The smile that never died

The Smile That Never Died
A Brother’s Sacrifice, A Nation’s Pride, A Family’s Eternal Memory

I still remember that morning like it was yesterday. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a golden hue across the rooftops of our small village. My brother, Asim, stood at the door in his army uniform, smiling like he always did before leaving for duty. There was something about that smile—warm, fearless, and oddly comforting. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I’d see it in person.

Asim was the heartbeat of our family. The eldest of four siblings, he carried responsibilities beyond his years. After our father’s passing, he became our protector, guide, and inspiration. Even when life was tough, his optimism never wavered. That smile—it had the power to ease any pain, lighten any burden.

He joined the Pakistan Army right after college. Some in the village said it was too risky, but Asim would laugh and say, “If not me, then who?” His sense of duty was rooted not only in patriotism but in faith. He often quoted, “Jo Allah ke raaste mein shaheed hota hai, woh zinda hota hai, magar tum samajhte nahi.” (Those who are martyred in the path of Allah are alive, though you do not perceive it.)

It was in the Waziristan region where Asim was posted during his final mission. We knew little about the details, only that the situation was tense and dangerous. Yet, every phone call from him was filled with love, strength, and—yes—that ever-present smile, even through his voice.

Then came the phone call.

It was a rainy evening. Amma was in the kitchen, humming an old naat, and I was helping my younger sister with her homework. The landline rang. I picked up. It was his commanding officer. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

“Asim fought bravely,” he said. “He laid down his life protecting his unit during an ambush. He saved several of his fellow soldiers... but he couldn’t save himself.”

I froze. The room went silent. Amma turned around slowly. She looked at me—one look—and she knew.

The days that followed were a blur of grief, visitors, and condolence messages. But amidst the tears and the aching emptiness, there was something unexplainable in the air—a presence, a peace.

When his coffin arrived draped in the green and white flag, hundreds from our village and beyond came to pay their respects. Soldiers stood in salute. Flags flew at half-mast. And there, placed gently on the coffin lid, was a photo of Asim smiling. That same smile—untouched by fear, full of life.

People often say that time heals all wounds. I don’t fully agree. Some wounds remain, but they become part of who you are. What helps is memory—beautiful, sacred memory.

Every Eid, we leave a seat for Asim at the table. My mother lights a candle beside his photo. My younger brother, now training to be a soldier himself, places his hand over the picture and whispers, “I’ll make you proud, bhai.”

And that photo—his smiling face—has become more than just an image. It’s a symbol. In our home, it reminds us of courage. In our village, it inspires young boys to dream beyond fear. At the local school, where a classroom has been named “Shaheed Asim Hall,” his story is told to every new batch of students.

One day, a little boy from the neighborhood came to me and said, “Baji, Asim bhai’s smile gives me strength when I feel scared.” I didn’t know what to say. I just hugged him and cried.

It’s been five years now. Seasons have changed. The world has moved on. But Asim’s smile hasn’t faded. It lives in our hearts, our memories, and in every act of kindness we do in his name.

I often look up at the sky and wonder what it’s like where he is. Maybe there are fields of light, angels standing in rows, and the martyrs seated among them, their faces glowing with peace. I imagine Asim there—still smiling.

They say martyrdom is a gift only the chosen receive. Asim was one of those chosen souls. And though he left us in body, his spirit walks among us. His sacrifice was not just for the land he loved, but for every life that breathes under its sky.

Today, whenever someone asks me about my brother, I don’t speak of his death. I speak of his life—of how he lived with honor, loved with all his heart, and smiled through every storm.

Because in our family, we don’t say, “Asim was a hero.”
We say, “Asim is a hero.”
And his smile?
It never died.