The morning sun in Gujarat broke through the thin cotton curtains, painting soft streaks of gold across the small but cozy room.
The faint sound of temple bells drifted through the air, mixing with the rhythmic clatter of distant street vendors.
Tara Joshi stood before the mirror, tying her long black hair into a neat braid, her expression calm yet far away — like someone who smiled out of habit, not joy.
Her room was filled with little pieces of her world — stacks of lesson plans and biology books, a few English novels lined carefully on the shelf, a small potted tulsi plant near the window,
and framed photos of her students with bright grins and messy hair.
But beside those cheerful reminders stood one photograph that she couldn’t look at for long — her father in his army uniform, his arm proudly wrapped around a younger version of her.
Dust clung to the frame, not because she had forgotten him — but because it still hurt too much to touch it.
He had died in the war.
Serving the same country that took him away from her.
From that day, the word “Army” didn’t mean pride anymore — it meant loss.
She whispered softly, almost like a prayer, as she pinned her dupatta, “Good morning, Papa.
I’m… still managing.”
Her voice trembled, her reflection almost blurring in the mirror as her eyes filled for a second — before she quickly blinked the tears away.
Downstairs, a soft cough echoed through the silence.
“Tara beta… are you ready for school?” her mother called, her voice frail but full of affection.
“Yes, Maa!” Tara answered quickly and rushed down, her anklets chiming gently as she descended the stairs.
Her mother sat wrapped in a light shawl, even though the Gujarat air was warm and dry.
The illness had slowly drained her over the years — her skin pale, her hands trembling.
Tara sat beside her, rubbing her mother’s cold hands. “Maa, you didn’t take your medicine again, did you?”
Her mother smiled faintly. “I was waiting for you. It tastes less bitter when you’re around.”
“Maa…” Tara said softly, a gentle scolding in her tone.
Her mother brushed her cheek. “You worry too much. Tell me about your students — how are they?”
And instantly, Tara’s face brightened. “They’re my sunshine, Maa.
You should see how excited they were about the new biology project — we’re growing small plants from seeds.
They think it’s magic!”
Her mother’s eyes softened. “You bring so much light to others, beta.
But I want to see you find your own happiness too. I want to see you married before…”
Tara quickly interrupted, her voice tight. “Don’t say that, Maa. You’ll be fine. I’ll make sure you’re fine.”
She forced a smile, but deep down, she knew the truth — her mother’s health was fading.
Hospital bills had become her silent nightmare, and the extra tuition she took every evening was her only shield against it.
Yet, she carried it all quietly, wrapped in kindness and courage.
By eight o'clock, she was walking down the dusty lane toward the Gujarat Government School, her dupatta fluttering with the morning breeze.
The children saw her from afar and came running.
“Good morning, Miss Tara!”
“Miss, I got full marks in English!”
“Miss, see my new drawing!”
Tara laughed, crouching to meet their height. “Full marks? Wow! At this rate, you’ll be taking my job soon!”
In class, she switched effortlessly between English and Biology — teaching about plant respiration with the same warmth she used to explain poetry.
“Plants breathe too, children,” she said, her tone soft yet lively.
“They don’t have noses like us, but they still give us air to live.
So next time you see a tree, say thank you.”
Her students clapped and smiled, their laughter echoing through the old school walls.
That was her reward — those bright eyes that made her forget everything else.
But every now and then, when she heard the sound of a distant army jeep or saw a man in uniform, her hands would go cold.
Her smile would falter — for just a second — before she pulled herself back together.
Because that uniform didn’t just remind her of pride.
It reminded her of the flag-draped coffin that had come home one winter morning years ago.
That evening, after classes, she sat beneath the old neem tree behind the school.
The sky above Gujarat was painted in orange and pink, and the wind carried the scent of dust and flowers.
She opened her diary — her only confidant — and began to write:
> “They call soldiers heroes, but no one asks what happens to the families they leave behind.
I respect them, but I can’t forgive fate.
I lost my father once to the army.
I won’t lose my heart to another one.”
As she closed her diary, she noticed movement near the school gate — a small convoy of military vehicles.
Soldiers stepped out, discussing something with the principal. The sight of the uniforms made her chest tighten.
“Army?” she whispered, her voice laced with disbelief.
A few minutes later, the principal called her.
“Tara, dear, we’ll be sharing part of the school compound temporarily.
The army is setting up a base nearby for their Gujarat mission.
A Captain Kabir Malhotra will be coordinating with us. You may need to cooperate on safety arrangements.”
Tara froze. “What? The army — here? Why near a school?”
The principal smiled apologetically. “Orders from above.
He’s reputed to be very disciplined, though strict. Don’t worry, it’s temporary.”
She nodded stiffly, her heart pounding. The very uniform she had sworn to stay away from would now walk through the same corridors as her students.
That night, as she tucked her mother into bed, she looked out the window.
In the distance, faint army lights flickered near the edge of the village, where the dry land stretched endlessly into the horizon.
Her jaw tightened. “Papa,” she whispered, “another soldier is coming into my life… but this time, I won’t let him take away my peace.”
She didn’t know it yet, but fate had already begun weaving her story with his — the cold, disciplined Captain Kabir Malhotra — a man who carried duty
like armor and silence like a weapon.
And soon, the woman who hated the uniform would meet the man who wore it like a second skin.
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Yours Lee đź’‹
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