February 14, 2019

Palam Airport, Delhi

10:40 PM

The cold February night air hung heavy with grief at Palam Airport, where the metallic walls seemed to amplify the sounds of muffled sobs and whispered prayers. The harsh fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the terminal's polished floors, creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere that matched the surreal horror of the moment.

"Sana, my child, please cry... do something. You're scaring me," Mr. Agarwal pleaded helplessly, watching his daughter's lifeless expression. His weathered face creased with worry as he observed her statue-like stillness. The evening's events had left an indelible mark on all of them, but her silence was perhaps the most devastating response of all.

The news had reached them at 8:45 PM, and by 9:30, both the Hooda and Agarwal families had rushed from their native village to their Gurugram mansion. While most family members were overcome with grief, wailing and holding onto each other for support, two figures remained eerily still: Sana, whose face had become a mask of emptiness, and Sidharth, Pradeep's younger brother, who seemed to have retreated into himself. Between them sat little Aarav, passed from one comforting embrace to another, his small form heavy with sleep, mercifully unaware of how his world had just crumbled.

The airport's Martyrs' Memorial wing loomed before them, its solemn architecture a testament to countless sacrifices made in the name of the nation. "Come, Sana," Mr. Agarwal called out to his daughter as they reached the memorial, but she remained motionless, her eyes fixed on some distant point only she could see.

"Sidharth, please help her inside. I need to check something with Mr. Hooda," Mr. Agarwal said, his voice thick with emotion as he heard his name being called.

Sidharth, who had been lost in his own thoughts in the front seat, turned to look at the backseat. The sight that greeted him shattered his heart anew: his sister-in-law and nephew, frozen in time like a tragic photograph. His own pain felt insignificant compared to theirs. The thought of watching your husband's mortal remains being reduced to ashes seemed incomprehensible, and yet here they were, living through this nightmare. His eyes fell on Aarav, and a fresh wave of anguish washed over him. What sin could a child have committed to deserve losing his father at such a tender age?

"B-Bhabhi," he managed to croak, his voice breaking under the weight of unshed tears. When she didn't respond, he tried again, "B-Bhabhi, please."

"Yes?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Please come," he pleaded, and she nodded mechanically.

Under the pale moonlight, he watched her take a deep breath before gathering Aarav in her arms. He rushed to open the car door for her, noting how the moonlight seemed to emphasize the ghostly pallor of her face – a pallor he knew was mirrored on his own features. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him: they wouldn't even get to see Pradeep one last time. All that awaited them inside was a garlanded photograph and a flag-draped coffin. The permanence of death had never felt more real, transforming present tense to past in the blink of an eye.

"Bhabhi, let's go," he urged gently as she halted on the steps.

"Please, can we not go?" her whispered plea cut through him like a knife, the raw desperation in her voice nearly bringing him to his knees.

"We have to," he managed to reply, swallowing his sobs and blinking back tears.

The security was tight as they made their way to where their family members stood. The vast space was filled with hundreds of mourners, yet Sana felt suffocated, as if the very air was being squeezed from her lungs. She observed the grieving families around them with an oddly detached expression, as if watching a scene from someone else's nightmare.

"M-Momma?" Aarav's groggy voice came from her shoulder, his black eyes – so like his father's – looking at her questioningly. The contrast with her own brown ones had never felt more poignant.

"Where are we?" he asked, confused by the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Sidharth," she called softly, her fingers barely grazing his arm. He turned immediately, understanding flooding his features as she gestured to their confused child. Without a word, he took Aarav into his arms.

"Where are we, Chote Papa?" the innocent question felt like a physical blow, making Sidharth hold him tighter against his chest.

"Son, I..." he began, but couldn't continue. "Can I tell you later, please?" he requested, and the little boy nodded, burrowing his face into his uncle's neck.

The room fell into a hushed silence as the coffins began entering one by one, each carried by four officers with precision and respect. When the officer announced Pradeep's name through the microphone, it felt like a knife twisting in their collective hearts. The coffin was placed beneath his photograph – a smiling portrait that seemed to mock their current reality.

What happened next would be forever etched in their memories. Mrs. Savitri Devi, the family matriarch who had become Sana's mother-in-law figure, approached her with determination etched on her aged face. With swift, practiced movements, she took Sana's hand and broke her glass bangles, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the hall like gunshots. Then, with trembling fingers, she wiped away the sindoor from Sana's hairline and removed the mangalsutra from her neck – each action a symbolic dismantling of her married status.

"Chote Papa... M-Momma... blood!" Aarav's terrified gasp drew attention to Sana's wrist, where the broken glass had left angry red cuts.

"Grandmother, what are you doing? You're hurting her!" Sidharth cried out, horrified by the sight of blood trickling down his sister-in-law's wrist.

"Child, this pain is nothing compared to the wound carved into her heart," Mrs. Savitri replied, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks as she gentle caressed Sana's injured hand. The wound had been unintentional, but the ritual was necessary.

"Father, please don't let them do this," Sidharth pleaded.

"When the husband departs, so must the symbols of marriage," Mrs. Savitri explained, her voice breaking.

"Don't do this to my momma!" Aarav's sharp cry pierced through the solemn atmosphere, drawing pitying glances from the elders.

"Cry, my child. Don't bottle this pain inside – it will consume you," Mr. Agarwal finally spoke, drawing his daughter into his arms.

"Papa," Sana mumbled, pulling back to look at her father's face.

"Yes, my child?"

"Papa... I'm a widow now," she stated, her voice hollow, and the raw anguish in those words seemed to amplify the collective grief in the room.

The moment was interrupted by a sudden hush falling over the gathering. The Prime Minister had arrived, carrying a wreath to place at Pradeep's memorial. The sight seemed to ignite something in Sana's previously vacant expression.

"What are you doing here? Take him away!" she shouted, her voice carrying an unexpected strength born of rage. When security personnel moved to restrain her, the Prime Minister waved them away.

"My child, I understand your pain, but he served our nation. He deserves these honors," the dignitary spoke, his well-tailored suit seeming suddenly out of place among the grieving families.

"What do you know of honor? The dead don't need your wreaths!" she spat, years of contained anger finding their voice.

"Sana, child," both fathers tried to intervene simultaneously.

"Please," the Prime Minister requested again, his voice gentle.

"By what right? That man was my husband, this innocent child's father! In serving your nation, my son lost his father's shadow, and I... I became a widow. My forehead empty, my neck bare, my life hollow – you took my husband from me!" she cried out, her voice rising with each word.

"Madam, we understand your grief, but please maintain decorum," a security officer attempted to intervene.

"Father, tell them to leave! Let them go console the other families, build their political capital elsewhere. No one will come near my husband, especially not this man!" she declared, her voice carrying across the silent hall.

"But child, how am I responsible for this?" the Prime Minister asked, his face serious.

"Aren't you? It's because of people like you that there are wars at the border. You sit in your high offices, untouchable, while we pay the price for your orders!" she accused.

"I don't care... just leave... leave..." her voice began to fade, her body swaying slightly.

"Bhabhi!" Sidharth's desperate cry echoed through the hall as darkness claimed her, her small frame crumpling like a paper doll in the wind.

The last sound she heard was the collective gasp of the gathering, before silence enveloped her completely.

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