After 300 years of cruel rule in India, British Army managed to march out of the country with a shot fire and seven casualties. A shot fire and seven casualties. But! Indians ended up uprooting 15 million of its own population, killing 1 or 2 million of its own people, raping 75,000 women of its own land and partitioning its own country.  1947 was that candle in Indian history, that lit up the sky with freedom from slavery but put its grounds in dark killing its integrity. 1947 killed the coexistence in India, at a glance.

I was eleven when one morning pitaji rushed to my bedroom. I was seeing him after two days. But he did not care to me and was walking here and there. Soon, he got the sandook from the almirah, and started packing. Before I could ask him the reason maa and chichi came in with her jewelleries and other belongings. We were going somewhere I knew but where and why? And what was the reason of the rush. Things were not right as we were at the edge of getting freedom from British rule, I had learnt from the elders. Before I could utter a word, maa caressed me and said, “beta, we cannot tell you the everything now… we have to leave Karachi, we will go to some other part of the country, that is the thing for now.”, that was enough to shake my grounds, “maa, we got independent, then why are they making us move?” maa was terrified. Never in the past years had that I had saw her worried like this. After Second World War, independence became our fate as British Empire was out of resources to run the cruelty and the fight for freedom had ignited. We were going to be a democratic country after 300 years of slavery. But I saw no happiness in her eyes; her words were shivery instead, ”it is not the British, we failed to keep good relations with the other religions of our country, we will be divided into two countries from now on, don’t you remember me telling you about the new region, Pakistan?”, Maa tried to wrap the conversation but I was confused, “ yes, you had told me but why we have to shift?,” I wanted the ask more but the noises  outside interrupted me. Maa sensed my insecurity somehow, “this is a land of muslims and we are hindus we cannot stay here any long, this is going to be Pakistan and we are Indians.” Pitaji joined us but not for talking, “betaji, we will let you understand each and everything but not now, this is a crucial time, people are killing each other,,,, we are not safe here.” He was stressed and so were the other family member but I could not really get the reason, “I obey you, pitaji,,,, but this is our hometown, I have lived here with ashfaq from the time I was born, why would he kill me?”, by the time I completed my question wiping my tears pitaji was gone, he was busy. Maa promised to tell me about it on our way and left me to get ready.

But I wasn’t happy. But then! I had to follow my elders. I stared my room for some time and then I went to close the window, I did not want dust to fell in. site of the street had all my answers. There were dead bodies and… blood. That was all I could see. I was unaware of the reason again, but I got the fact that we were not safe. I locked the door of my room, kissed it and promised to come back, one day.

For next 15 minutes, we waited in the hall. Pitaji and chachaji went to check for safety. We were strictly told to stay home. maa, chichi, rupa, dadi, ashwin and me. I was crying, all that while. At one time when the riots outside accelerated, Maa sat down to match my height and held my shoulder tightly, “promise me one thing,,, you will not leave my hand. Our own people are going to be harsh on us, they will attach us,,, there is chance,,, but you won’t lose the grip on me, promise?” I promised and she hugged me with her lively smile and teary eyes. I was strengthened.

“paras, you go with chachaji and your cousins, we will come in the next trip.”, Pitaji said when he came back. “but why?”, I was anxious. “betaji, we have got only one tanga, you people leave and we will follow.”, he made me understand but that was not enough for me, “I will come with maa, I won’t lose the grip”, I announced.  Maa held me again, “yes, you never will. But we are family and we have to act according to what comes forth.”, she advised but I was stubborn, “I will not…. Leave your hands,”.   She, with all her grace, put through her words that were unmatchable, “your safety is my responsibility and my dignity is your obedience. Think of everyone’s safety and leave,,,, I will grab you again once you escape the darkness of today.”

I obeyed… and left. The time I saw her waving from the tanga, she looked divine. We boarded the train but they did not come. My anxiety and fear grew every second. Chachaji told us they would come in the next train. And they did come, Pitaji and his associates. Pitaji did not meet me till we reach our new house in Amritsar. “Your maa and chachi stayed in the camp, the violence had advanced. They will come with the other migrants.” Pitaji told us. He had actually… lied to us. they never came. Maa and chachi. They never came.

Today, after 70 years, I am a historian and a professor. I tell my students not just the fighting spirit of our patriots but the sacrifices done our women. Our own people are going to be harsh on us. my pitaji killed maa that day. your safety is my responsibility and my dignity is your obedience. She died to save me and her dignity. My safety was in moving out of my hometown because few people suddenly thought that our motherland needed division to survive and my mother’s dignity was in dying because all thought it to be better to kill their own ladies than to find them brutally raped by other religion.

Everything was done by everybody for religion, regardless of being a Hindu or Muslim. Both killed, raped, looted and separated their ways. They fought for freedom together for ages, and then they fought with each other to feel free. And that is how we got independent… independent of?

It counts as a bad manner to listen, interfere or publicise other’s talk. But it doesn’t fit in as a moral when you are travelling by train. In fact, I like it when unknown people sit together and talk about anything to everything just to pass the time. It is believed that people of my generation are involved with their gadget_freak_social_media_life. But! It’s hell not true, not with me at least... especially when the guy opposite you is a handsome army man. A tall, perfectly fair and perfectly built up guy... with lips more pink than usual. And it interests you even more when he is from Kashmir.

I was on my way to Bhopal when I heard this catchy conversation the jawaan was having with a lady (seemed to be in her forties) who was sitting beside him, a cool multitasking college dude next to him again who was talking & playing candy crush and a retired physics professor who was seated next to me.

The professor: I toured Kashmir last year with my beta, bahu and grandson. She surely is a heaven. (by she, he meant Kashmir.)

The lady: Is it safe out there? (What!)

The jawaan: Of course, ma’am. Yes, we can’t deny, there are still some restricted areas, kya kare yeh jung... picha nahi chod rahi. Nearly 11 lakh travellers visited Jammu & Kashmir in 2014, of which only 50,000 were from foreign countries. You must visit ma’am. (Damn, he talks like a dream.)

The cool dude: What is your job? Have you ever been in the border security? (That’s a good one, bro.)

The jawaan: No. It’s been 6 years I am living army. I have worked as security for ministers; have guarded many occasions like Delhi parade. Initially I was in Kashmir but later they sent me to Delhi. Now, I work in headquarters. (Mark his words... he said living army, not serving)

The cool dude: So, you serve Indian Army, that makes it obvious you have no issues with Indian government, but there are many who want a free Kashmir even today... how do you see this? (The dude is more than just cool, I see.)

The jawaan: Haha, I work for India not the government. Well, I love my country, the things that has happened and that are still happening are the after results of adverse opinions, conflicts and much more... Kashmir has suffered a lot, a lot more than what you and I can imagine, but no one alone but everything together was responsible. So I don’t blame people in Kashmir for thinking that way but I try they understand my point. (Deep.)

The lady: It’s really pleasing to see people of your age dedicated towards the country.

The jawaan: There are so many like me out there, ma’am. (Oh man, his smile.)

Pause.

The professor: You are going home or headquarters?

The jawaan: Filhaal, I am going home, I had been in Nagpur for a relatives wedding. I will be home for two days and will then return to cant.

The lady: Where do you live in Kashmir, beta?

The jawaan: Gulmarg. It’s a beautiful hill station. I am born & brought up there. You all can come and visit.

This time he looked at everyone including me. (OMG. Has he seen me gazing at him?)

The professor: I dint get to visit Gulmarg.

The cool dude: It lies near the LOC. (he is still playing.)

The professor: Yeah yeah.

The lady: There must be a Muslim dominating population.

The jawaan: Ji. The whole Kashmir is.

The cool dude: There are other Kashmiri with you in headquarters?

The jawaan: Not in headquarters. But there were many in my batch.

The professor: Is there any quota for Muslims in army?

The jawaan: laugh. There are no quotas.

The lady: Is there any discrimination that Muslims face?

The jawaan: Discrimination? Ma’am this is Indian army, our religions doesn’t matter. If it matters somewhere than only for celebrating our festivals together when we are away from our family. There are so many Muslims in our army, I myself am a Muslim... I have never experienced any discrimination or harassment for being a Muslim or for being from Kashmir.

The professor nodded in support, The cool dude was busy playing but did a hmm to contribute and The lady was stunned for some unknown reason.

The lady: You are musalmaan?

The jawaan: Ji, ma’am. Asraf Ali.

The professor: Tell me more about Gulmarg. Is it safe to travel...

And their conversation went on. They kept on discussing the army, Kashmir, government and I kept on listening to them but by this time my focus had completely shifted to The lady. Suddenly, she was not saying anything, had got shifted towards the window, and was not even looking at them.

This made me restless. Just a few moments ago he was a pleasing young man dedicated to country, he was interesting to listen to and he also was a beta. And being all this... all that mattered for her at last was... that he was a Muslim. He dint react. He didn’t say a single word to her again throughout the journey. May be, he dint care...may be, he was used to this... may be, it dint bother him... may be... may not be. I kept on thinking, I keep thinking even today.

It bothers me even today. The question might not hurt the person who said and the one who answered... but it hurts me.

Why is it necessary for us to know who is who, who is born as what? Isn’t it enough to know what one does and how right or wrong one is with whatever one does?

It is not just about Muslims, but I wonder how many of us Indians ask this one question to how many other Indians... We sadden them, hurt them and we may even provoke them...

I felt a sharp pain in my back as I turned to the side in the bed. I woke up to a new morning with an old ache. People who work on computers whether be an engineer or accountant or data operator, every such person must be having the same pain. I faintly unlocked my phone and suddenly my whole system changed. I rushed to the bathroom.

While I was struggling with my earring, I heard the announcement of flag hoisting on television. I ran to the drawing room and stood in attention for the National Anthem. As I was hymning the tune I saw the president paying salute to the flag, army doing the same in their beautiful uniform and the flag flowing in the air with its chin up.

“I want to see this live someday”, I declared in my mind room. The army persons were paying tribute to the flag; the crowd was quite sober out there at the event. It was when my phone rang that my eyes shifted away from television. It was my colleague on the other side.

“Office on 11, be on time”, it was more like an order. “Hey! I have got a set of tasks lined up, I will be late. Please wait till I reach.”, and I hung up with an explanation of being late in the near future. What I watched next was the president standing with his head down in respect and before him was a lady standing in a white saree and a blue shawl.

Her features told me that she belonged to north east and the commentary next introduced her to be the wife of late constable who lost his life fighting the terrorists. His wife politely received the honour and left the stage. As she was walking down the steps, I saw a grief yet satisfaction on her face.

She was crying as they pulled the camera on her. It was live. She met the president, she got the honour and she was crying. He had lost his life serving for the nation and she had lost her love. Nor she had anyone to complain, neither did she gestured to complain. She was polite and took it as an honour. He had chosen the nation first and she obliged.

My phone beeped again to a friend’s message. Meet me in 10 minutes. My friend was in town and he was leaving to the city he worked in that very noon. I tugged my hair, put my heels on and took the keys of my bike. I was driving my way to the cafe when I felt a change in the air. The weather was soothing, different from the other days. “May be the patriots and leaders who lead us to this day are doing this change”, I felt.

I reached the cafe. I was waiting there for my friend when I saw there was a change in the scenario. There were people hanging around with the flag painted on their face, gipsy and bikes were campaigning around like leaders, people around me were busy taking selfies. It was all engaging yet disturbing for me.

As we settled on a table; I and my friend couldn’t hold to watch the television in the cafe. The republic day ceremony was still on air. We were enjoying the showcase. The tableau from different states showing their culture, art and nature mesmerised my eyes and held them for ten long minutes.

Likewise, even my friend was concerned about the value of the day. “You saw the people? I don’t know what they feel it to be. I saw a flag waving on a gypsy.”, he was surprised. “Haha! Doesn’t happen in your metro city”, I said mockingly. And our talk over the respect of this day went on.

I left for my office, biding him goodbye. I missed the flag hoisting but met and greeted everyone. We sat over a light conversation on Bollywood with our boss and then he proudly told us how every year they celebrate the Independence Day and the Republic Day, invite friends, family, neighbours, workers, clients and even the kids passing by the office. They try to create a healthy celebration and a remembrance of the day.

Next, I drove back home. I spent the afternoon watching a movie on television that was based on a cricketer’s life and how he won the world cup for the country. It was a good film though.

I went for a walk in the evening with my friend. I told him about my whole day and how I felt about things; about the weather, the people, the television and everything else. He heard me with a smile and reciprocated politely as I asked him for his opinion. He said, “I think all the people who live nearby should gather in a ground and remember the freedom fighters and defence officers who have sacrificed their lives for the nation; that will be the best way to celebrate this day.”

And he was right, I realized. That one response summed up my whole day. Everything that I had felt that day, everything that had made me think a lot, that every thought got an answer when he said. “. We should at least resolve to follow a thought or a way given by some patriot.” such wise words felt my eyes as they dropped a tear of satisfaction.

The event of celebration that was been held in the capital every year, that was shown live to us, that we ignore every year, was actually a way to meet our real superheroes. The event salutes the efforts of our soldiers, give them a chance to rejoice and also show them the country they guard.

The flag hoisting give us a moment where all of us unite to pay respect to the nation who fought for our freedom, the flag that represented that freedom and the people who survived and even sacrificed for that freedom and the people who were trying at present to keep that freedom intact.

The small celebration like the one that was held in my office was just a way to keep the day alive, save the day to pass like just another holiday. And try to be a voice who said “We salute you” to the ones who worked even that very day for our safety. I got the purpose then.

The movie that had been telecasted was actually a salute to a sportsperson who had contributed shaping our country by his game and making the country proud in the international level. The channel contributed to the day by showing us the man who inspired us to be a better person and pursue our dreams.

The youth that was flaunting the freedom and was waving flags on their gypsy and bikes should have heard my friend. They could have got what this day was about and how they could have respect the day doing something better rather than wasting it that way.

 “By crushing individuals, they cannot kill ideas.” by Bhagat Singh, I read. I pledged to follow these lines and to never stop following my dreams and ideals even if it costs me to stand alone. I tried to make these words alive.

“Remember the freedom fighters and defence officers who have sacrificed their lives for the nation; that will be the best way to celebrate this day.”

4 a.m. Dawn. The time I wake up every day. It was a usual morning, until I heard arms fire and bombs. I waited for a while to understand the state of the valley; it dint take me any longer to sense war with the sound of heavy guns, four consecutive bomb blasts which trapped one of our posts at mountaintop.

Standing in my lobby that morning, I saw a changed picture of my valley. A layer of smoke had added a new flavour. The best I could do was to wait, but my mind was flickering as our village could have been captured too. Just then, I remembered the previous morning, and realised how different was it.

A day before, after fajr ki namaz I took a walk around the valley; from the bank of the river that comes from east, to the beautiful mountains covered with crops and herbs, to the dense wood forests, to the valley covered with green lands, to my home. Mornings are my favourite, as they take me to the beauty of the nature and into the lap of my family. Breakfast is the only meal when all of us are together, on one table.

The table occupying 10, was full of dishes; kulche with cholay which is favourite to all of us, tea, fresh fruits and firni. My wife cooks the best red rice firni. It’s her own recipe that we all cherish. Red rice has high market value but as we crop it ourselves, it’s as common as daily meal for us.

The best warm breakfast and a light conversation with my family was my source of energy for the whole day. Being a 65 year old, I never felt really old when I see my two sons their wives & 3 grandchildren and of course, my lovely life. After the meal, I headed for our rice fields in the mountain with my elder son. Near the evening, we were back in the valley.

Before going home we visited the weekly market near sarhad. I sat there chatting with some mates till late. The market is the most colourful treat of the valley. With shops selling fresh vegetable and herbs completely organic, with mates sitting over hookah near tea stall, with soldiers visiting us on duty, with young girls husking rice in one corner, with stalls offering hot kulche and much more; it appeared to be the most happening, yet organised fair.  After dinner, I slept early that night as usual.

When I recall my days, my life and my family; I see a satisfying picture before my eyes. But when I see my work, my valley and my people; I feel I could have done much better with my life. At a young age, I was interested in my state’s tourism and had even worked as a tourist volunteer. I had great love for the beauty of my valley and wished the other countries to experience and praise this beauty too.

So many times that I tried to actualise my idea of welcoming foreign tourists, at least from east in the valley with my fellows; I got failed every time. With time, I accepted the situation for our region, being a state of war, was never ready to take people from the other side. And this is the only thing that I knew I would regret when I die.

I stood there in my lobby for long, hearing those undesirable sounds of guns and blast and thinking about my whole life as the fear of death followed. I heard my wife calling me from behind. She asked me to get inside as we could be targeted. Although they dint come near our headquarters but armed people could never be trusted during a war.

I walked inside fast as the heavy arms gun were heard. I followed my wife as she walked back to our living room from the lobby crossing the drawing room, to reach the basement.

 This house was built by my abbu when I was fifteen. A perfect three-storied home, crafted with the finest wood of our forest. There lived the six of us- abbu, ammi, chaccha, chacchi, me and Riaz, chaccha’s son. I built the third storey later when my grandchildren were born. The basement was built when the wars became frequent near our valley. It was built my abbu when I was in my late twenties; it helped us survive during war. Nearly all the pakka houses constructed these thick walled basements during that time.

We were all sitting in the basement for hours as the firing and blast continued near the sarhad. The sounds became louder. We tried to assume what made them come this near to us, crossing several kilometres of sarhad. Thirty years had passed since they came this far last time. It had been thirty years that our family had loosened a bond. 

My wife was continuously praying for goodwill, bahus were pampering my grandsons as they were frightened by the sounds, my sons were talking about the possibilities that could occur next when I went to flashbacks of what had happened thirty years past.

Before these thirty years, we had a different relation with the east. Yes! Sarhad stood there even then, but people from the other side were allowed to visit this side, with security. They crossed to our side mainly to visit peer dargah, to visit markets and to meet there closed ones who were once their neighbours; not the neighbouring country but neighbouring house. Even with the line that was dividing us, we shared reunion often this way. These visits from east had inspired my idea of foreign tourism coming to our side.

This was the time chaccha had taken a leap to the east when he got a job in a pharmaceutical industry. Abbu never opposed his decision to move to the other side as chaccha was passionate about his career and this often visits from east gave us chances to reunite. But one war changed our fate for once and for all. One war and we were forbidden to see our family. One war took away Abbu’s peace as he died in regrets of not meeting his brother and the same war killed my hope to be brothers, with the other side.

10 a.m. Morning. Our life resumed as the sounds stopped and they returned to their side. Later, on the news, we heard that they were soldiers from east who were taking the call on militants of our side. The next few days went in fear of wars, hatred, blames on both ends.

But for me, it was a hope. I was hoping for a positive change after this war. From that day till date, my prayers recited the same:

Bless us with love. May this war end the hatred between the two pieces of land, may this war break the silence between both sides, and may they rejoice the bond they shared once when they were following your path. I apologise for being selfish my Lord, as I am hoping this war would erase the line of control and let me meet my childhood friend, my brother on the other side: Riaz.

Youth. That day, when my senses woke up into a new morning, I saw a gloomy picture of myself in the mirror. My eyes had swelled from crying the whole night. I had a real bad sleep, flipping here and there, thinking and rethinking the same thought; thinking of the possibilities that could occur if I too did something valuable for my town like he did.

I kept the unwelcomed thoughts aside and quickly dressed up, as I heard continuous hymns of people. I stepped out of my home and encountered a crowd, a real crowd. The road was full of people walking with mourns and tears, with the same anger that I was feeling right then. I joined them and headed towards the square to salute his efforts, to raise a voice against his killing and mainly to take a step that had kept my mind shrinking from the time he was gone.

Security officer. All these years, serving in the town as a government servant, I had faced a lot of protests, strikes and what not. But no difficulty can ever be comparable to the one of that morning; because fighting an armed enemy is way easier than controlling an armless mob. From the previous night, we were prepared that the next morning would be challenging for us.

As soon as I woke up, I prayed to God for strength to fight the situation that was to come next. I wore my uniform and stepped out for my workplace early. We were all ready with our arm guns, rifles and armour to control all the anger of the town. A day before, looking at the mob, a thought hit me badly. A directionless youth of this country, a militant who was killed in encounter, was receiving mourns of two lakh people, was rewarded with gun salute and was becoming history in the name of bravery for a huge number of people; things I was never going to get even after serving the town... all these years.

Militant. From the last three years, the time I pledged to fight for our people and our rights; I had an inspiration from an unconventional courage and a brilliant mind. Being our leader in such a young age, he had commanded and delivered actions that can never be thought without him. He had generated a flame in our hearts and minds that was burning high inside us from that day when we were biding him to God and would be burning for the rest of our lives to serve our purpose of living.

That morning was a sleepless, yet awakening one for most of the younger ones of our town. While we tribute our leader for his sacrifice, I saw people and more people all over my sight praying for our hero. I was sad that he left us that soon. It wasn’t his time to go. I promised him there at his coffin not to rescue his murders. At the same time, I was relieved to find people showing anger for the same. He had served his purpose then and there.

Civilain. Surviving in this town had always been tough. But that day captured all of us to a frame where many of us didn’t belong. I was born and brought up here with curfews, protests, attacks, strikes, shutdowns and killings. Everything till that day had maintained a distance from me. But that day, when I saw people coming out on roads, when I saw a fellow civilian setting a vehicle on fire, I knew that it was going to trap all of us.

My exams were rescheduled; I couldn’t move out of my house due to the protest. At the same time, I couldn’t sit at home and watch the show. It was my town, my neighbourhood and my freedom that was on stake, from the time I was born till date. I had to at least participate with the ones who were fighting.

Media. For the last few days, I felt the way dead people must be feeling; like how it would feel to release your body and be invisible. I was there, I knew everything, I had the rights to say, I could speak up, but there was no one to listen. That day, when he had been killed, I reached the spot with my team to cover the whole incident. I couldn’t see the killing, but I witnessed everything afterwards. From more than two lakh people mourning for a late twenty two years old militant, to the never ending protest between the armless civilian and the armed security.

By the time he was killed, mobile internet, telephone services, newspapers, media was pulled off air. More than twenty five days of our work was hampered. The curfew implemented in the entire district, got removed and was imposed again. The civilians protested against the killing by stone pelting, strikes and setting buildings & vehicles on fire. The police and armed forces defended by the pellet guns, teargases and rifles. The government bodies asked civilians to keep calm. With the death poll rising from two to eighty five and thousands of civilians getting injured every day, I stood there, in a total blackout.

Youth. The path of sacrifice had never been easy and I guessed that to be the reason of all my second thoughts. But days went by and the gloomed picture got stinks of hatred. Public safety act- they called it. Public, we, our town, had been victims of the inhumanity. One from the public was that aged man in my neighbourhood who lost his eyes due to buckshot. One from the public was that five year old girl who got wounded from pellet shot. And one from the public was him, who lost his life fighting for this public.

Public safety act- they called it. Then who was safe in that entire chaos? And what we even meant for them? Nothing. Not the public but the district that they were protecting or authorising, not the public but the beauty of our state was their interest, and with this, all my second thoughts were gone. I pledged to serve- the way he did. At last, I did clear the picture.

Security officer. But then I thought. It wasn’t my job to sit and think about public reactions, about the media allegations or the political accusations. My job was to kill any type of nuisance in the town. I was pretty much doing that on my part or at least was trying to do to the fullest without caring about my whole life, my family and my home.

I waved the emotions and remembered the pledge of my service. I pulled my gun on, took my armour and started controlling the mob. The nation needed an action. The town needed a reaction. So, all I did was to keep going. My work had to go on.

Militant. All I had to do was to keep his work going and punish the enemies. My courage boosted when our youth valued his sacrifice and joined us in huge number. We, together, had fought against the armed forces and we still were fighting. They would be defeated and would move out of our state to the place they belong, to their country.

Our God was blessing us with exposing other brains towards our thoughts. Our commander had now created a revolution- sacrificing his life in the path of freedom. And our people were protesting with us against the outsiders for our rights. There was no one to stop us now. We all united to serve our purpose. I could now sense freedom coming in the air of the town.

Civilain. I finally decided what to do and joined the mob. But! There, I stuck. I stood there paused. What I could see around me was war. I stood out to speak but no one was actually saying or listening. We were shouting. And when one of us set a police station on fire, the officers in uniforms were right after us. I ran. I ran fast for my life. All these years that had passed in militarization- I knew one thing that, the officers- they would never listen.

I ran long till I reached the bank of the river. I stopped, turned back to see the uniforms. I swallowed my own breathe and jumped into the river. I stayed there for long waiting for the security forces to clear by. After a while, I dared to swim upwards to the bank. I found no one. There was no one in uniform. I sighed in relief, and as I was walking towards the town, I noticed my reflection in river. But wait! It was not moving with me. It was floating. Yes! My body, it seemed dead.

Media. When I looked for conclusion, my pen dropped no ink. It’s hard to find who was wrong and where. Breaking the law and being a rebel to your country was wrong but inhumanity could never be an answer for that. There would always be a source that set fire; it would be as tiny as a matchstick or as big as bomb blast.

Why we needed to punish the civilian to safeguard them and why civilians had to fight security to end an ongoing war? Who gave us the right to act inhuman to regulate the law and order and why? Who decided our purpose of living? And who was the first, who thought violence would be a way to put things right?

It was 11 p.m. and Chikki and Dadi had just finished dinner.

“Dadi, please tell a story tonight!” the little girl said with eyes full of anticipation.

“Acha? You are in mood of a story today, Chikki?” Dadi had no other choice.

“Yeeesss! It has been years that Papa let me stay with you overnight! Who will the story be about?”

“Umm... You will know that later.” Dadi wanted it to be memorable.

“Noooo Dadi, tell now!”

“Listen to the story, and you will have to guess yourself!”

“Oh....Okay!!” Chikki settled between two pillows.

“Long long ago... There was once a country with two lands, a superior one and an inferior one. The superior part of the country had the power of military and ruling. In the inferior land, there lived a young boy who was very depressed with his life.”

“What is this young boy’s name?” Chikki interrupted.

“Oh! Let’s say, he is Ram. And he was a handsome young guy.”

“Heheh, okay!” Chikki giggled.

Dadi continued, “Ram was not very good at studies and passed his college with a low score. It became tough for him to land into a good job. He tried his luck and applied to many big and small companies, but failed every time. Some said he was not worth it, some politely refused. After losing hopes with the corporate world, he tried and managed to get himself a low paying job at the market at his town. But it seemed that Ram’s career was not blessed with good fortune. Because soon, he had to leave that job too.”

“Haw! Why?” she was curious.

 “Because the boss believed in the superiority of the other part of the country and Ram was powerless.”

“But they were the part of the same country.” said Chikki and smiled.

“Yes, but the differences in power remained which made Ram and his fellow insecure. The people who supported the superiority were not helpful towards the inferiors. Tension grew with growing fights between the two groups of people.”

“But Dadi, why were they fighting?

“The inferiors were exploited by the superiors before and the fear persisted in their minds. Who likes to live under dominance within their homeland?”

Chikki nodded her head in refusal.

“So gradually, they formed a state of unrest within their own country. Every other day, people witnessed fights, mockery and scorn. Ram’s father, his only family, was a teacher. He used to advice Ram not to get himself into these brawls. One day, the inferiors were encouraged by activists to fight for their individuality against the superior power.”

 “Oh, wow! Then?”

“Hmm... Here, the inferiors began their fight for Independence. They started resisting the laws enforced by the superiors. But in reaction, something terrible happened. Getting protested by the inferiors, the superiors attacked them. They started a massive series of killing and harassing the inferiors. Ram was affected too. Ram’s father got himself killed while trying to save a few neighbours. Ram saw horrible things in front of his eyes. He had no other option but to leave his abode, his town, his country. Around 10 million people came flooding into an allied country, our India, for shelter and to wait for the issue to resolve.” Dadi kept it simple for Chikki.

“Oohhh. India! Wow. See? India is so useful!”

“Yes, indeed.  India supported the inferiors and his countrymen. The incoming refugees were scared, sad and tired. Some had lost their family, some had lost their homes and some lost hope and killed themselves. A situation of this kind was not easy to handle. Food and shelters were arranged for them without second thoughts. A huge team of freedom fighters were being appointed to fight against the superior army. Ram tried and got selected. It was for the first time that he got appointed to a job in one go. He was very moved with the changes that were happening around. In the meantime, Ram made many friends in this patron country. One of them was a little more closer to him than others.”

“What was this friend’s name?” asked Chikki.

“Umm... Shyam!” said Dadi.

“Okay. I could have guessed.”

“So, Ram and Shyam spent most of the time together. Shyam was a military person of this country. Sometimes, Shyam used to show Ram the places around and tell stories of Indian soldiers. Sometimes, they both watched news on the TV only to get disappointed upon how the superiors were still threatening the inferiors in Ram’s homeland. It made them even more determined to fight, to win.”

“Ohhh.” Chikki was getting engaged.

Dadi looked at the clock. It was 11.35 p.m.

“Then, then, then? Tell!” yelled Chikki.

“Oh, yes! So, a few months went by. They all were in the process of war training. And one day, the superiors attacked various sites in India which were close to the border.”

“What! Why India?”

“Because, we were helping the refugees.” cleared Dadi.

“Oooh. But Dadi, isn’t this just a story?”

“It is, for now. Listen.... The alarms were rung. Wasting no more time, the team of freedom fighters were set to fight the superiors for once and for all. And guess what?”

“What? We won!? Yes, we did! Didn’t we?” Chikki was wide awake.

“Yes, we did! Because we were stronger, resolute and we were on the good side. We had no internal gluttony for land or money in return of supporting the inferiors. Sometimes a decisive action must be taken on moral grounds for what is legit and what is not. And sometimes, it’s all about friendship, a good bond...... Here, is the end of the story.”

“Wow. This is not a moral that I expected. I liked the story.”

“I know.” said Dadi, smiling.

“But what happened to Ram and Shyam!?” Chikki remembered.

DIIINNGG! The door bell interrupted Dadi’s reply.

“Dadu is here!” yelled Chikki.

She ran to open the door. Dadu with another old man came inside. The other man was holding a big box which looked like a cake.

“Sunil Uncle, is this a cake? Is it your birthday?”

Dadi looked at the clock again. It was 11.50 p.m. She got up and went up to Dadu.

“How was the dinner?” she asked.

“Lovely, as always!” replied Dadu with a wide smile.

“Come, I will set the table.” Dadi took the cake from Sunil and opened it up on the table.

“Whose birthday is it?” Chikki was still confused.

Dadi fixed two candles on the cake and lighted them.

‘CHEERS- TO FRIENDSHIP, TO VICTORY, TO MUKTI BAHINI’ was written on the cake, like every year.

“Mukti Bahini?” Chikki had read this somewhere before. “Isn’t Mukti Bahini written on Dadu’s badge that he is wearing?” she looked closer. She was right.

“Yes, Chikki. Now let’s cut the cake or the candles will melt!”

“Yayyy!”

Together, they enjoyed the cake and made vows of staying together on this day till their deaths- something that the three did each year.

Chikki suddenly remembered, “Dadi!!! You did not tell me about Ram and Shyam.”

“Ram and Shyam? Who?” asked Dadu.

“Dadi told me a story about Ram and Shyam. Tell, Dadi! What happened to them?” Chikki asked.

“They are sitting right next to you, the extracts of Mukti Bahini and the Military Army!”