The poem highlights the sentiments of the wife of a martyr a month after she lost her beloved in the Pulwama Attack (14th Feb 2019)
It’s been a month
since my partner last walked the face of the Earth.
The man in uniform, as they called him,
had often been pregnable to the audacious stones
of the ones he vowed to protect.
Life, for him, was never really a piece of cake.
For it was upon him to quell disorder
from the so-called Kashmiri nationalists.
But despite the turmoil he discerned to unfold,
his love for the country stood aloft.
It was the fourteenth day of February I remember,
Valentine’s Day is what you would probably call.
For my man, however, it was just another day at work.
I was at home; he was far away, with a gun in hand.
Unlike the ordinary girl, I never threw a fit of rage: for I was a soldier’s wife.
It was late in morning that he called,
only to let us know that he was alive.
I told him that the kids were in school,
my in-laws are keeping well.
For save his job, he was just another human: just another human.
But who knew
that the telephone would never ring again to his voice,
that the hair on my head would never be brushed by his hands again?
Well, who knew that the blood of mankind
was mixed with such grave composition of malice?
The telephone did ring.
Only to let know that my man had made the ultimate sacrifice.
Wrapped in the flag did he come,
with military honours was he buried,
but that the world of mine was devastated was what everyone was unaware of.
With my braveheart gone,
I was called a great woman.
The nation geared to avenge the death of my husband.
Meanwhile, I was in dilemma:
in dilemma as I failed to comprehend the world I was living in.
For it is but strange to live in a world
where I find uncanny feats at every step,
but they just cannot silence the guns.
It is some unexplainable reason after all
that cannot stop the missiles at all costs.
How many need sacrifice their life
till you realize that too many wars have been fought?
The uniform and the medals are what the commoners often see,
failing to grasp that the fate of every fighter
hangs with helms of “leaders” as they so call.
For that wars are but futile
is what every wound on my dead husband’s body speaks to me:
wounds that are often suppressed under the tag of honour.
There will come a time when the mouth of the cannon is forever closed.
Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be too late…
By : Ayush Chatterjee (BCA 2020-2023) 