They call him “Siachen’s Snow Warrior.” But for me, he always my small boy who hide under bed when lizard come.
Now that boy is mountain man.
Then something special happen.
A week later, another knock.
This time, it was Amar.
He was in wheelchair. Bandaged hand. Smile like sunshine.
I ran. I hug. I cry.
He say, “Ma, don’t cry. Captain already gave you tears. I came to give laugh.”
We laugh. We cry. Together.
After 2 months, government invite us to Delhi. Ceremony for gallantry medal. President sir gave speech. Said Amar is future of country. I sit in audience with saree and slipper. Didn’t care about dress. I came with heart.
When Amar go to stage, he look at me. Smile. Do salute. I stand and return salute.
Whole room clapped.
People click photo. Journalists ask questions. One lady ask me, “Ma’am, how you raised such son?”
I said, “I didn’t teach him to fight. I taught him to care. And caring gives courage.”
She wrote that line in paper next day.
Now Amar is back in training. Slowly recovering. Wants to return to post. I said don’t hurry. He said, “Ma, if you stop me, you stop many soldiers.”
What can I say? I made lion. Can’t keep him in cage.
Every time phone ring, I pray for good news. Not just of him, of all soldiers.
Every knock now feel sacred. Because once upon time, one knock changed my life.
Epilogue:
Some knocks come for delivery. Some for bill. Some for visitor.
But one knock came for pride.
It came with uniform, with salute, with honor.
That knock will stay forever in my memory.
Because it didn’t bring end.
It brought next chapter.
Written By
Aswanth Murugan
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