The ridge was quiet now, the echo of battle fading into the shadows of the dense jungle. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind, and birds swept through the branches, their songs a reminder that life continued despite the scars of the past. Yet, in this tranquil setting, Veeraj found no peace. Sleep eluded him as he sat by the flickering firelight, his heart heavy with a weight he couldn't fully articulate. Every crackle of the flames seemed to stir memories of the recent violence, and the hush that settled over the camp was less a comfort than a haunting presence. The world had changed on this ridge, and so had those who survived upon it.
The silence around the camp was punctuated only by the distant calls of night creatures. Veeraj wondered if the others could hear the same echoes he did—the shouts, the clash of steel, the final cries of the fallen. He drew his knees to his chest, searching the darkness for meaning, for some sign that their struggle had not been in vain. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, a reminder that the jungle bore its own wounds.
In the dim glow, Veeraj traced the spiral he had discovered in the churned earth—a relic of the confrontation, a symbol of something deeper yet to be understood. The spiral's curves reminded him of stories his grandmother used to tell, tales of cycles in nature and in human hearts. This wasn't merely an artistic endeavour; it was a desperate effort to tether fleeting memories to permanence, to grasp the fragments of a reality that felt increasingly precarious. He pressed his palm to the dirt, feeling the coolness seep into his skin, grounding him in the moment.
Malhar broke the silence, sauntering over with a casual air. He tossed a ripe mango into Veeraj's lap, his attempt at levity punctuating the heavy atmosphere. "You owe me two climbs," he said, a playful challenge sparking in his eyes. Malhar's lightness was deliberate—a shield against grief, a way to remind Veeraj that ordinary joys could still exist in the aftermath of chaos. There was dirt on Malhar's face and a fresh scratch on his forearm, evidence of the day's ordeal, but he grinned as if nothing in the world could shake him.
Veeraj managed a faint smile. "Three climbs, if you ask Meera," he replied, his voice softer than he intended. For a moment, the heaviness lifted, replaced by a fleeting sense of camaraderie.
Just beyond the firelight, Meera stood at the edge of the clearing, her silhouette framed by the formidable trunks of ancient trees. She had been conspicuously silent since the battle, her silence weaving a complicated tapestry of emotions that felt both heavy and known. Meera's hands trembled as she picked at the edge of her shawl, her eyes fixed on something far away. It was a silence that was not cold or indifferent but rather resonant with the echoes of shared moments and profound understanding. She remembered the way her brother used to tell her that silence was a language, too—a space where truth could breathe.
The trio's unity had always been their strength, but now something fragile had settled between them, a thin veil of uncertainty. Meera's silence was different from the others; it was not born of exhaustion but of contemplation, as if she held within her the answers that none dared speak aloud. It seemed to Veeraj that the outcome of the battle had not only cost them their innocence, but also forced them to reconsider their loyalties and the very nature of their promises to one another. He thought of the spiral again—how its path always led inward before returning outward, how their lives, too, seemed to be folding back on themselves before they could move ahead.
Malhar threw another piece of wood on the fire, his face momentarily illuminated.
"We should rest," he said, glancing at Meera with a look of concern. But none of them moved. The fire's glow revealed the shadows beneath their eyes, the tension in their shoulders, and the unspoken questions that hovered between them.
As the jungle rustled softly around them and the wind shifted, Meera began to walk away, her silhouette merging with the shadows of the trees. Veeraj's heart felt a pang, a sense of loss for the connection they had once shared. He wanted to call out to her, to break the spell of her silence, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he watched as her figure dissolved into the night, and he wondered if she would ever return—not just to the fire, but to him.
In this moment, amidst the whispers of the jungle, the spiral of their shared memories entwined with the echoes of their solemn vows, marking the turning point of their journey together. The path ahead was obscured by doubt and possibility alike—a path that would test not only their resilience but their very sense of self. As Veeraj watched Meera disappear into the darkness, he realized that the story of their friendship was entering a new chapter, one where silence could wound as surely as words, and where hope would have to be forged anew, night after night.
That night, with thoughts swirling like the smoke from the dying fire, Veeraj turned to his journal. He penned a verse, pouring his feelings into carefully chosen words. This wasn't for the council, nor was it for the sardar; it was a tribute to the spiral, to the silence that enveloped them both. The poetic lines tumbled onto the page, each one a reflection of the day's anguish and the bonds tested under fire. Writing was his solace—the only way to make sense of the chaos within him.
*Ek nazar.*
*Ek shabd ardhavat.*
*Ek bandhan thartharle.*
*Ek smaran tutale.*
Lost in his reverie, Veeraj didn't realize the profound significance of his writing until Malhar leaned over his shoulder. The fire cast shifting shadows across the page, illuminating the poem in a soft, trembling light.
"You're changing," Malhar observed, a note of awe in his voice as he read the verse. There was a tenderness in his words, a recognition that something fundamental was shifting within Veeraj, as if the events of the night had unearthed a new layer of his being.
"I'm remembering," Veeraj replied.
He didn't know it yet, but this was a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā)—a soul verse. Not composed, but remembered, as if drawn from some deeper well of experience shared by those who have gazed into the abyss and found meaning rather than despair. The words became an anchor for Veeraj, a way to hold on to both pain and possibility.
As the embers faded and the jungle reclaimed its hush, Veeraj closed his journal, the weight of his words lingering in the air. Tomorrow, the world would demand more from him—from all of them. But tonight, beneath the ancient trees and the endless sky, he let himself breathe in the silence—a silence now filled with meaning, with memory, and with hope that even fractured bonds could one day be mended. The night offered no answers, only the assurance that healing would begin with the courage to remember and to forgive.
He lay back, staring up through the tangled canopy at the stars, remembering a time when hope had seemed effortless. Now, it was something they would have to choose, again and again, with every sunrise. Even as exhaustion claimed him, Veeraj promised himself that he would keep the spiral alive—in his words, in his friendships, in the fragile spaces where silence lingered and life waited to begin anew.