War Torn

Silent ghosts of the past...whispered memories....echoes...it all comes back.

"I'm leaving, Amma, I'm sorry. But don't worry. When i come back, I'll be a hero. I'll win the medal for bravery and it'll be just for you. We'll hang it up in the show case so that everyone will see..." He prattles on, the way young idealistic soldiers do. "...and then we can move to a bigger house..."

"Don't worry, Vysh," says a deeper, more mature voice at my side. Turning, i see my husband. He smiles reassuringly at me. "I'll bring him back safely." He squeezes my shoulders and bends to kiss my tear-stained cheeks.

I stand at the gate watching the tall lanky frame of my only son and the muscular physique of my husband dissolve into the night. That picture becomes hazy as I myself dissolve into tears.

Weeks...months....eons...and I still stand by the gate, waiting. Waiting for the two men who mean the world to me to come back. Waiting and praying. Praying and waiting. Helpless.

The world goes about its business. And I, ever waiting, every praying, watch the world. The milk man, the paper man, the vegetable vendor, the post man...all go about their duties as though all is right with the world.

A hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into gray, compassionate eyes. Dhadhima and I had shared a common bond ever since the war had started...We were both mothers whose sons had been drafted to the front.

She sits beside me and holds my hands. Together, we watch the dark mists that shroud the world.

Shadows in the mist. Echoes in the dark. Voices tainted with agony. The mist thickens. Eons give way to eras. Minutes stretch to eternity. And finally...the dawn of a new era. The mist clears, but not entirely. Voices...different ones this time....talking about love, peace and brotherhood among nations. Dreams...echoes of peace.

And finally....a bright new day. A new world. The shrouded mists become dewy mists. The war was over. My heroes were coming back.

A tall lanky frame, hardly recognizable. Long gray hair, unkempt. A face lined with experience and pain. I throw my arms about him as he steps through the gate and he holds me tight. Not a word is said. In his clenched fist is a medal. A medal for bravery.

Dhadhima is still standing near the gate, looking expectantly at the mist. She slowly turns and looks at me. Fresh tears brew as realization hits us. Hits us both and shatters us as a thousand hand grenades never could. My son had come back......but hers never would.