I will share a personal experience: my father was posted in Jammu

Host:
The night had settled heavy over Delhi, carrying with it that old monsoon weight—humid, electric, almost mournful. From the balcony of a small apartment, the city lights flickered through the rising mist, casting faint halos on the wet streets below.

Inside, the television glowed dimly, its volume low, but the steady crawl of text tickers across the bottom of the screen pulsed like a heartbeat. Names. Faces. Regiments. Jack sat on the worn sofa, staring at the glow, his jaw tight, his fingers restless against the armrest.

Jeeny stood near the window, her hands clasped, her eyes distant, watching the rain gather in the corners of the glass. The air between them felt weighted—like a silence that belonged to more people than just the two in the room.

On the coffee table, written on the back of an old envelope, were the words of Anushka Sharma:

“I will share a personal experience: my father was posted in Jammu & Kashmir during the Kargil war. I remember my mom sitting in front of television throughout the day reading tickers which had name of the martyrs.”

Jeeny:
(softly, as if repeating a prayer)
She said her mother sat in front of the television, reading the tickers all day… just watching the names of the martyrs scroll by.

Jack:
(quietly)
I can picture that. The stillness of it. The waiting. The kind of fear that doesn’t scream—it just sits there and breathes beside you.

Host:
The television light flickered over their faces—faint blue shadows shifting like water over stone. The rain outside softened, turning into a slow, steady drizzle that seemed to keep time with the ticker’s rhythm.

Jeeny:
It’s strange, isn’t it? That kind of strength. Just sitting there, not knowing if the next name might be the one you love.

Jack:
That’s not strength, Jeeny. That’s helplessness made holy. People call it courage, but really, it’s surrender—because there’s nothing else left to do.

Jeeny:
(turns to face him, eyes steady)
No, Jack. It’s both. Courage and surrender. Sometimes those two things are the same.

Jack:
(dryly)
Sounds poetic. But poetry doesn’t help when the world’s on fire.

Jeeny:
(softly, with sadness)
Maybe not. But it reminds us that even in the fire, someone’s waiting with water.

Host:
Her voice trembled slightly, though her eyes did not. The rain pressed harder now, drumming against the windowpane, as if echoing the heartbeat of a memory that refused to rest.

Jack:
You ever think about what that moment must have been like? Sitting there, knowing that somewhere beyond those hills, beyond those names, a part of your world might vanish—and you can’t even call to ask if they’re breathing.

Jeeny:
I think about it more than I admit. That stillness of waiting—it’s its own kind of war. You fight your imagination instead of the enemy.

Jack:
(nodding slowly)
And every time another name appears, you hold your breath. Then feel guilty for exhaling.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Yes. Because every exhale means it wasn’t him. But it was someone’s.

Host:
The room grew heavier, the air thick with remembrance. On the TV, a news anchor’s lips moved soundlessly, his words drowned by the hum of the rain and the pulse of old fear still echoing in their bones.

Jack:
Her father was posted in Kargil. You know, that sentence alone carries a lifetime.

Jeeny:
And the mother’s image completes it. It’s not just soldiers who serve. It’s the ones who wait.

Jack:
(half-smiles, bitterly)
The ones who build shrines out of televisions and call it prayer.

Jeeny:
(firmly)
It is prayer, Jack. A prayer without words. Just presence. That’s the hardest kind.

Host:
Jeeny moved closer to the screen, her reflection faint in the glow. The tickers kept moving, endless names on an endless scroll—some forgotten, some immortal, all the same in their silence.

Jeeny:
You know what I love about this quote? It’s simple. She’s not trying to sound wise or tragic. She’s just remembering. That’s all. And sometimes remembering is the bravest thing you can do.

Jack:
You think she ever forgot that feeling?

Jeeny:
No. People don’t forget fear like that. They just learn how to live alongside it.

Jack:
(leans back, voice lower)
I wonder if her mother still watches the news that way.

Jeeny:
Maybe. Maybe not for war anymore—but probably still for connection. Habit of hope is hard to break.

Host:
The flame of a nearby candle flickered, casting brief shadows across the wall where the light from the TV reflected. The contrast—blue and gold—felt almost like heartbeat and breath, grief and faith, still learning to coexist.

Jack:
You ever think that maybe peace is just an intermission?

Jeeny:
(gazes at him, softly but firmly)
Maybe. But even intermissions have music. That’s what people like her mother know—how to hold the silence without breaking.

Jack:
(pauses, then quietly)
And her daughter learned to turn that silence into words.

Jeeny:
Yes. That’s the inheritance of pain—transformation.

Host:
The rain outside began to ease, turning into mist. The news ticker continued, the names flowing on like a river of memory, neither ending nor beginning.

Jack:
You know, sometimes I think memory’s the cruelest sculptor. It keeps shaping us, even when we’re done growing.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s how we stay human. By letting the chisel keep working.

Jack:
(softly)
And what if the sculptor forgets mercy?

Jeeny:
Then the rest of us remember for them. That’s what stories like hers are for.

Host:
Jeeny’s voice faded into the hum of the room. The television screen flickered, one final name appearing before the anchor moved on. The silence that followed was deep—neither peace nor despair, just the weight of acknowledgment.

Jack:
(quietly, almost to himself)
Maybe the greatest kind of love isn’t what you say to someone—it’s what you’re willing to feel while you wait for them.

Jeeny:
(smiles faintly)
Exactly. And maybe the greatest kind of strength is not letting that waiting make you bitter.

Host:
The clock ticked softly, its rhythm steady, like the breath of something enduring.

Jeeny reached forward and turned off the television. The room fell into a gentle quiet, broken only by the distant whisper of rain and the slow beat of two hearts that finally allowed themselves to rest.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Jeeny, her voice barely above a whisper, said:

Jeeny:
Some silences aren’t emptiness. They’re remembrance.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
And remembrance is how love survives the war.

Host:
Outside, the rain stopped completely. The streetlights shimmered against puddles that reflected the night like fractured glass—pieces of the same whole, glimmering quietly in the dark.

And somewhere in the distance, beneath the wide sky that had seen both loss and return, the echo of that moment lingered—
a mother watching,
a daughter remembering,
a soldier surviving,

and all of them held together by one unspoken truth:

that love,
even in fear,
does not stop watching the screen.