ishanidasgupta
Memories.
He held the withered journal in his veined, ancient hands. There was a voice trapped inside, but he did not understand it. The only word he was able to decipher was his son’s name, on the cover of the frayed book.
The boat moved steadily on the lake, breaking the reflection of the dark sky on the glassy waters. The mixed fragrance of freshly washed flowers and honey filled the night. As a child, his son used to say that the valley smelled of talcum powder and he used to laugh and correct him, by saying that talcum powder smelled like the valley. The boy never understood the difference… Over the last few years the fragrance of the valley, had transformed into an odor, an odor of death and decay.
Memories hid in every corner, emerging unannounced, to haunt him like transparent phantoms or mirages. Memories can be a terrifying hallucinogen, sometimes frightening and sometimes soothing, but always creating a present that reeks of the past.
A tear fell from his hollow eyes and slowly crossed the creases on his cheek to drop on to his withered hand. Where had he gone wrong? He had loved his son so much, that sometimes it choked his throat. No, not loved..loves.
Despite the protection, the boy had seen too much. He witnessed his beloved Kashmir become the womb of destruction. Soon, he became prey to it.
The old man had always known his son to have separatist sentiments. As a child, the boy used to say,
“Baba, why don’t we break up the herd? They won’t fight, and it will be easier to protect them.”
His father would laugh, “No, my boy it would be easier to gobble them.”
“Who’ll gobble them, Baba?” The confused boy would ask. Tonight the old man cursed himself for his foolish riddles.
By 16 he had joined ‘Khuda ke Sepoy’ or KKS, a separatist group, by 22 he had become second in command of the Kashmir branch, by 25 he was dead. When his father used to plead with him, not to associate with the ‘terrorists,’ he would smile and say, ‘Freedom fighters babu, not terrorists.”
The old man glanced at the journal. They had come to him for the journal. They had killed his family, for this journal. Death met his beloved wife and daughters, in ways he could not bare to think of. He glanced at the red book. The life of his son was packed in that single book. He hadn’t given it to them. Foolishness? Yes... some may even say love. He flipped through the pages. Somewhere amongst those myriad words would be the names, which they desired. But somewhere, there would also be purer memories, memories untainted by blood.
He let the journal slip into the water. As soon as it vanished, two bubbles emerged as though a real being had drowned. After they burst, the only sound heard, was that of the wet wind beating against his face.
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He held the withered journal in his veined, ancient hands. There was a voice trapped inside, but he did not understand it. The only word he was able to decipher was his son’s name, on the cover of the frayed book.
The boat moved steadily on the lake, breaking the reflection of the dark sky on the glassy waters. The mixed fragrance of freshly washed flowers and honey filled the night. As a child, his son used to say that the valley smelled of talcum powder and he used to laugh and correct him, by saying that talcum powder smelled like the valley. The boy never understood the difference… Over the last few years the fragrance of the valley, had transformed into an odor, an odor of death and decay.
Memories hid in every corner, emerging unannounced, to haunt him like transparent phantoms or mirages. Memories can be a terrifying hallucinogen, sometimes frightening and sometimes soothing, but always creating a present that reeks of the past.
A tear fell from his hollow eyes and slowly crossed the creases on his cheek to drop on to his withered hand. Where had he gone wrong? He had loved his son so much, that sometimes it choked his throat. No, not loved..loves.
Despite the protection, the boy had seen too much. He witnessed his beloved Kashmir become the womb of destruction. Soon, he became prey to it.
The old man had always known his son to have separatist sentiments. As a child, the boy used to say,
“Baba, why don’t we break up the herd? They won’t fight, and it will be easier to protect them.”
His father would laugh, “No, my boy it would be easier to gobble them.”
“Who’ll gobble them, Baba?” The confused boy would ask. Tonight the old man cursed himself for his foolish riddles.
By 16 he had joined ‘Khuda ke Sepoy’ or KKS, a separatist group, by 22 he had become second in command of the Kashmir branch, by 25 he was dead. When his father used to plead with him, not to associate with the ‘terrorists,’ he would smile and say, ‘Freedom fighters babu, not terrorists.”
The old man glanced at the journal. They had come to him for the journal. They had killed his family, for this journal. Death met his beloved wife and daughters, in ways he could not bare to think of. He glanced at the red book. The life of his son was packed in that single book. He hadn’t given it to them. Foolishness? Yes... some may even say love. He flipped through the pages. Somewhere amongst those myriad words would be the names, which they desired. But somewhere, there would also be purer memories, memories untainted by blood.
He let the journal slip into the water. As soon as it vanished, two bubbles emerged as though a real being had drowned. After they burst, the only sound heard, was that of the wet wind beating against his face.
Poll Rate this entry