India, May 12 -- Yesterday, I stepped out to pick up a loaf of bread from a nearby bakery. The moment I entered, the world outside seemed to come to a pause. The place wrapped itself around me like a quiet embrace - soft, amber lighting, the comforting scent of warm loaves mingling with the sweet whisper of vanilla, and fairy lights curled lovingly around old wooden beams like forgotten wishes. The girl at the counter, all smiles and warmth, asked me to wait a moment while she packed my order. I took a seat near the window, letting the hush of the space settle over me. Outside, life passed by gently - ordinary, unbothered. For a brief moment, everything felt still, almost sacred. As if the world hadn't been shaken. As if nothing was burning at the borders. As if peace were a birthright, not a fragile gift kept alive by blood and sacrifice. Then a voice broke through. At the next table, a group of young adults, probably in their early thirties, lounged in the comfort of the cafe. They laughed over pizza and mocktails, voices light but pointed. They spoke fervently about the state of the nation, condemning decisions, mocking the government, declaring themselves champions of peace. One of them proudly spoke of a reel they had posted - a blackout screen with a quote about peace. The others nodded, their fingers scrolling over glowing screens, satisfied. And as I watched them - safe, carefree, basking in the soft glow of comfort - I felt something twist inside me. How effortless it is to preach peace in a climate-controlled cafe, where the biggest war is between two brands of coffee. How easy it is to raise slogans from behind screens, when your feet have never touched the dust of duty, when your nights have never been filled with the ache of waiting. They weren't just voicing opinions - I longed to tell them. They were treading on the quiet devotion of a soldier who stands guard under a sky swollen with silence. They were brushing off the endless nights of a mother who sleeps with her phone on her chest, fearing a call that might never come. And they were forgetting the wife - strong, unseen - who carries the home on her shoulders, while her husband carries the nation on his. Peace is not the absence of war; it is the presence of sacrifice. It is not typed, or posted, or hashtagged. It is built by those who shoulder rifles so others may carry coffee cups. It is prayed for by those who stand in the crosshairs, not behind filters. Every fibre in me burned to ask, "Have you ever waited for a knock at the door, dreading the uniform on the other side? Have you seen a Tricolour draped over the dreams of a family? Have you loved someone who gave their life for people who will never know their name?" But I didn't. I left quietly, bread in hand, a storm in my heart. If you cannot serve, at least don't sermon. True patriotism isn't posted. It's lived. And peace? Peace is a soldier's most sacred prayer, but if duty calls, he will walk through fire to protect it....