It sits quietly in a corner, weathered yet well-preserved. To the untrained eye, it looks like any other fauji trunk—rugged and utilitarian, a silent companion to a soldier’s journeys. But this trunk carries something far more profound, something that time itself has refused to touch.

For almost 25 years, it has remained a sacred relic in the home of his parents. Once a year in September, they unlock its secrets. Carefully, they lay its contents under the sun, treating every item as though it holds a heartbeat. And in a way, it does.

The trunk arrived on a gray October morning in 2000, a day etched into memory. I was busy with my postgraduate studies when the landline buzzed. My mother’s voice broke the silence: “The trunk has come. His parents… they’re shattered.” A chill ran through me, though I didn’t fully understand the gravity of those words until later.

When the trunk was first opened, it felt as though time itself had stopped. Inside were neatly washed, still-damp clothes, a treasured pair of sunglasses, perfectly folded camouflage uniforms, and an album filled with joyful faces from a recent family wedding. Letters, trinkets, and keepsakes lay tucked away, each one whispering of a life so vibrant, now heartbreakingly still.

With every item removed, the air thickened with grief. His parents, unable to speak, held each piece as if cradling him again. The faint smell of him lingered, mingling with their silent tears. His name, boldly painted on the trunk, stood as a stark reminder of what had been taken from them.

Someone quietly urged, “Close it now… don’t let his khushboo fade.” And so, the trunk was sealed again, locking away not just belongings, but the essence of a son, a soldier, and a martyr.

Every year since, his parents open it once with trembling hands and aching hearts. It is more than a trunk; it is a portal to another time, a Pandora’s box of love, loss, and what ifs. For those who touch it, it holds the weight of a life cut short and a sacrifice too immense to measure.

This is the trunk that’s locked in time. A soldier’s soul rests within, forever preserved in the quiet corner of his parents’ home, a silent guardian of memories and an enduring symbol of a life lived with honour

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