The message arrived during a briefing in Kashmir. Colonel Virendra Choudhary was standing by the operations table when a junior officer rushed in, pale-faced, trembling. “Sir… Odisha’s been hit. They’re calling it a supercyclone.”

The word made the tent fall silent. Maps and mission files were forgotten. For Virendra, one thought cut through the noise like shrapnel—Odisha. My wife.

“Winds at 260 kilometers per hour,” said the Major General. “Landfall near Paradeep. Communications completely cut off. No word from state headquarters, not even from Bhubaneswar. We’re blind.”

Within hours, he was on a flight east. As the AN-32 roared through turbulent skies, his gloved fingers drummed restlessly. Through the small round window, the horizon flickered with lightning. His mind wandered to her soft laugh, the way she’d fussed over him before his last mission. A man forged in war felt a strange terror he’d never known before—helplessness. His wife—his soft, smiling girl who had never seen death, never faced destruction—was there. In a house that might not exist anymore.

When the aircraft descended over the coastline, the cabin went deathly still. From above, Odisha looked like the world had ended—villages flattened, rivers swollen beyond reason, corpses floating like debris. Even the hardened Para SF men went quiet.

They landed at Charbatia Air Base. The stench hit first—mud, rot, and death. The air hung heavy with silence and smoke. In Erasama, they found the remnants of a truck—massive, upturned, half-buried in a pool of black water. The soldiers froze when they realized what it was. Virendra stepped closer. His boots sank into the muck, and he saw inside the shattered frame—bodies. Hundreds. Men, women, small feet tangled with larger ones. They had tried to escape.

His throat constricted. He turned away sharply. “Cover it,” he ordered hoarsely. “Mark the location for burial detail.” Days became weeks. The army dug graves, cleared debris, restored lines. More than a million electric poles lay snapped like matchsticks. Rail stations destroyed, platforms vanished. Even the Chief Minister’s house had gone dark, cut off from Delhi. Odisha wasn’t just broken—it was gone.

At night, when his men slept, Virendra stood outside his tent and stared east, toward Bhubaneswar. The city was still cut off. No word. No confirmation. Only rumors—hundreds dead, thousands missing. Each day he requested updates from the communication unit. Each day they shook their heads.

“Still nothing, sir.”

By the second month, Bhubaneswar had become a shadow of itself. The airport was unusable. The rail lines twisted. Electricity poles—more than a million of them—were uprooted.

Virendra oversaw the coordination between the engineers and army convoys. His efficiency was frightening. Orders snapped like bullets. He worked eighteen-hour shifts, refusing sleep. Some said it was discipline. Those who knew him better guessed the truth—he was running from dread.

Once, a young soldier found him standing near a mass grave, staring down at the rows of bodies wrapped in plastic sheets.

“Sir,” the man whispered, “you should rest.”

Virendra didn’t look up. His voice was low, steady, and chilling. “When my wife cries,” he said, “I can’t sleep. When I don’t even know if she’s alive—how can I?”

Five months later, a corporal burst in, breathless. “Sir! Bhubaneswar’s lines are restored!”

The receiver felt heavier than his rifle. His fingers shook as he dialed the number he knew by heart. Once. Twice. Static—then a faint voice.

“...Hello?”

“...It’s me.”

A pause. Then a sound that shattered him—the soft gasp of relief, followed by your crying.

“Virendra…”

He pressed the receiver so hard his knuckles whitened. His throat worked, but words wouldn’t come. The disciplined soldier who’d commanded death itself suddenly couldn’t speak.

“Are you safe?” he managed finally.

“Yes… the house flooded but… we survived. I—” you sobbed softly.