The Symphony of Loss
The cold daft daintily pats my existence, a tapestry of exaltation and melancholy alike. Seated for hours I am a stolid witness to the increasing crowd of women sniffling around me.
Outside in the verandah, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken sorrow the unyielding façade of masculinity held sway.
Men don’t cry…
My anticipating eyes are fixated at the gate, yearning my dear Sukhi… arriving soon draped in the somber hues of the tri-colour, a poignant emblem of sacrifice. He became a martyr in one of the deadliest attacks on the armed forces, two days ago in Phulwama.
My eyes have been fervently nictating moisture ever since we heard the news. We weren’t sure for hours but deep within an intangible certainty whispered it had ended. My Sukhi and I were entwined by a profound connection that surpassed everything else.
‘Maa, if I had few more lives, I would have dedicated all of them to my country…’ Sukhi reiterated this sentiment since he joined the Army. The motherland took precedence over me and I couldn’t be prouder.
Slogans sounding like gothic incantations interfere with the macabre silence induced by the curfew ever since the attack happened. It’s been relaxed today as they bring my Sukhi… I hear that the internet is ablaze with angry countrymen cursing the neighboring country and the government. However, I stand apart from the fiery chorus; my pain is unfathomable.
An abyss of perennial agony.
I hear fervent slogans against that boy, Azmat; the supposed sheep in the wolf’s clothing in our backyard. He allegedly, got radicalized after being enduring brutality of the Indian Police. Really? Merely a few years younger to my Sukhi, his path had diverged towards the world of crime.
‘Maa, Azmat is a good boy in the wrong circumstances…’ I hear my Sukhi justifying.
Despite the calamity that befell my family, my concern extends to Azmat’s poor parents.
The sea of uniforms in my humble verandah swells. My Sukhi is due anytime now….
A sense of overwhelming poignancy grips me and I rush to my backyard to find solace near the oak-tree stump. Nurtured by Sukhi it had to give way to the electrical wires, nature perpetually paying the price for development.
The convoy enters the verandah and my heartbeats escalate… the chants increase in concurrence; the wails in their forlorn alignment.
Surprisingly, my tears have stalled.
Sukhi had great dreams and he was only 26. Would he just be a poignant memory etched in the annals of sorrow?
“Maa, they are looking for you…” Jaimal, my last born calls me. A resolute gleam illuminates his youthful eyes.
I turn to look at the stump. New tendrils unfurl radiantly against the pristine canvas of white snow.
“Jai, you wanted to join the Army, didn’t you? Well, you have my blessings. I will convince baba…”
Jaimal hugs me seeking palliation for both of us. Together we tread towards our Sukhi… to lay him to rest.
It isn’t the end.
It’s a new beginning.
Author note:
The 2019 Pulwama attack occurred on 14 February 2019, when a convoy of vehicles carrying Indian security personnel on the Jammu–Srinagar National Highway was attacked by a vehicle-borne suicide bomber at Lethapora in the Pulwama district of the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir.
For more information check out https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2019_Pulwama_attack
The above is a fictionalised account of individuals in the above backdrop.
Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!