When the Silence Breaks

The days at KMA settled into a rhythm. For the cadets, it was relentless: drills at dawn, lectures, tactical training, evening runs, late-night study. For Vidya, the rhythm was different but no less demanding: morning infirmary rounds, field visits, reports stacked like walls on her desk.

By now she knew most of the officers' patterns — Abhimanyu's easy stride as he cut across the grounds with a joke ready for anyone who crossed his path; Shalini's unflappable calm, even with half a dozen cadets clamoring for her attention; Rummy's loud laughter spilling through the corridors as if discipline was a foreign word.

And then there was Gunny.

He was always there, and yet somehow apart.

In the mornings, she saw him running drills — his voice sharp, his commands clipped. Cadets snapped to attention when he passed, their spines straightening as though afraid even their shadows might displease him. He never raised his voice unnecessarily, but the weight in it carried farther than any shout.

At first, Vidya thought it was just the way of a strict officer. But as the days stretched, she noticed the cracks beneath the steel. The way his jaw tightened when a cadet faltered. The way his hands flexed once behind his back before stilling again. The way his eyes — cold, unflinching — lingered longer than they should on the cadets he sent running until their bodies nearly gave out.

There was no cruelty in him. But there was no softness either.

And for reasons she couldn't explain, it unsettled her.

That evening in the mess hall, the officers' table was lively. Abhimanyu was telling a story from a field exercise gone wrong, Rummy punctuating it with dramatic gestures, Peter laughing so hard he nearly dropped his spoon. Purvi rolled her eyes at every exaggeration but smiled despite herself.

Vidya, seated between Shalini and Purvi, found herself laughing too. She hadn't realized how much she needed moments like this — light, ridiculous, normal.

At the far end of the same table sat Gunny. Next to Rajveer, across from Abhimanyu. His plate was neatly arranged, his hands moving with precise efficiency. He didn't interrupt, didn't comment, didn't even lift his eyes from his food unless directly addressed.

When Abhimanyu turned to him mid-story — "Right, Gunny? You were there." — he gave a single nod. "Yes."

That was it. No elaboration. No amusement. And then silence again.

Vidya tried not to stare, but the contrast was stark. This was his circle — Rajveer, Abhimanyu, men who trusted him with their lives. And still he kept himself apart, as though even laughter was an indulgence he couldn't afford.

Rajveer caught her gaze, followed it to his friend, then gave her a small shake of his head. Don't ask. Don't push.

But Vidya wasn't built to ignore what she saw.

The next morning found Vidya in the infirmary, surrounded by files that smelled faintly of dust and ink. She had begun compiling health charts for the cadets — weights, stamina, recurring illnesses, and stress markers. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was necessary. Too many cadets ignored their limits, and if left unchecked, exhaustion could spiral into real damage.

When Shalini returned from a field call, she found Vidya frowning at a stack of forms. "Long night?" she asked, slipping off her coat.

Vidya tapped one file with her pen. "This cadet has been flagged three times for fatigue-related collapses. And he's not the only one. There's a pattern here, Shalini. They're overworked."

Shalini gave her a knowing look. "You're going to bring this up with Gunny, aren't you?"

Vidya hesitated, then nodded. "I have to. It's my responsibility. These cadets aren't machines."