Drabbles: 30. Episode XXXI- Return of the Jallad (Pg 95) [Note Pg 98] - Page 64

The silver dunes and scrubland stretched for miles along the sides of the road. The night sky twinkled with thousands of stars, forming a vast unbroken canopy. The occasional call of the desert fox and the whispers of shifting sand accompanied the spluttering of Rudra's bike as he sped along the Chandangarh-Ambapur highway.

The gritty air whipped across his face and whistled through his hair. The terrifying stillness and sense of insignificance that the desert inspired fazed most city folk. Rudra, however, reveled in it. He loved the untamed wilderness and sense of thrill. He felt at home on this harsh, unforgiving terrain.

Unfortunately, the Thar seemed to have lost her touch. Her gypsy charms couldn't distract Rudra from his anguish tonight.

The day's events played on a disjointed loop in his mind. And for the first time in years, Rudra felt like that helpless boy of thirteen again. The one whose world had fallen apart overnight and who was still picking up the pieces fifteen years later. This time, the dominoes were falling so fast and in so many directions, he didn't know where to stop the chain to contain the devastation.

Rage, self-loathing, and mistrust-- these had been his constant companions for so long, they came as easily as breathing. Part of the reason he was such a successful soldier was this cocktail of emotions that wouldn't ever let him rest in peace. He had learned to channel all his aggression and restlessness into constructive action in the BSD; he had taken pride in his ungovernable resolve that would never settle for less than victory.

Brigadier Singh's denial and accusation gnawed at his heart. Was he right? Could he really have avoided the deaths of so many men? Rudra was not afraid of bloodshed. A war demanded sacrifices. The question was, were those sacrifices in vain? Could they have been avoided? And if Tejawat's men remained at large, continued infiltrating the military, continued dealing in illegal arms, what had Rudra really won?

A pair of eyes with immeasurable trust in their depths flashed before him. He brought his bike to a screeching halt and leaned heavily on the handlebars.

Parvati.

Bitter resentment curdled with guilt welled up within him. That was all that he had won-- a wife and marital bliss. What right had he to lie content in his wife's arms at night, when Captain Nitin Joshi's old father still looked at the door expectantly when someone knocked or when Cadet Aditya Rathore's new bride had to be watched constantly for fear that she would try to kill herself again?

And yet, God, how he longed for her, for the woman he should never have married. Who had he been kidding? How had he been lulled by cups of ginger tea and the facade of domesticity?

He was a jallad, she was collateral damage, and this marriage couldn't help but end in jagged shards that would rip them both apart.

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