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On the outskirts of a quiet border village, where the tricolour flutters against the ruthless wind, lived men and women whose names never made headlines—Army civilians, border workers, engineers, radio operators, and technical staff who guarded the nation with tools rather than rifles, yet with courage just as fierce.
Among them was Raghav, an Army civilian communication officer. His job was not on the
frontlines—not in the way people imagine—but just as dangerous. Every night, hidden behind
bunkers, he repaired signal lines shattered by snowstorms, monitored enemy radio frequencies,
and ensured every jawan’s message reached command in time. One failed signal could cost lives.
Raghav knew this. He never complained. At home, his wife, Meera, and their son, Aarush, waited. Every evening, Meera would step onto the balcony, staring at the sky, imagining Raghav seeing the same stars. Aarush would ask, “Papa kab aayenge?” and she would smile, hiding the storm inside her heart.
Winter arrived early that year. A brutal avalanche struck the border post. Many soldiers were
rescued—but Raghav was missing. Hours turned into days. Days into weeks. Finally, his frozen,
still body was found under layers of merciless snow, clutching the radio device he had refused to abandon.
When the nation lost Raghav, it saluted him for a day… but Meera? She received silence.
The pension he earned with blood and duty got stuck in endless government files.
The forms. The signatures. The “Kal aana.”
Months passed.
Her tears dried before her dues arrived. At night, she whispered into the wind, “Raghav, I am fighting your battle now… but this war is invisible, and its wounds are deeper.”
Meera was not alone. The wives of civilian staff—electricians who repaired border grids, drivers
who carried troops, technicians who maintained radars, cooks who fed battalions in
blizzards—stood in lines outside offices every week. Their husbands had died for the nation.
But their pensions waited for approvals. Their benefits lay forgotten in dusty folders.
Their martyrdom was real. Their struggle was real.
But their recognition… lost.
To the Honourable Ministry of Defence,
This story is not just Raghav’s. It is the silent cry of hundreds of unsung souls.
Please remember them. Please hear the widows who fight invisible battles long after the gunfire stops. Please salute the hands that never held a rifle but protected the nation all the same.
A salute is meaningful only when it is not forgotten.
Every Army Civilian.
Every Border Worker.
Every widow waiting for justice.
Every forgotten salute.