War? I see it in the soldiers’ families who take rides to the military hospital in Vasant Kunj. Silent mothers, tight faces, holding envelopes with letters they can’t read. I see it when fuel spikes after some bomb drops ten states away — suddenly my tank costs me two extra days of work. Politicians don’t fight, they just send boys from villages like mine to fill the holes in the ground. I fought my war getting here, staying here, keeping my kids from becoming another statistic on a railway track. War isn’t tanks — war is a widow knocking on your door before sunrise, asking if you knew her husband, if he died like a man. I just nod. What else can I do?
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