Sacrifice.

He was lying in the garden, his eyes reflecting a flash of happiness and pride, as he drifted into a flashback of memories. He felt himself walk through the yellow brick road that led to his old house in the village. As he walked through, towards the house, he soaked into his being, the dahlias blooming around the pathway, the smell of jasmine, and as he neared the house, the sound and smell of spices simmering in hot oil was prominent. He began to walk faster. He entered the house and made his way towards the kitchen, where his lovely wife was busily working to make the best meal he had ever had. He did not disturb her and watched from the distance, smiling. He tore himself away and walked to his room, reminiscent of the memories of all the mischief planned and executed from there, sitting on the bed, letting it all in for a few moments. Getting up, he made his way to the terrace where his old mother was knitting something, glancing over at the road, as if she was expecting someone, waiting for someone to arrive. He walked up to her, reaching a hand towards his mother's shoulder, but felt himself unable to reach her. A single tear formed on his eye, trickling down his cheek, his sparkly, nostalgic eyes turning glassy, his face contorted into a half smile, the sounds of raging battle and gunshots coming back into focus for a split second, before it all eventually drowned out into nothingness.  

The garden was a battlefield. The memories were but his final thoughts. The blood-smeared uniform was a sacrifice.

"दिल से निकलेगी न मर कर भी वतन की उल्फ़त,

मेरी मिट्टी से भी ख़ुशबू-ए-वतन आएगी"

Happy 72nd Independence Day.