Amaira brought her fists close to her face. The morning sun was as radiant as Kabir. “This round’s definitely mine,” Kabir smiled, stepping forward, and wiping beads of sweat off his forehead. Her training gave her a fraction of a second more, to admire his beautiful dark brown eyes tracing her fists. When he looked into her eyes, when his warm skin was against hers, when his cedarwood scent teased her nose, it brought out something primordial inside of her. On the freshly-mowed lawn of their front yard, sparring with Kabir was turning into an intimate affair. Her natural reflexes could break his bones – she had to keep her head in the game to exercise restraint, but it was a daunting task with Kabir across from her.
He eventually caught her bait and lunged forward. She used his momentum to flip him over her shoulder. Before he realized, Amaira had pinned him down on the soft lawn, and had her elbow against his throat, short of crushing his windpipe. “Kabir, try all you want, but you can’t win at this unless I let you.” She eased back on him, patting him on his chest. Amaira pressed on his abdomen to check for pain, where her elbow had dealt a mild blow. Getting up on their feet, she turned to him, “The white paint on the porch does make the house look different. Good different.”
“Ah well,” Kabir had a tired look on his face. “Took care of a lot of things before you got back.” Walking back to the house, Kabir brought her up to speed on all the maintenance work he’d finished while Amaira was at her posting.
“We should switch the color of the north wall to something darker,” Amaira’s eyes lit up, standing at the door. “That would really contrast with the marble mantel above the fireplace.”
“Wow,” he looked at Amaira for a moment, and kissed her on the forehead. “You should let experts handle the nuances of home decor.”
Amaira crossed her arms, “Right, and you have a diploma in it?”
“No, ma’am,” Kabir held her hands and looked down. “Thought so,” Amaira smirked and led him in.
Kabir sat in his room, at his desk, for a long time, staring at the wall. He was born in this home. He had lived here all his life. Yet, he couldn’t remember ever noticing the walls in his room before now.
We should switch the color of the north wall to something darker.
His thoughts were interrupted when the bell of the old clock downstairs rang twice. Two past midnight. Sighing, he walked to the mantelpiece. Medals for valor, gallantry awards, service awards, enclosed in wooden frames, all stood on the mantelpiece, or hung on the wall. Running his hand over the mantelpiece, he picked up a metal name badge. Kabir Pilot – it read. He held it in his hand, tightening his grip on it, as her words echoed in his head.
Legacy must mean so much to you.
The metal corners must have dug into his skin, because a dull pain shot up through his palm. But it did not hurt. A soldier was trained to tolerate pain. What Kabir was not trained for was the heaviness in his heart. In all the years that he had lived in this house, he had never felt alone, right until today. Her voice still lingered in the room.
She did not.
As the realization dawned on him, his eyes moistened. Most likely from metal digging into his skin. It had to be that. Shutting his eyes, he left the badge back on the mantelpiece, tapped the edge with his hand twice, and walked down to the door. There was no one on his porch. No one was going to be. As the weight on his heart began to sink further in, he shut the door, and spun the locks.
“Wings suited you well, Ninja,” Kabir held up the frame to Amaira. One of her favorite pictures from her flying days, sitting on the wing of her craft in her flying overalls, was enclosed in a wooden frame, with an engraving – ‘104 Ninja’ – her squadron number and call-sign. It was her parting gift from her squadron.
“It still suits me,” Amaira took the picture from him, and snuggled him, both now facing the wall by the staircase. Carefully replacing an old framed picture from the wall with the one in his hand, Kabir asked, “The wall looks better now, doesn’t it?”
“There’s one picture of my Marching Out Ceremony too,” Amaira remembered. “We could put it right next to yours…” She scanned the entire wall for it. It had to be here somewhere. Almost every other picture was here. But that was nowhere to be found.
“We’ll see about that.” She felt Kabir stiffen his posture. He tapped her shoulder twice, while checking his phone. “WingCo’s party at 1830. Be ready. I have specific instructions to wear the black tux.” Kabir left her with that, and the picture he had taken off the wall. Amaira carried it back to their room. A goofy picture of eight-year old Kabir hanging upside down the branch of a guava tree, she found it adorable enough to feel guilty about putting it back in the closet. Making a mental note to find another wall for it, she pulled a knee-length, black dress from her wardrobe. She took a quick shower, only to find Kabir already setting the tie on his shoulders before knotting it. Kabir volunteered to zip the back of the dress up, and slid her a box. Amaira opened it to find a watch sitting – black dial, black strap, studded with crystals on the rim of the dial. Amaira was not one to accessorize, but she involuntarily stretched her wrist to him, as her lips curved into a child-like smile.
“Mom got this from Paris,” he gently took the watch out. As soon as she processed his sentence, she sharply pulled her hand away. If the watch belonged to Kabir’s mother, it was not hers to claim. “Kabir,” she said, spotting confusion in his eyes. “I can’t accept it.”
Bringing her hand forward, Kabir looked at Amaira. “If I am anything like mom, I know she’d be proud of you, and gladly bequeath everything she owned to you.” Amaira felt a warmth that she had never experienced before as she wore the watch. She felt a bit closer to the Pilot family. She picked her handbag, and they hurried down to the car for the party.
Within no time, Kabir and Amaira reached the old banquet hall. They were just in time to receive Wing Commander Farhan Engineer. Tall, lean, gray eyes, and a long nose, but WingCo’s – as they fondly addressed him – most distinctive feature was his thick Hungarian handlebar mustache. His wife – Nancy Engineer – a rather short woman, smiled more with her eyes than she did with her lips. Kabir had told Amaira that she had made plans to visit all three of her children, and Kabir, right after WingCo announced his retirement. This party was in honor of his service to the nation. Just then, the couple stopped to greet them. Amaira and Kabir instinctively stood in attention, and raised their heels and shoulders in an informal salute. Acknowledging their salutations, WingCo smiled and shook their hands. Nancy did not care for formality, and gave all her love to Kabir in one hug. “Not a day goes by that I don’t hear something about you!” she said. Turning to Amaira, she asked, “And is this lovely woman Amaira?”
“Captain Amaira Manek, Mrs. Engineer.” Amaira could tell Kabir uttered every syllable there with pride.
“Ah!” Mrs. Engineer exclaimed. “So Kabir finally met his match.” Nancy rested her right hand on Amaira’s head in a blessing, while looking down and closing her eyes. As she opened her eyes, Amaira’s hand caught her eye.
“Oh dear! After so many years.”
Amaira was completely taken aback, but she held onto her smile, looking to Kabir for cues. He was engrossed with WingCo by that point. WingCo’s wife was a perceptive woman, perhaps. She seemed to understand how perplexed Amaira was. Excusing themselves from the gentlemen, she dragged Amaira away from the banquet.
They stepped into a long hallway full of pictures. Framed photographs of uniformed men and women, perhaps with their families, hung neatly in rows on both walls. One could travel back and forth in time in this hallway, as the color-grading changed with each year further down. “Look at this one,” Mrs. Engineer stopped to point out. She looked at the photograph, with all the officers and their partners standing together, and a bunch of kids sitting on a bench at the bottom. The unmistakable Hungarian handlebar mustache on WingCo’s face gave them away. Amaira was mesmerized at the consistency. Mrs. Engineer, beside him, had not aged a day since that photograph was clicked, it seemed. Right beside her was Kabir’s father, and his mother beside him. His eyes, his jawline, her nose. Kabir was a perfect amalgamation of the elegant couple. Kabir’s mother was in a knee-length gray dress, hands to the front holding a handbag, and a watch on her wrist with a round, black dial, with black strap, and the crystals studded around the dial left a faint impression in the photograph as well.
“Indira and I were really close. The day this picture was taken, was the first time Indira wore the watch she had got from Paris. We had discussed it in detail over dinner then. Soon after, Zubin was posted to a different city.” Nancy’s tone softened. “And Indira and I never crossed paths again. I never thought that watch would look as good on anyone else, as it did on her. Until today”
“I hope to be worthy of that admiration,” Amaira mustered the strength to say something she could never articulate in front of Kabir. “Oh, don’t be silly!” Mrs. Engineer waved her hand. “Kabir is twice as lucky to have you as you are to find him. Now, let’s go back before my husband starts enjoying my absence.” She giggled at her own joke as Amaira followed her.
The rest of the evening went as well as expected, with Kabir introducing Amaira to a few more guests at the command, including Yohan – his batchmate and bunkermate. When they came back home, Amaira carefully put the watch back in the box, and stored it safely in the drawers of her wardrobe. Changing into something a lot more comfortable, she crashed into the couch with him, soaking in the warmth of the fireplace before calling it a day. “Today was nice,” she said.
“Very nice, indeed.” Kabir muttered, planting a kiss on her head.
“Remind me to open the other carton box tomorrow. That has a picture of my Marching Out Ceremony.” Amaira was excited about calling his home their home. “We’ll put yours and mine together.”
“Amaira, I…” Kabir paused midway. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, before he said, “…I don’t have a picture from my ceremony.”
Amaira was mildly shocked to hear that, but did not react. Four generations of men in the armed forces. The ceremony would have meant everything to Kabir. She remembered he had dodged the question in the afternoon as well. She slowly sat upright, reassuringly intertwined her fingers into his. Looking into his eyes, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it, Kabir?”
Kabir stood in the hall, watching Amaira walk away. From his home. From his life. For a moment, he caught himself wishing for a miracle – that she would come back. But he stopped midway. Even if the universe granted him his miracle, was he worthy of her?
He waited; no, he punished himself till he heard the latch of the main gate clink, watched the headlamps fill the lawn with light, heard the engine hum to life, till the sound waned into the distance. Once he was left with silence and emptiness, leaving the door ajar, he walked up the staircase and stopped at the landing, in front of the framed photographs.
Now we have a picture of the Marching Out Parade, together.
A picture of Amaira and him in their ceremony uniforms, hung on the wall. Their caps and batons under their arms, Amaira laughing because of something Mrs. Engineer said while clicking their picture together, as Kabir never stopped looking at Amaira. To the right of that frame hung another picture. Kabir as a toddler, clinging to his father, but also holding his mother’s finger, in front of their car.
You orphaned him!
He felt the ground slip away underneath him again. The realization that Kabir was an orphan too came crashing down on him. He continued looking at then Squadron Leader Zubin Pilot, with the three of his most prized possessions – his wife Indira, son Kabir, and their shining new Ford Granada.
The parade grounds were filled with a festive air. The southern stands were decorated with layers of white, sky blue and indigo, the colors of the Air Force. Colors that were a part of Kabir’s genetic makeup. A dais was set up with a view from the stands, to allow for spectators to watch the award ceremony. The cadets would march between the grounds and the dais. Bands were positioned flanking the stage, and the cadets would enter from the East gates. Banners of the Air Force, with their coat of arms – featuring the two headed eagle, believed to be the ruler of the skies – had been hoisted on either side of the stands. The motto of the Air Force was painted on the last wall of the stands – “Glory to the sky”.
From the entrance of the East gates, Kabir registered all the details, except his father. “Duty calls. Will be back in time for the ceremony,” Baba had told before he hung up. He would be there soon – Yohan had told him. Kabir had also requested Squadron Leader Farhan Engineer to move his name to the end of the roster. As the horn blew, Kabir cleared his mind of everything except the march ahead. Leading his entire batch, he stepped onto the grounds – chest high, arm swinging all the way to the shoulder. As the band brought the march to a halt, the batch stood in files of three. Following the reviewing officer’s address, as well as the chief-guest’s speech, the award ceremony began. Names were called, followed by their assigned squadrons. Each cadet marched to the stage, saluted the chief-guest and the reviewing officer, received their award and wings, and returned to their position. Facing his back to the audience, Kabir guessed that his father may have returned by then. It had been over eight hours. Kabir counted in his head each time a name was called. He waited for his turn, and sure enough, it came. “Flying Officer Kabir Pilot, Squadron 21 Wolfpack.”
As the band escorted the dignitaries off the grounds, and opened the stand gates, families poured in from all sides. Kabir scoured for his father in all the directions. Protocol did not allow him to scan the audience during the ceremony. Out of the corner of his eye, Kabir spotted Engineer walking towards him. He walked up to the officer, and saluted.
“Son, come with me.” The officer led Kabir through the gate, and they sat in one of the patrol cars. “The infirmary,” he said to the airman. Kabir’s heartbeat rose. “What happened, sir?”
There had been a rather late tip-off from the other side of the hostile border. Wing Commander Zubin Pilot was called in with his squadron, along with two other squadrons. The radar had spotted movement of four hostile F-15s twenty miles west of the Line of Control. After two hours of no activity, the last returning reconnaissance flight suddenly caught four more airborne F-16 aircrafts closing in from a far higher altitude, on radar. The four F-15s stationed on ground had been a decoy. Two flights – six MiG-21 aircrafts in all, led by Pilot were airborne immediately. Trained in dogfighting for years, his squadron quelled the attack with a coordinated defense. They pushed the enemy back into their airspace, taking down two of their crafts in the process. But one of the retreating aircrafts fired a heat-seeking missile at his fighter. The flare ejection system malfunctioned after absorbing a lot of firing, jamming the flares cartridge. Left with no alternative, he led the missile away upward, and performed a barrel roll while deccelerating. The missile was shooting past with a narrow margin from the aircraft as estimated, when the change in momentum caused the flares to expel and ignite. The warhead exploded. The instrument cluster shorted. His craft’s canopy popped open. Shrapnel pierced him. The aircraft spiraled out of control, forcing him to eject. When the rescue team extracted him, they found shrapnel in his lungs and left kidney, and burns all over the lower body. He was immediately transferred back to the Central Command Infirmary for treatment. He was now in the infirmary’s ICU.
When Kabir reached the ICU, he felt his windpipe collapse. Bile churned in his stomach. He felt his legs wobble. Yet, he stood in attention – feet together, hands by his side – in front of his Baba’s martyred remains. Bandaged feet, chest, and hands. He replayed every detail Squadron Leader Farhan Engineer told him about the mission. Over and over again. What went wrong? What could his father have done to save himself?
He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he stood there. A warm hand tapped his shoulder twice, jerking him back to reality. Nancy Engineer supported him at his waist with her arm. “He was proud to see you graduate.” She pointed at the television. She told him Baba’s final request was to watch Kabir’s Marching Out Ceremony, and he put all his strength to each breath, till he saw Kabir receive his wings.
He saw Kabir receive his wings.
Kabir had collapsed a thousand times inside. But he stood firm in front of the bed. Baba was martyred. And a martyr commanded respect from a soldier. A soldier remains strong, even when he is weak. But Nancy knew better. What Kabir needed was to not be alone today. Especially when he had lost all that was left of his family. “Kabir,” she whispered, “Come.” She led him out of the room, to allow the doctors to complete their duties. Outside, in the hallway, every cadet – officers now, stood in files of three. As soon as Kabir saw them, at once, every officer stomped their right foot, and raised their hand in a salute. Soon after, Yohan broke the file and hugged Kabir tightly. The boys – men now, all broke file, flooded around Kabir, surrounded and held on to him as they let him break down.
Kabir tapped himself twice, pulling himself to reality. He wiped away a tear that escaped his eyes. Amaira had turned one of Kabir’s most painful memories into something that he wanted to remember. And then, he ruined everything. Maybe this was destiny. There are things you do not challenge in this life. Because they come back at you a hundred, or a million times worse. He walked to his room, letting the pain hit him with each step. On his desk, in his room, he saw a box. His mother’s watch. After that evening, she had always carried it with her. Until now. Breathing slowly, he walked to the desk, and sat down, staring at the wall.