PARIJAT-21

A wandering mind with random thoughts is weighing him down. John resorted to deep breathing to calm down his nerves. It has helped him in several tense moments when the adrenalin started flooding in. Array of thoughts and arrows of thoughts are pinning him down. He does not want to escape. He is wandering in the darkness like an off orbit planet. Hoping with high hope that attraction and gravity of knowledge will pull him up and keep him floating. Confused with knowledge! Befuddled by wisdom! It is not an ominous sign. It will definitely lead him to conclusion. Path of light. Whether it is after dawn or after dusk, the source of solution, the source of completion, the source of light remains same. Passive eyes need to see it. It will surely see it.

John looked to the corner of the wall. There are tiny movements, subtle movements, disciplined and untiring movements. Movements for future. Movements for tomorrow as if it exists today. Small red ants are in a queue. They are constantly moving towards that crack in the wall. It is a never ending continuous two ways flow. It looks same at any particular moment. Tiny ants with food particles on their mouth moving towards that crack and returning with same vigor for their new search. Some time they drag in unison particles of size several times more than their combined masses and volumes. It is a synchronous effort which helps them. Ants on their return path stop by and help their struggling friends. No hesitations. No dithering. They do not know whether tomorrow will come. They do not know what tomorrow has stored for them. They live en masse. Let us live our today. Let us live our tomorrow, today too. This is the underlying spirit behind that untiring queue and efforts.

It is the principle of life. It is the religion of life. It is Godly principle. It carries no hatred for others. It conveys no harm for others. The queue, the mass and the effort are not for to pull down a place of worship in name of God. It is not en route to devastate in name of God. Who says religion is an absolute individual phenomenon? Who says it has nothing to do with collectivity? Who says religion has nothing to do with mass? Perhaps the human being is wandering with wrong yardstick of religion. Wrong definition of religion. The tiny ant teaches you. They proudly, vociferously and yet, silently announce that. They announce with their act. They announce through their activity. But the live eyes remain blind to see it. The realization never comes for we see what we like to see. Narrowness laced with individuality. Religion is all about existence for today in hope, anticipation and the pleasure of today’s tomorrow. It is all about collectiveness. It is an action. Let us live and allow others to live. Let us exist and allow other to exist. Let us not define God for He is above any definition. Respect His existence. Respect your existence and those of others too.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It has been quite late for John in that village library. John realized that late. The care taker, Sarhad has peeped in several times. He had gone and come back leaving the key hanging on the wall. John needs to move out. Perhaps he will spend some times with Sarhad in his betel shop. Sarhad, the name evokes emotion. Sarhad means border. Yes, it is story of a border. It is story of a hope. Will that hope ever turn into a reality? Hope and emotion of thirty six years. It is waiting for thirty six years. The sacred waiting is waiting with the hope of reunion four months before his birth

The atmosphere has gone drier and finer. Gusts of wind dragged the thorny, paper-flowered bougainvillea creeper against the Sarhad as he locked the door of the library. The thorny scratching rattle did not unnerve him. He did not look to it as the bougainvillea creeper whipped him for the second time. Unfazed, he moved as John followed him silently. The sharp and stony face of Sarhad hides an emotion that is burning inside him. It is just like a black dot on the large white sheet. What you see? Black dot! No body says it is a white sheet. It is a black dot. It is a stony face. Yes, it is a stony face. Who sees that emotion, that search, that waiting, that longing? That longing to see somebody. He will come back. He will come back with ocean of emotions stored over thirty six years from that portentous day of year 1971 when the birds cried in the afternoon. It was like a frantic warning to her mother’s ears. Sarhad had waked up from her mother’s womb when shrikes of cries filled the atmosphere. He continuously heard that crying and cried along with his mother till he was born while crying. He saw his mother crying. It is in morning. It is in afternoon. It is in the mid of night. That crying had no sense of timing. It comes in odd moment, most unexpected moment. It comes when cuckoo starts cooing, the calf starts calling and the half drunk water enters into wind pipe instead of esophagus. Still she is crying. But Sarhad has stopped crying the day he realized why his mother is crying. He has seen enough of that. A dry emotion of smoke always moves near his eyes. It burns his eyes. But tear never drops. It makes his face further stony.

The flying yellow leaves the surging cloud of dust and the stinging river sands, all seemed to flee, flee and flee but yet could not. They returned to continue their struggle for escape. Something similar heaved inside the Sarhad as he opened his betel shop. He dragged and arranged the wooden bench in front of it. The thick coir rope started smoking in gusty wind as Sarhad lighted it. It is for smokers to fire their cigar. The old longing, the despair and the search for solution started blooming up like winter flowers as he dusted the yellowish tinged glass of three photo frames. First photo frame embraces a young man all in smile in his Indian Air Force dress. Sarhad looked to the photo, the same stony face. But it was smiling as if it will jump out from that photo frame. So live. So vivid. So energetic. The smile emits a satisfaction, contentment and bravery. It tells a story of supreme sacrifice. A sacrifice for mother land perhaps more scared than mother. The second photo frame contains an old Pakistani post card something scribbled in it. Hurriedly written perhaps. Sarhad hold those two photo frames for a moment in his both hands. Amongst gusty winds of afternoon he could here somebody is calling. No somebody is wailing. Again no sense of timing. Hope waits. It does not know how long. But it has to wait as everything ends without hope. Let it be alive for ever. Let it beget cries for ever. But let that hope tell- do not cry for he will return. Soon???

For the first time after many years an innocent peeped through that stony face. It became soft in the joy of hope. Sarhad started smiling. Clouds of tears started condensing. Soon it flowed. Is he crying?

John looked to that third photo frame. Sarhad is standing his back towards him. He is dusting third photo frame. It is a framed paper cutting of some old News paper. John could read that

INDO-PAK WAR OF 1971.

BIRTH OF BANGLADESH

DECISIVE WIN FOR INDIAN ARMY.

John’s attention dragged towards the highlighted entry of the framed paper cutting.

54 INDIAN ARMYMEN MISSING, STILL UNTRACED.

Parijat, do you know what happened to those fifty four brave men? Has anybody kept a count how many Sarhads have become stony faced? Is it not shame, we do not know that? Have we become robotic?