April breathed, but not with grace,
In Pahalgam, time lost its face.
Twenty-six lives, mid prayers and play,
Were shattered cold that cursed day.
No warning came, just sudden flame,
No flags, no faces—just nameless blame.
The valley stilled, then softly cried,
As mothers searched where sons had died.
But grief in India does not kneel,
It grits its teeth, it learns to feel.
And when the wails grew into steel,
A nation swore, and struck with zeal.
For fifteen days, no boast, no light,
Just shadows moving through the night.
Maps marked, lips sealed, hearts like stone—
They carried loss, but not alone.
Then jets awoke the border's breath,
A thunder sang the song of death.
Nine camps, once loud with hate and pride,
Now smoked where murder used to hide.
Bahawalpur no longer slept,
Muridke's halls no secrets kept.
No courtroom call, no final prayer—
Just vengeance floating through the air.
"Sindoor"—once love's vibrant mark,
Now bore the weight of shadows dark.
But from that crimson, grief took form,
A silent vow against the storm.
The world half-watched, the world half-spoke,
Some deals were made, some silence broke.
But India's fire does not forget,
And justice waits, where blood was set.
So mark this tale in memory’s thread—
Of how we mourned, and how we bled.
Yet more than loss, we etched resolve—
Where wounds remained, but fears dissolved.
-Gautam Jha
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