I am numb to the things happening around me. The road is tainted with red paint it seems. I can’t feel my legs. I try to look around but my neck hurts. My throat is raspy but I muster some strength and call out my commander’s name. No response.
The smell of the grass blades and the sweet fragrance of mawalin. As a child I would run for miles and miles in the nearby forest, wandering here and there, looking at trees and chirping like birds. At night I would gaze at the sky, the clear and beautiful sky of Pulwama, my home. A young boy with dreams to make it big.
We were alert, eager lads, ready to serve our nation. The shackles of religion, caste, gender and race did not bind us. We were unfettered by the thought of death. Our nation is always first.
I was in the convoy, talking to my friends, when the bombs blasted. I saw another jawan thrown out of the window. It was chaos. It was the end.
My breathing is heavy. I can smell the gunpowder. The road is tainted in red and the chunks of dead bodies are strewn around. Even though my breath is ragged and I know these seconds are my last, but I am proud. Proud to die for my motherland.