‭The Silent Warrior‬

‭He was like a fish, creating ripples as he jostled through the crowd. I noticed eyes crease in disgust, whispers‬
‭behind hands, and the subtle shifting of bodies, leaning away. His deep red turban stood out from his‬
‭paling, tattered clothes. He didn’t carry much, just a small satchel and a shining silver bracelet on his wrist,‬
‭yet his eyes danced with curiosity and excitement. He quickly slipped into the crowd, disappearing into the‬
‭sea of white men in well-made coats, creating ripples once more.‬

‭I made my way further up towards a pair of desks and saw those two. One was enthusiastic. Dressed in a‬
‭vibrant khaki suit, blonde hair neatly parted, gaily beckoning the young men. “Sign up right here!”, “Serve‬
‭your country!”. Soon, recruits lined up before him, drawn by the irresistible allure of his vivid personality.‬
‭The second one simply observed the crowd, scrutinising the cheery faces with unconcerned old eyes,‬
‭indifferent to the growing line beside him. I tentatively shuffled closer, and the old man glanced at me.‬
‭“Poor chap. He sticks out like a sore thumb doesn’t he?”‬
‭“That Sikh fellow? Yes, he does.”‬
‭“Keep an eye on him. He might surprise you one day.” The old man says, flashing an omniscient grin.‬

‭In the midst of murmurs, he strode.‬

‭His turban,‬
‭A splash of colour drawing hateful eyes.‬
‭Yet he walked.‬
‭Unaware? Perhaps‬
‭Or cloaked in the dignity of self, unbothered.‬

‭His presence is one that speaks without words‬

‭Of a tale yet to be understood.‬
‭An enigma wrapped in the quiet strength of the other.‬
‭Defiantly serene.‬

‭Months had passed until fate had our paths crossed again. Everyone was lethargic after a gruelling day of‬
‭training, complaining of aches and pains. As I limped back to the barracks, I felt someone brush against my‬
‭arm. I looked up to see a strangely familiar figure wearing a dark green turban looking back, “Sorry!” he‬
‭yelled, and continued walking.‬

‭An hour or so later, I saw him again, sitting alone at dinner, his solitary figure contrasting with the bustling‬
‭camaraderie around him. My curiosity piqued and I found myself approaching him. “Mind if I join you?” I‬
‭asked. He glanced up, eyes holding a glimmer of surprise before softening into a small smile.‬
‭“Of course,” he replied, gesturing to the empty seat.‬
‭We sat in a comfortable silence for a moment before I asked “Why weren’t you limping?”.‬
‭He tilted his head slightly, “What do you mean?”.‬
‭“Today's training left everyone exhausted, well, everyone but you”.‬
‭He let out a quiet, warm laugh, “I used to be a farmer you know, my body is used to hard work”.‬
‭I nod, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name”.‬
‭“Devindar Singh” he offers his hand and I shake it.‬
‭“Owen Williams”.‬
‭Hesitating for a moment, he asks “Why talk to someone like me?”.‬
‭“Someone like you?”‬
‭“You know what I mean,” he says while vaguely gesturing towards his turban, “someone different.”.‬
‭I begin to feel conscious of the crowds’ gaze piercing me. “I….. I guess I’m a little different too”.‬

‭Our friendship grew over the months, and the veil of mystery slowly slipped away. I learnt many things‬
‭about him, he came from an impoverished family and enlisted in the army driven by his strong sense of‬
‭patriotism stemming from his culture. He sought to make change and accepted the burden of loneliness that‬
‭came along with it. One night I asked, “Hey Devindar, what’s your biggest dream?”.‬
‭His eyes lit up in excitement as he replied, “One day, I want to lead a regiment filled with Sikhs like me.‬
‭What about you, what’s yours”.‬
‭Pausing for a moment, I confess “I’m still finding my path but someday I’m going to become a poet”.‬
‭His laughter filled the space “A poet huh?” he teased, “Well you better write one about me someday”.‬
‭“I will. I promise.”‬

‭A farmer’s son turned soldier.‬

‭Whose spirit whispers of fields golden.‬
‭Where hope and toil are sown together,‬
‭And with time,‬
‭Dreams harvested.‬

‭I’m pressed into the earth, enveloped by the roaring symphony of gunfire. My breaths come in ragged gasps,‬
‭mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder that hangs heavy in the air. I tightly grasp the stock of my rifle,‬
‭knuckles turning white. Desperately firing into the unknown. I glance sideways at Devindar, his figure a‬
‭silhouette against the backdrop of chaos, outlined by the flickering muzzle flashes. Eyes like twin flames,‬
‭blazing with an unwavering resolve piercing through the smoke. With a primal roar, he charges into the fray.‬
‭Watching him, I feel a surge of adrenaline, dulling the chaotic cacophony of war. I start firing at the enemy‬
‭with invigorated resolve. Bang. Bang. Bang. A guttural cheer erupts around me, and I see soldiers following‬
‭Devindars' suit, entering the chaotic fray themselves.‬

‭A lighthouse in a sea of strife.‬

‭Guiding fearful souls through the waves of violence.‬
‭With his courage, he ignited a spark,‬
‭Creating a blaze of determination in everyone’s hearts.‬

‭In the days after the battle, the air felt heavier than the smoke-filled battlefield we left behind. I watched as‬
‭soldiers poured in, their faces etched with weariness and sorrow. Among them, I searched for Devindar,‬
‭eager to share in the relief of survival. Confusion gnawed at my gut as I approached Sergeant Thompson.‬
‭“Have you seen Devindar?” I inquire, my voice betraying urgency. He hesitated for a moment too long and‬
‭it dawned on me.‬
‭“No, No, No way” I stutter, my throat closing up in panic, “he can’t leave me like this”. I collapsed on my‬
‭knees, tears flooding my eyes.‬
‭“No…”‬

‭But fate, cruel and unyielding,‬

‭Snuffed out his flame too soon.‬
‭The world lost a soul,‬
‭Pure and true.‬

‭Tears mingle with the dark blue ink on the paper as I finish writing a poetic tribute to a great soul, knowing‬
‭that mere words could never encapsulate the greatness of my friend, the man named Devindar Singh.‬