Return

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 14; the fourteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

 

Return me those days....

When I used to think that Amitabh Bachchan, Chiranjeevi and Kapil Dev were the only real heroes in this world

When running meant bowling and nothing else.

When i used to lick the walls after smelling the first rains

When having an one rupee coin in my pocket means frolic

When switching on a light in a dark room was the scariest thing

When calves were the best friends to share my child talk

When devotion was only meant from prasadam

When every waste object was part of my play in summer 

When mirrors had never passed judgement on my looks 

When the meaning of success was just taking a wicket

When brands were only for advertisements 

When power cuts never hampered my play 

When existence of God was an absolute truth 

When every bun bought by my mama was the most childiciously special than my earned-branded food now 

When the meaning of love was void of lust

When I used to believe completely that, one fine day, Sri Netaji Subash Chandra Bose ji  would be back 

When pride meant, only, saluting the tri colour  
 
When i used to sing my own lyrics for every popular song without any shy 

When i used to believe that there would exist a woman called "Bharathmaata"

When pissing meant making different parabolas 

When wounded knees and elbows were the art of tattooing

When every English movie was  a complete "Cheeeeeeeeeee......"

When playing with bricks in the sand was the most innovative game

When the bus i was traveling should pass over all the lorries on the road 

When the most depressive thing would be returning home from my grandmother's village after the summer vacation 

When the last period's school bell was the most soothing sound 

When progress card was the only enemy 

When "Mile sur mera tumhara"  was the best video 

When crying meant depleting the last atom of water from my eyes 


But I came to know the value of return when i read something about my grand father in my grand mother's diary .....

During 1965 war...

"Mom, where has dad gone? Why he hasn't come yet?"
a four year old boy asked her mom once again
She patted his head slightly
while listening to the radio news 
Shadow movements of airplane wings in her eyes
Imprints of artillery sounds were blasting in her heart
In the thick black fog at Kashmir borders
A soldier standing boldly with nerve
stood in front of her eyes

She bothered - Sighed - adjusted her pallu
In between the elegant curve of pride blended with her lip's smile
After standing up from the park bench and supporting her son
She walked slowly and embarked into the darkness

She came to the park, daily, for the radio news
clad in white saree and red sindhoor
with Jasmine flowers in her plaited black hair
Same park, same road, same bazaar, same home
but still she sensed some change with gumption
Everyone was roaming and listening in the park
but still, somewhere, something was wrong

Some news murmurs passed through the nerves of tightly held cities
Blooded pledges were slipping through the gaps of clenched fists
One Movement, one Motility, one Determination---
Symbols of Mercy were awakening gradually

If one nation prefers to move in its own way
The 20th century's civilization will not let it to
Neighbor's goodness provokes the arrogance of wicked people
Neighbor prosperity evokes the hiss of evil heads
Those were the bad moments for Asian blood
History's head was hanging with shyness

They had buried democracy and public voice
Dacoits turned into Dictators
Thats why they couldn't digest India's rise
They would gain nothing with political diplomacy

If we preferred calmness , they called us cat
If we fought back , they called us Tiger
Foul smell diffuses if opportunists open their mouth
leave morals, it becomes politics
hatch a nation with religion, it becomes a wagging mad Monkey
Mutual friendship of Pak and China
it was like bonding between a snake and a wolf
It was not a war between two nations
It was not a war for a piece of land
It was an attempt to protect the values required for the world's future
for independence of thought and individual respect
Freedom from race, colour, caste, creed, region and religion was it's foundation

Every indian was a soldier, every heart was a canon
Radio was delivering the news daily
presenting the voice of victory
Tanks and planes of enemies were being crashed down
the brave and sturdy wave of  Indian army
thrashed them away unto the borders of Lahore

Our nation stood roaring with thunders
Narsappa, Vincent, Afzal, Pratap Singh
and many more anonymous soldiers
were being paid respects and honours by the living blood

She came to the park with her son on that day also
She worn white saree but with out red sindhoor
with out Jasmine flowers in her plaited black hair, no bangles in hand
There was huge rain being stopped at the corners of her eyes
She was pressing the much moving lower lip, under her teeth, very hardly
The canons might have stopped at boders, but not in her heart.
A group in the park were sloganeering, "Jai Hind"

"Mom, where has dad gone? Why he hasn't come yet?"
She hugged her son and his unanswered questions, and
with shivering voice she said deeply, "Jai Hind"
And that word was heard by a warrior in Heaven who would never return

---)(---

When I turned the next page in the diary, there was a newspaper clipping and the print goes...

Reality at Borders...

It is like dying death for everyone
There is a body, an unfortunate body,
It is lying exactly on the border line
Being soaked and baked in snow, it lost it's identity
The buried uniform in snow
torn by the foxes
Then who's this body?

It is a Soldier's body
Which Soldier?
Democratic soldier? or Socialist camp ?
or Imperialist ?
His wife will definitely recognize him
But how to recognise his wife?
How to bid him?
By which nation's slogans
By which army's conventions
Burial or with Fire? Which Religion?
How?

There is one way
Bring all the crying widows from all the countries
Arrange an identification parade

There is nothing to worry
Stop bothering about the body,
whether it will be soaked again by the tears of the widows
leave doubts,  we have seen floods of blood
After all, it is just rainfall from eyes

Arrange barrels for their tears...
and, make those widows to stand in a line
Sir, what if he is a Bachelor?
Then, it will be really a dying death

in fact, a never returning death.
Sir, what if he is an Orphan?
Then, return is a void .

-------------()-------------

PS : Thanks to Rachana for her strategic input to this post . I wish she could have co-authored this post

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