“Tea?” I asked, like every other day when he is back from the office.

 “Ah! Sure. Today was again a stressful day. But you know, I figured out something really important today.” he was smiling.

“What is it?” I smiled back.

“Hehe, it relates to the research I am working on.  I was going a little off-track. But, today I fixed it. It was so obvious that I felt sheepish later. But, you see? It was all for the good.” It seemed as if he was talking in his sleep, as if he was in his own dreamland. I loved this thing of his. I couldn’t stop smiling.

And “That’s so good, Suru.” is all I could say.

“Yeah. I have to go back and continue even today.” Suru said.

“You have been doing this often lately. I just want you to take care.”

“Yeah, I know. I want to finish this soon and correctly. Ajay have been helping me constantly. We are good.”

“You don’t look good with dark circles.” I complained, only to keep the conversation going.

“I am dark already. And we are in the United States. Nobody can tell if I have dark circles. Haha!” the optimist joked.

“Don’t say that. You are the brightest thing in my life.”

“Aww... and you are mine.”

 “Come back soon, Suru.”

 “Of course! Thanks for the tea, Soni. I will see you tomorrow morning then.” he was all set to leave for the office again.

“Hmm... I will miss you.” I meant it.

“Aww.... No, you wouldn’t miss me. Because, you would be having a super tight sleep now. You too are working and you get tired, don’t you?” his eyes were in mine.

How does he always manage to make things sound so right?

“Yes... I do...”

“Good. Now, go sleep like a baby. Take care.” He gave a quick kiss on my forehead and went past the main door. I locked it and went to bed obediently.

----------------------

I woke up to see his sleeping and almost smiling face next to me. I checked my phone, got freshened up and went into the kitchen following the daily routine.

“Good morning, Soni.” said a deeper voice of Suru from a distance.

“Good morning. All well?”

“Yes. I had a lovely sleep. So did you. I came back around 3, took a bath and slept beside you. You did not have a hint.”

“Oh! I am so sorry....” I felt guilty.

“Hey, I am kidding. Even, I did not want to wake you up. Now, take the sorry back.” He said.

“Okay... I take it back. Wait on the table, I will bring your tea and the newspaper is on the console.”

“Thank you.”

I woke up at the same time each day but a few days, I don’t know why, I run late. Like, today.

“Can you help me pack the lunch?”

“Noooo... I can’t.”

“What do you always do this, Suru? Why can’t you?”

“Soni.... If I pack my lunch, I would know what I would eat later on. But if you pack it, I will have that surprise element.” He had his excuses.

I waited a bit to digest what he had just said. But then, I couldn’t control my laughter.

“Hahaha! You talk like a comedian.” I said.

He had his funny child-like face on.

“When we will be having a baby, he is sure going to look like you. Exactly this face of yours!”

“No, I would want him or her to look like you.” He said checking his phone.

“We will see.”

“My Whatapp friend’s group is full of messages. Ritvik is getting married, finally!”

“Ritvik from Mumbai?”

“Yes. He is inviting us.”

“Oh, let’s try and take a few days break then. Our long-thought India trip is yet to happen. Maa will be very happy too.”

“You are right. Let me see if I can get a leave.”

“Okay then. I am going to get ready. I am running late. Here, your lunch box.” I handed him the box.

“Anna datha suhkhi bhava!” he said, raising his arm.

He said this phrase every time he is elated with someone’s offering food to him. It sometimes feels so good to listen to our regional languages while living in the States. Detached, yet still very rooted. That is how Suru is. I always asked him if he misses his country or wants to go back because I knew he was one true and loyal citizen. But he was an optimist. He believed if we can live here happily, we should continue to live here... happily. He believed that unless we are good to others, others will be good to us.

----------------------

Later when I was at my office, I received his text-

Going to the grill and bar with Ajay in the evening. See you straight at dinner.

 Little did I know- that this was going to be a lie; that he was not going to see me at dinner that night; that he was not going to see me ever. He never returned. They say he was shot. An overactive ‘fairer’ man misunderstood him due to his colour. At first, it felt like I would go and take away his life. But then, what difference would this make? This wouldn’t bring back my Suru. And Suru would not suggest me to do this... if he was alive.

I did not realise, that I never thought how life would be without Suru. That is why I stay clueless even now... about what actually will happen with me. What made the guy shoot and kill another guy? Hate? Hate for a skin colour, for an entire race? Or was it intolerance? Does it have to do anything with co-existence? Why couldn’t he just live with the hate? How does this hate empower us to the limit that we loose our senses? What did he get out of this? He is going to sleep alone in an empty grey cell for the rest of his life. What a reward he got... for spreading hate.

But the hate remains... in every one of us. Millions of examples lie in front of us. They just lie- dead. Somebody pick them up! Somebody give them a meaning! Somebody show how powerful its antonym, love, is!

My father is a religious person. He believes that mukti yatra cuts down the impurities and cleanses the soul.  He always wanted to do this yatra through which he gets to visit lots of mosques and dargahs. His 60^th birthday was approaching. December is a cold month. So, I decided to take him on this yatra myself. It was supposed to be memorable, and ultimately it was.

I planned a 12-day trip over 3 states of the North, covering 16 of the important religious sites. Abbu’s birthday was right in the middle of the trip- on the 6^th day. We left home with a bag full of anticipation and good hope. The first 5 days went exactly as I planned, but not Abbu’s birthday.

On his birthday, we were to explore the city which had a great importance in the Hindu mythology. We thought of taking the essence of a sister religion and some extra blessings from the Hindu Gods too. There was a 16^th-century mosque that Abbu wished to visit. We reached the place early in the morning. Abbu said he would sleep sometime before going to the mosque in the afternoon. I tried sleeping too but a weird feeling kept me up. I went down for some tea. There was a small stall which served tea, coffee and snacks. There were three people other having tea there. I asked for a cup and sat on the bench.

“Munna ka tabiyat bigad gaya, nahi to hum jarur jaate.” said the slim guy wearing a kurta.

“Abhi bhi time hai, aap ja sakte hain. Program 3-4 baje se pehle khatam nahi hoga.” Said the chai-wala.

“12 baj gaye hain, ab jaane ka mann nahi.” The slim guy replied.

I was keenly listening to what they were saying. I started getting interested upon hearing the word ‘program’.

“Muaf kijiyega, kis program ki baat ho rahi hai?” I asked.

“Aap kahan gum hain, bhai- sahab? Itni badi rally nikli hai aur aapko nahi maalum? Kal ki ghoshna nahi suni aapne?” the other guy in a kurta asked back.

 “Ji, mai aaj hi aya hun. Yatra par hu Abbu ke sath. Masjid jaane ka iraada hai kuch der me.” I clarified.

There was a sudden silence amongst us. The two guys in kurta looked at each other and then looked away. They had finished their tea.

“Chal chotu, hum chalte hain.” the other one said and they both walked away whispering.

“Aaj masjid jana aapke liye theek nahi.” said the chai-wala.

“Kyu, bhai?” I was getting anxious.

“Yeh masjid vivaad me phasa hua hai.”

“Itna to hume pata hai, bhai. Par log to aaj bhi jaate hain na wahan?” I wanted answers.

“Haan, Magar aaj ki rally wahin ho rahi hai, aur aadhikarik raay iss masjid ke khilaaf jate hain. Aakhir hai to yeh sheher ek Hindu dharm sthal.” The chai-wala’s words were making no sense to me.

“Kya isse ye maalum hota hai ye yahan masjid ka hona galat hai?” i asked.

“Hamare kehne ya sochne se kya hota hai? Hai to raaj satta ka.”

“Satta? Kya yahan ki satta sabke liye baraabar nahi?” I was confused.

He jolted his head and looked away. His silence was making me uncomfortable. I wanted to see the rally. I wanted to see the mosque.

“Masjid ka raasta kis taraf hai?”

.......................................................                                                    

Crowd, a disturbed crowd was all I could see in front of my eyes. I kept on walking. I could hear them chanting. Those chants were piercing through my body like little needles. I could sense instability. I could sense insanity. I went closer. I could now hear the bhaashan that the politician was giving.

“Iss bhoomi ko hame samtal banana hoga, baithne layak banana hoga. Taki yahan samoohik kirtan ho sake, bhajan ho sake. Yagya ka aayojan hoga....”

‘What is this man trying to say?’ I thought in my head. The mob kept cheering and chanting.

“Jai Shri Ram! Jai Shri Ram!”

When I went further and got the first sight of the mosque from a distance, I stood there perplexed. It was right in front of my eyes- the wrecking. The domes were being hit, the walls were attacked. It was hard for me to digest what I saw. The main dome fell... then another... Just then I saw something flying towards me and hit me.... I realized I was sitting on the ground, full of dust, when I came back to senses. The mosque was not standing anymore. My neck hurt, but it did not matter to me.  

People had started returning to their homes. I returned too. On the way back to the hotel, I could not stop thinking about what had happened. They said it was essential, as it was an important Hindu site. The political leaders were smiling. The people were dancing in victory, chanting slogans and celebrating their win. Did they actually win? Who won? How can anyone justify the existence of a Hindu site? How does demolition of a religious building define their sanity? The security forces ran away. Further, there was no effort put to stop them. Why? My head was full of questions.

Abbu was awake and really worried when he did not find me in the room. He had already gathered the information about the demolition but my absence was a bigger concern for him then. When I reached, Abbu was watching the news on the TV with widened eyes. He ran to me and held me by my shoulders.

“Khairiyat hai?” he was shaking.

“Han Abbu, mai khairiyat hu, magar ye desh bahut beemar hai.” I replied.

He had tears in his eyes. I was broken. There was nothing that we could do.

“Chal, laut chalen.”  he said, still shaking.

.......................................................

It is February. About two months passed... and riots, commotion and deaths are all that we saw. Every other day we woke up with the death toll rising, new cities being engrossed and more hatred in the air. The fire had struck. Temples, mosques and other random buildings were targeted. We too were invited for a meeting to remove people of the other religion out of our locality. Ordinary people had turned into activists. People were dying. But, what could we do?  

Whenever there is a state of disagreement, why is agitation and anger the first and the last option? Why do people think that destroying a monument of killing the people would solve or pacify an issue? Why does a positive ground, the religion, become the reason for the unending negativity? Why ‘co-existence’ is no more a word with a meaning? But, what could we do?  

I suddenly felt like a culprit. I never thought anything beyond my family’s happiness. Who thinks about the country’s happiness? Who thinks about its integrity? Lots of our countrymen died, about 2000 of them. Are our countrymen, our extended family? If no, then why do we share the same land? If yes, then why are we still silent? 

I decided, I would not sit silent anymore. I will do my part. I will propagate my questions, and I will derive the solutions. I will. 

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!”