Prasun Tewari had always dreamt of donning the olive green. He idolised his father, Dinesh Tewari, whose tales of covert operations and battlefield courage shaped his earliest memories. Dinesh had joined the Indian Army as a humble foot soldier and, through sheer grit and valour, rose to the rank of Junior Commissioned Officer before retiring. Over the years, their family moved from cantonment to cantonment, following the rhythm of postings across the country. When Dinesh was sent to treacherous terrains, they stayed back in the relatively secure army quarters at peace stations.
Like most army children, Prasun and his younger brother Rajesh attended Central Schools—institutions run by the government primarily for children of defence personnel.
Prasun excelled in academics. Though he had his share of friends, books remained his truest companions. Fair-skinned, five-foot-five, with a quiet demeanour, he was usually found buried in library stacks while others played on the field. Rajesh, by contrast, was the spirited one—athletic, tall, and ever-smiling like their father. He captained his school’s soccer team and was as adored on the pitch as Prasun was in classrooms. Where Prasun mirrored their mother’s contemplative nature, Rajesh bore their father’s fire.
When Prasun topped his CBSE board exams, it set off a quiet celebration—not only in their home but also in Dinesh’s unit.
“You've done more than make me proud,” Dinesh told him, eyes damp. “You’ve taken the dream I planted and made it bloom.”
To serve the nation in a way uniquely his own, Prasun chose the Armed Forces Medical College (AFMC), Pune.
“Doctor-sahab in uniform,” Rajesh teased before he left. “Just don’t forget to write home. Ma’s going to be counting days.”
It was the first time Prasun felt something close to pride in himself. The four years that followed were a seamless blend of academic pursuit and quiet transformation. His hunger for knowledge only deepened, drawing him into late-night study sessions and endless anatomical dissections.
Then came Lucknow—part of the mandatory training rotation. Here, the academic rigour gave way to gruelling physical drills. It didn’t come naturally to him, but he endured it with the same quiet fortitude he had applied to everything else.
“I didn’t sign up for a marathon,” he muttered once after an endless obstacle course.
“Good,” his drill instructor barked. “You signed up for the uniform. So move like it.”
When his convocation day arrived, his parents were there—his father in civilian clothes, wiping away tears as he watched his son walk up to receive his degree and commission.
As they hugged afterwards, his mother whispered, “You’ve made the world stand still for your father today.”
Prasun felt something shift inside him. His dreams had taken shape, and with them came the power to give his father the respect and ease he had once been denied. He was no longer just his son. He was now an officer.
His first posting was in Guwahati, Assam—a city carved along the sinuous curves of the Brahmaputra, brimming with misty mornings and political tension. The Bodo insurgency was at its peak, demanding a sovereign Bodoland. ULFA, too, another extremist outfit, added to the volatility. Together, they unleashed a wave of terror—abductions, assassinations, and targeted attacks, including those on army personnel.
Barely ten days into his posting, his unit was deployed for a combing operation in Kokrajhar. The Bodos had infiltrated the dense Manas forests and begun targeting civilians. Prasun, as the unit’s medical officer, was to follow behind in an ambulance, ready to treat the wounded.
That morning, before leaving, he stopped at Rangiya, a transit camp where an artillery brigade was stationed. It was around noon. Hungry and road-weary, he decided to have lunch at the Officers' Mess. But first, courtesy demanded a visit to the camp’s medical officer.
Captain Akash Sengupta welcomed him with an easy grin. “New posting?” he asked, leading him into a cosy, sun-drenched quarter filled with the faint aroma of mustard and spice.
“Guwahati,” Prasun replied, taking off his cap. “Ten days in, and I already feel the tension creeping under my skin.”
Akash’s wife appeared from the kitchen. “You boys talk. Lunch will be ready in five.”
Over plates of steaming rice and fish curry, conversation flowed.
“My wife thinks I never switch off,” Akash said, laughing. “But how do you, when every headline feels like a call to arms?”
“You don’t,” Prasun said, half-smiling. “You just hope the war outside doesn’t creep inside your bones.”
As he stood to leave, Akash clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your head down in Kokrajhar. They don’t care if you’re a doctor or a general.”
Prasun, the driver, and a helper began the journey into the forest. He sat beside the driver, scanning the thickening foliage. The helper was in the back, humming softly to himself.
By 4:30 p.m., they had entered the fringes of Manas—thick jungle, hushed and heavy. The road narrowed into a trail of uneven gravel, winding between towering sal trees and walls of green.
“Feels like the forest is holding its breath,” the driver muttered.
Prasun nodded. “Keep the headlights ready. Dusk falls fast in places like this.”
Fifteen minutes in, the silence was shattered.
Cracks of dry twigs. A flurry of movement. Then the thunderous staccato of gunfire.
The ambulance jerked as the helper screamed. Prasun turned—but the scream had already died. Blood splattered the rear window.
“Go!” Prasun shouted. “Go! Don’t stop!”
A bullet slammed into his shoulder. The pain was blinding, but he reached for his sidearm, aimed through the shattered window, and fired back—his breath ragged, his vision blurring.
“They’re everywhere!” the driver cried, swerving wildly as bullets clanged against the metal.
Prasun leaned forward, gritting his teeth. “Keep driving. Don’t look back.”
Blood poured down his uniform, soaking into the seat. He didn’t feel fear—just a cold certainty settling in his chest.
When they finally reached the camp, the guards rushed out. Medics tried to stop the bleeding, shouting instructions, lifting his limp body.
But Prasun’s eyes had already closed. The last thing he heard was the faint call of his name before everything turned to silence.
Prasun Tewari died on his first assignment. He did not run. He did not hesitate. He faced death in the thick of the jungle, a stethoscope in one hand and a pistol in the other.
There are countless real stories like his—of soldiers who quietly stepped into danger and never returned. Their names might fade from headlines, but their courage echoes in every inch of safety we take for granted.
They are not just martyrs. They are the constellation above us, burning, watching, and never truly gone.