Immortal

"Mumma, so we won't celebrate Diwali this year?", my daughter asked me with teary eyes. I tried to cheer her up and said, "You and bhaiya should go ahead and celebrate Diwali; dress up, go outside and play with your friends, and burst as many crackers as you want. Papa will be so happy to see you celebrate Diwali this year". But on the very mention of her Papa, my 4-year-old daughter burst into tears. "How can I celebrate Diwali without Papa!" She cried all night. I hugged my daughter Ada and son Adarsh, who is three years older than Ada, and put both to sleep. Adarsh was behaving maturely enough and was able to understand the gravity of the situation, but I could feel his inner turmoil. He was being the good big brother and consoling my daughter all the while. Over the last few weeks, he had become very serious. He volunteered to do the outdoor chores, bring in the groceries, and smilingly carried out every other task in the house. My sweet little 7-year-old Adarsh had grown up so much. But I still wanted my kids to live their childhood the way they had been doing so far, while my husband was alive.

My husband, Major Rajeev Singh, died on duty this year in a remote valley in Kashmir when the troops that he led had a scuffle and a minor shoot-out with some terrorists hiding in the village. Even as my husband was wounded with two gunshots, one on his arm and one in his stomach, he managed to arrest two of the terrorists before he put down his gun and collapsed on the ground.

We received the news a day later. Our family was shattered to pieces, but we gathered the courage to go to Delhi to attend his state funeral. I received all his belongings from the Army high command and came back hugging my orphaned children, Rajeev's old parents, and all the pleasant memories that he left behind. We were proud to hear about his deeds of bravery from his colleagues, but the hollows in our hearts were not going to be filled up with any kind words.

When we returned to our town, all the important people in the community gathered to receive us. Everyone attended the memorial prayers we conducted in Rajeev's honor. Every person in the town, be it the mayor, local politicians, our acquaintances, or even strangers consoled our grieving family and wanted to convey that they were immensely proud of my husband's sacrifice for the country.

Life took its path and went on.

We have not celebrated any birthdays in the house since Rajeev's passing. But the next day was Diwali – my children's favorite festival. I wanted them to cheer up, so I took them shopping and got them new clothes to wear on the occasion, but the gloom in the house persisted.

I reassured them again and again, "This Diwali is going to be very special! Papa will look at us from the sky and smile".

On the day of Diwali, in the morning, my father-in-law returned with an invitation card in his hand. It was an invitation by the town hall committee for a Diwali get-together. This was an annual custom in our small town where most of the families gathered at the Town Square (

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a famous marketplace) and everyone celebrated Diwali together each year. Though I was not in the mood to go anywhere in public tonight, with a grim face and sorrowful eyes, I looked at Rajeev's weeping mother and the kids and said, "Sure, we all will go there and celebrate Diwali. Why shouldn't we… Life doesn't stop! We cannot stop celebrating festivals and good occasions, right?". The kids and my mother-in-law finally agreed to attend the party.

We all dressed up in sober clothes. I particularly did not want to catch a lot of public attention being a widow, but I made my kids wear the new clothes I had bought for them.

We reached the Town Square at 7 pm. Today, the Square was crowded with twice as many people as the usual Diwali parties each year. We were surprised to see the entire town present there. Some volunteers escorted our family to the center of the stage, where the mayor and his aides were seated, with a few mikes placed in front of them.

The mayor then addressed the crowd -

"On the auspicious occasion of Diwali, I would like to felicitate the family of Late Major Rajeev Singh. Many people die each day, but men like Major Singh are Immortal. Their legacy, their memories, and the stories of their greatness live on forever. So let us all acknowledge the great contribution and sacrifice of this brave soldier hailing from our small town by renaming the famous 'Town- Square' to 'Major Rajeev Singh Chowk' from this date". The whole city cheered and applauded for Rajeev and the mayor stepped ahead to hand over a pair of scissors to Rajeev's parents, with which he insisted they cut the ribbon to unveil a statue of Rajeev, mounted over a marble-stone structure carved with his name, his birth and death dates and addressing all the details of his bravery.

Rajeev's statue stood right at the center of the Town Square, which would now onwards be called 'Major Rajeev Singh Chowk'. My parents-in-law were not sobbing anymore; in fact, they seemed so happy and proud of their son. My children proudly repeated the slogan "Major Singh Amar Rahe" along with the crowd in the name of their father. Each person present there lit a diya at Rajeev's memorial commemorating him. The whole town and my family then celebrated Diwali there in Rajeev's honor. I too was given a 'fuljhadi' by all the ladies who wanted me to leave all the darkness behind and shine again with the lights around me. Their gestures truly made me emotional. I was so happy to see my family happy on this auspicious day. But no wonder, I missed Rajeev.

That is when Ada came running towards me, pointed at the clear night sky, and showed me some stars, which had aligned to form a smile-like pattern.

Ada said, "Mumma, you had said that 'Papa will look at us from the sky and smile'. Is that him?", Ada asked innocently, but cheerfully, as if she could feel her father up there.

I said, "Indeed! That is him! People who are immortal, become a star", I explained to Ada as we smiled back and waved toward the sky that would remind us of our Immortal Hero forever.