One Drop of Water

The war was not kind.

It had no mercy. It did not care if you were young or old, if you had loved ones or dreams. It came like a storm—ruthless, unforgiving, leaving nothing but the wreckage of lives in its wake. Aarav had always known about the conflicts between India and Pakistan, but he had never imagined he’d be caught in the middle of it, rifle in hand, crouched in a cold trench, waiting for something to happen.

At just 20 years old, Aarav had barely learned to fire a weapon when he was thrust into the chaos of the 1971 India-Pakistan War. His father had served as a soldier, and his grandfather too. But Aarav was different. He didn’t want to be a soldier. He wanted to be an artist. He wanted to paint, to capture the beauty of the world, to celebrate its quiet moments. But the war did not care for art. It cared for strategy, survival, and strength. And so, there he was, just another face in the crowd of men sent to fight for a cause they couldn’t fully understand.

The day had been long, filled with the shrill sound of fighter jets overhead, the distant rumbles of artillery, and the constant tension in the air. It had been quiet now for several hours, a brief lull in the endless chaos that seemed to suffocate the entire world. It was during this moment of peace that Aarav saw him—an enemy soldier, limping toward the border.

At first, Aarav thought it was a mirage. The soldier was wearing tattered clothes, his face pale from blood loss, and his steps uneven as he staggered forward. His hands were raised in a gesture of surrender, but Aarav didn’t know whether to trust him or not. His orders were clear: engage the enemy. But there was something in the soldier’s eyes that made Aarav hesitate.

Aarav’s hand tightened around the rifle, but he did not raise it. He watched as the soldier collapsed to his knees, his body giving in to the injuries he had sustained. The man was from Pakistan, his uniform torn and dirty, his face a grim mask of exhaustion.

Aarav’s breath caught in his throat. He had been taught that the enemy was faceless, a symbol of everything that was wrong. But now, staring at this soldier, he saw a human being—just like him. The same fear, the same pain, the same need for survival.

Without thinking, Aarav lowered his rifle and cautiously crawled toward the soldier. He had no reason to trust him, no reason to believe that the soldier wasn’t faking his weakness. But something inside him pushed him forward—a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was the way the soldier’s eyes pleaded for help, or maybe it was just the fact that Aarav had seen enough violence to last a lifetime. He was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of seeing the world torn apart.

When he reached the soldier, Aarav paused, unsure of what to do next. His training had taught him to be ruthless, to strike without hesitation. But now, looking down at the soldier, he saw only a man on the edge of death. A man who needed help.

Aarav glanced around nervously. The border was still quiet, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the lull ended. His comrades would be watching. They’d be expecting him to follow orders. But Aarav couldn’t bring himself to leave the soldier to die alone.

"Water," the soldier gasped, his voice raspy. "Please."

Aarav hesitated, then pulled out his canteen. He knelt beside the soldier, unsure of how he would be received. He had never been in a situation like this before, never been faced with a decision that challenged everything he had been taught.

The soldier’s hand trembled as he reached for the canteen, but Aarav held it steady, tipping it just enough for the soldier to take a drink. The soldier drank greedily, his eyes closing in relief as the water flowed into his parched mouth.

"Thank you," the soldier whispered, his voice weak.

Aarav didn’t respond. What could he say? What words could possibly explain the strange, deep connection he felt to this man—this enemy soldier who was, for a brief moment, more than just a figure on the other side of a battlefield? Aarav didn’t know. He didn’t need to know.

He just needed to help.

The soldier’s grip on the canteen loosened, and he slumped against the ground. Aarav didn’t move. He simply sat there, watching the man breathe in shallow gasps, his body unable to sustain him any longer.

Suddenly, the air seemed to shift. The distant sounds of war returned—gunfire, shouting, the low hum of planes flying overhead. Aarav’s heart raced. He had to leave. If he stayed any longer, his comrades would question his loyalty, his choices. They would see him as a traitor.

But as Aarav stood up to leave, the soldier grabbed his arm weakly. "Please," he said, his voice barely audible. "Do not leave me here."

Aarav looked down at the soldier. In that moment, he realized that the war was not about flags or borders. It was about people—human beings who were caught in a storm they couldn’t control. Aarav knew he could not save this soldier from the war. He couldn’t stop the violence. But he could offer him one thing: a moment of humanity.

With a final glance, Aarav turned and crawled back toward his trench. He didn’t know if the soldier would survive. He didn’t know if anyone would make it out of this war alive. But one thing was certain—he had given that soldier one drop of water, one small act of kindness in the middle of a battlefield that had no place for mercy.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.