The Voice of Bullet Never Died

 

Constable Balwan Singh shouted, “Sir! The Naxalite commander who attacked us and killed many of our men is lying right here. What should we do with her?”

The Commandant walked over to her and looked down. She was writhing in pain, lying in a pool of blood on the forest floor. He thought to himself: in this dense jungle, help would take hours to arrive. She wouldn’t survive that long. Ending her suffering might be the only mercy.

He raised his gun and aimed at her chest. For a moment, his eyes met hers. He felt as if her gaze was pleading, “Sir, don’t kill me. I want to live.” The Commandant closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

 Dhāyn-Dhāyn—the gunfire echoed through the forest. A bird took flight into the sky.

 That day’s encounter had shattered many lives. Dreams were broken. Families torn apart.

Years passed. The Commandant had retired. Every night, he took sleeping pills—yet sleep eluded him. All night long, for years and years her voice has been echoed in his ears.

“Sir, don’t kill me. I want to live.”

War stories are never glorious. They are deeply painful.

 

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