I’ve always believed in spirits. Guess, it was only a matter of time before one knocked at my door.
That night was written in the language of horror—a windless dark, a hush stretching thick between bursts of thunder, and moonlight like a blade slashing through shadows. I heard the steps before I saw the silhouette—soft, deliberate, coming up the porch at 1:04 a.m. No footsteps should fall at such an hour.
I had left my life behind for Kashmir, hoping the stillness of snow-covered mountains would thaw the frost of my writer’s block. It hadn’t. Every night, I stared at a blank page, praying for words that never came. Until that knock.
It started as a murmur. Then frantic. Urgent. The kind that could splinter your spine.
I hesitated. A recent terror attack had left the region on high alert. My instincts screamed not to open the door. It could be a terrorist—or something worse. Two locks were bolted. I double-checked. Still, the knocking escalated.
Wait. What if someone was running from danger, not bringing it? Could I risk refusing help?
As the knocks turned thunderous, each one felt like it would shatter the wood—and my sanity. I braced myself, counting heartbeats, calculating escape routes I didn’t actually have.
And then—silence.
The kind that doesn’t soothe, only taunts. I let out a shaky breath.
That’s when the door opened. On its own.
Both locks—unfastened. Just… undone.
And there he stood. Tall. Still. A figure more shadow than man. My breath caught somewhere between my throat and common sense.
I fumbled for the lamp beside me, my hand trembling just enough to make the gesture feel theatrical.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice barely louder than death’s whisper. Not the cool, cinematic kind—more the wheezy, frail version that belongs to dying uncles in old Bollywood films.
He stepped into the light. A soldier. Blood streaked his temple; his boot was soaked in red.
“I’m Flight Lieutenant Siddharth Hans,” he said. “Thanks for opening the door.”
I blinked. Sheepish didn’t even begin to cover it. First of all, I hadn’t opened anything. Second, locks don’t just undo themselves—especially not two bolts. Though clearly, we were no longer operating within the usual parameters of reality.
Nothing about this was normal. Not the night. Not the man. Not the sudden calm in my bones. Terror, it seemed, had taken the night off and left me to handle the paperwork.
“What’s the matter, Lieutenant? Are you clearing this area too?” I asked, making a feeble attempt at small talk.
He shook his head gently. “No. You’re safe. We’re all safe now.”
There was something in his tone—a finality that didn’t sit right.
Then came the question I didn’t ask—what did he want from me? He heard my thoughts anyway.
“I’m looking for a bandage.”
He rolled up his uniform trouser. His right calf was a battlefield—charred, bleeding, raw. My stomach turned.
“Do you—uh—have any painkillers? Because that looks like the kind of thing I’d need a morphine drip just to look at,” he added.
I shook my head—longer than necessary.
“Do you have any cloth? Something to stop the bleeding?”
“Sanitizer and some old cotton. That’s the best I can do,” I mumbled, already moving.
I still hadn’t figured out whether I was helping a wounded soldier, dreaming a fever dream, or losing my mind in the mountains. Honestly, it could’ve been all three.
As I rose to gather what I could, he sat down in my chair, eyes drifting to the empty sheet on my desk. His gaze lingered. The embarrassment I felt eclipsed even the mystery of his arrival. Then something else stirred in me—recognition. I had seen him before. Or was my mind deceiving me?
I handed him the cloth. He dressed the wound with the calm precision of someone accustomed to pain. Not a flinch. Perhaps the army was built differently. Or maybe he was just... brave.
“Are you a writer?” he asked.
I nodded. “Trying to be.”
“What are you writing?”
“A story about a soldier who goes to war.”
“What about him?”
My face flushed. “Not much. Still trying to find the story.” All the while, my mind kept circling—where had I seen him before?
“Maybe he’ll find you.”
He stood up, thanked me, and made to leave. But I hadn’t solved the puzzle yet.
“You look tired. Can I get you something to eat?”
“I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
“It’s no bother,” I said, already heading to the kitchen before he could decline. My thoughts raced.
There wasn’t much—my meals during writing stints were erratic at best. Maybe some cereal? A banana? Then I remembered: I’d bought pakoras (fried fritters) earlier from a street stall. There might be one left.
I rummaged through the newspaper wrapping to find it—then froze.
The front door was still locked.
Yet inside, on my chair, sat the soldier.
And then it clicked.
I remembered where I’d seen his face.
His photograph was in the newspaper wrapping of the lone pakora. Siddharth Hans—part of the air force unit deployed for a covert operation in Pakistan. According to the article, he should’ve been in Pakistan... right now.
Then how was he here?
I’ve always believed in spirits. Guess it was only a matter of time before one knocked at my door.
My hands quivered. I dropped the food. He hurried to help me—and the tremors only worsened.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, reading my thoughts again.
“Are you... a ghost?” The words slipped out, raw and blunt.
From all my readings on spirits and sudden deaths, I knew it wasn’t uncommon for souls to wander after an accidental death. Many didn’t even know they were dead. And now I wondered—had I just agitated one?
In all my research, no one ever mentioned what happened after confronting a ghost in denial. Maybe they hadn’t lived long enough to tell.
“I’m not a ghost,” he said flatly.
I exhaled in relief. Maybe he had shut the door when I went for the bandage. I just hadn’t heard the click. It must’ve been the storm.
As I collected myself, he said, almost casually, “I’m a spirit.”
A moment of silence. Then another. As I processed his confession. Of course. He was a spirit. Which meant my country had lost another soldier in the fight against terror.
My phone beeped—another live update on the war. Maybe it was about how he died. I wouldn’t dare check it while his soul stared at me.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I was headed to the military camp. But I was bleeding badly and needed help. Guess I’m still adjusting to the idea that I’ve left my physical body behind. I’ll take your leave now.”
As I struggled to find a response, the words that escaped me felt thin, inadequate—“We won’t ever forget your sacrifice.”
He nodded, tears streaming down his face. It was raw, this grief—this pain. Was it the shock of death that tore through him, or something deeper, something that would never heal? I dared not ask.
He read my thoughts, anyway. He chose not to answer. Without another word, he turned, unlocked the door, and walked out.
I stood there, numb. My fingers fumbled for my phone.
A video was playing: a successful airstrike. Applause, garlands, celebration. The man at the centre of it all, standing tall before a crowd, was—Wait. It was him. It was Flight Lieutenant Siddharth Hans. Then… who had just visited me?
I slapped myself, hard. Once. Twice. I was wide awake. The man who had just walked out of that room was not a figment of my imagination. I could still see him, trudging away.
“Stop! You’re alive!” I screamed. “You’re alive!”
I ran after him. He turned toward me, his eyes glistening. “No,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet. “I’m not.”
The words shattered the air. I didn’t know what to make of them. I showed him the video, desperate for answers. It didn’t occur to me until later—maybe a soul isn’t privy to the world of screens and pixels.
“You’re alive,” I muttered under my breath.
“No, he’s alive,” he said. “I’m not.”
His voice cracked again. “I’m that part of him. The part that’s lost. The part of his soul that can never return.”
I blinked, unable to process it. “I don’t understand.”
He exhaled, slow. The weight of his words hung like an anchor.
“We aren’t born to kill. No matter how different our enemies are, no matter how gruesome their deeds. There are no winners in war. Every soldier who steps into combat, who does what’s necessary to protect his country—loses a piece of his soul. A fragment of his humanity. And once it’s gone, it never comes back.”
The quiet between us deepened. His eyes held a truth I would never fully grasp.
“Is this… is this the price a soldier must pay?” I asked, my voice trembling. Tears welled up, blurring my vision.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. It was my turn to read his thoughts. And the truth rippled through me like a current.
I saluted him, my hand shaking—not as a soldier, but as a witness. Grateful. Broken.
He nodded once—a final gesture—before retreating, each fading footstep marked by a trace of red vermillion, as if Operation Sindoor had imprinted its farewell in blood and silence.
That night, something ignited in me—something long buried. A fire. A spark I thought lost forever.
I wrote. For days. Pages upon pages, a flood of words. Each one a release. Each one a cry for something left unsaid for too long.
And then, I was done.
I closed the last page, and with it, the understanding that had shaped every word.
This—this is the true sacrifice of a soldier. Not just the loss of life or limb, but the slow, silent forfeiture of his soul, to protect the rest of us—so we may remain whole.
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