Page 24 of Mrs. Pandey
He gave me a cold, disinterested smile. "You did a good job. Next time, think twice before giving my soldiers water."
"I'm not afraid of you," I said coldly, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "And I'm not ashamed to show humanity to people who are breaking down in this heat."
His smile faded, and was replaced by a hard, unwavering look. "Humanity doesn't belong on the battlefield, Lieutenant. Emotionality gets you killed."
I stepped forward until we were inches apart, the air between us thick with unspoken anger. Our breaths were shallow, the tension in the small office could almost be felt.
"Cruelty makes nothing, only cowards who follow orders not out of respect, but out of fear," I replied firmly.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, that familiar vein on his temple throbbed, a sure sign of his internal struggle to hold back words.
"This is not an NGO camp," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "We are preparing soldiers, fighters and survivors."
"At the cost of breaking them?" I replied in a louder voice. "You think they will survive the bullets if they can't survive your training? You think fear will make them stronger?"
He spoke suddenly, his composure breaking. His voice rose, filled with an unknown emotion. "You think a bottle of water will save them when they're in the crossfire?"
A heavy, suffocating silence fell. Even the distant screams on the training grounds drowned out the weight of the moment, the raw vulnerability of his voice hanging in the air.
"You weren't always like this," I said softly, my voice suddenly thick with fatigue. "You used to have a heart. What happened to you, Prashant?"
His eyes darkened, a shadow fell over them. And when he spoke, it was in a voice so low I almost couldn't hear him, a broken whisper that came out of him unwillingly.
"I buried it in Kupwara... with four men who trusted me."
I blinked, the confession startling me. My anger abated, but only for a moment. The pain in his voice was evident, but it couldn't excuse what he had done. "That doesn't give you the right to be what they died fighting for," I replied, my voice regaining strength.
He drew closer, his smile returned, but now it was bitter, tinged with a deep, unhealed wound. "I became what I had to become. You? You're still pretending that kindness is strength. It's not strength. It's a burden."
I scoffed in a small, shrill voice. "Then I'll carry my responsibility proudly. Because I refuse to be like you."
He laughed, a raspy, absurd sound that echoed through the small office. "Then you'll never make it out of there alive, Lieutenant."
"Look at me."
We stood still, two stormtroopers barely holding on, eyes locked in a silent war, a battle of wills that had just begun.
Then, without another word, he threw the pen on my desk in a loud voice and turned on his heel. His boots clicked loudly against the ground as he walked away, his back straight, unwavering, and eerily cold. The door closed behind him, and I was left alone in that silent office.
As he left, I sank into my chair, my body aching, my pride throbbing. But I was still standing, still defiant. I hated him - I hated him, really, deeply, for what he had become, for the pain he had inflicted, for the coldness that had gripped him.
But beneath the anger, one question resounded louder than ever, cutting through the anger and the pain:
What exactly happened in Kupwara? And why did it still haunt him like a wound that never healed?
________
Chapter 12
IRA
My whole body ached with unbearable pain, a heavy, throbbing kind that pulsed beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I cracked one eye open, hoping the haze would clear, but the room was spinning. Every muscle protested as I pushed myself out of bed, limbs stiff like rusted hinges. My joints felt filled with cement. Still, I stumbled into the kitchen and made some coffee, hoping the bitterness would jolt me back to life. It didn't.
I took one sip and nearly gagged. Even the taste was wrong.
My head was pounding, and heat pulsed behind my eyes. I pressed a clammy palm to my forehead. Burning. I was burning up. I reached for the thermometer and blinked through watery vision to read the numbers: 102.6°F. Great. Just perfect.
The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly toward duty hours, fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be at the office. I should've called in. I should've stayed in bed and let someone else handle the Bravo Team's issues today. But I was too stubborn for that. Too trained to fight through pain. Or maybe too afraid of giving Prashant Pandey another reason to think I was weak.
