The Green Flag

It was one of those railway stations where very few people came. And where only one of those odd trains stopped. One of those unremarkable stations with broken benches and the worn down office of the station master. For 40 years, I waved the green flag here. It was like a ritual. Looking at the timetable and then strolling out from the office to the platform with the green flag. Its a ritual nobody other than me cared about. Once in a while a curious kid points at me from the second class compartment and says something to his father. At other times, some old man just stares at me from the window, sometimes adjusting his glass to get the focus right. These are the only attention I've got in this lonely job. Sometimes, hapless wanderers do come in from far away places, with thirsty eyes and hungry stomachs. And it has been a part of my duty to give them something to eat and provide them shelter until they are good to wander again.

Now, 30 years since I last waved the flag, as I sit alone here, as an antique piece held up by worn down bones and displaying lines and cracks all over my face, I feel like one of those wanderers whom I gave shelter many years back. Though I could barely see even with my glasses, I could feel the changing colours of wheels inside the weighing machine falling on my eyes. Those olden days when my son Mihir made me take his weight on this machine every other day, came to my mind. There was a field of kans grass close to the station. Mihir used to run from our home through the fields as the trains passed, very much like that classic scene from 'Pather 'panchali'. Satyajit Ray must've been inspired from our little station and Mihir's run while he created that scene. In those days, I never once did have an idea that one day I'll be sitting at this very station like a useless furniture. This very station which once came to life only because of me. I haven't uttered a word in the last many years. I can hardly see. I can move only with other's help. But Mihir didn't seem to know that I had so much of life left in me when he left me here and went to the city with his family. He didn't seem to know that I still had a heart which loved him and his family. He didn't seem to know that my tears don't need anyone else's help to flow down. I could feel some currency that he left in my lap so that someone will take it and help me. If only that money could buy someone to put his hand around me and say, "I love you papa and I shall never leave you".

I could easily show the red flag to my life if I jump into the rails in my white shirt. But, as always I chose to live rather than bring poetic tragedy to this story. I fell asleep with the help of the cold winter winds. I couldn't do anything to stop the trembling and later got used to it. Someone's hand around me woke me up in the morning. I could hardly make out who it was. Still, I felt reassured. I tried feeling the face. The clues were not coming by. I was searching in the dark until he told me about a cold wintery night almost five decades back. One of those rare wanderers made his appearance in the station that day. A kid of about seven years. And as was my habit, I fed him and gave him shelter. He left after staying for few days in the office. It was just one of the many similar incidents in my life. But for him, it was one unforgettable incident. And that few plates of food meant more to him, much more than a lifetime of sacrifices meant for my Mihir. He held me up with his strong hands and led me carefully to the gates. I could hear the thud-thud of a train approaching. I almost raised up my right hand and waved the imaginary green flag.

your crusader Praveen

Silent World

I could see it all. The tall guy charging towards the poor man with all his fury. The impatient crowd of passerbys waiting in anticipation at the prospect of some free of cost vicarious pleasure. The shopkeeper stopping his calculations midway and getting out of the store for a better view. The motorist braking suddenly and then peering over the crowd. And then the poor man himself, his face showing a million colours of fear. I watched as the blow landed on his face, distorting it slightly. I stopped my photography brain from thinking about the high speed camera possiblities of this moment. I saw him opening his mouth and screaming wild. I didn't hear anything. Not the sound of the crowd, not the scream of the man, not the engines of the passing vehicles. It was like watching a mime. Yes, I am a member of the species called the 'ipod generation'. The turn of the millennium saw the birth of our generation. White wires coming out from the pockets, moving all the way up our body to our ears differentiate us from the previous generations. We've it plugged on everywhere, in the bus, at the restaurant, in office, in the closet, just about everywhere. Its just like a part of our body. And for us, the world is like what you saw in the above scene, silent.

As I woke up the next day, the music was still going on, as I usually keep a long playlist. And as usual, I didn't hear mom's calls to wake up and drink coffee. Yes, a cold coffee is one of the obvious happenings in our silent world. But I do argue with mom on the dust prevention capabilities of the earphone. 'A little dust wont make you deaf, but this plug can do that', she used to say. Taking a bath was not one of my favorite things, as it takes me out from the silent world. As I walked out in the shabby jeans, grandma had a puzzled look on her face. A relic from the past's disdain of youthful brashness or whatever it is. I didn't hear her coughing hard and asking me to buy some medicines. I saw her lips moving as I wheeled out my bike, but as I said earlier I hate to get out of the silent world. I gave 2 more kicks after the engine started. The kicker is used to that. The big doberman next door was wagging his tail and barking silently as I rode on.

Today am not in a mood to go to office. And what I do in those moments is head to the beach. Today was no different. The sun was hiding behind the clouds and so the sand was not smoking hot as was the usual case at this time. I sat there and looked around. Barring a man who was sitting far away on the rocks, the beach was deserted. What else do you expect to see on a working day in a not so famous beach, I asked myself. These questions which I ask myself are the only things I hear because these dont need the ears to hear. The waves were crashing against the rocks a little far away. Today, my silent world is having a lot of noise, all coming from inside me. The sea always stirs up my thoughts. Yesterday's scenes had shaken me a bit. Now I know how silent movies made an impact back in the 1920s. I sat there thinking about the general aloofness of our generation. How easily we turn our backs to other's sufferings. How easily we close our eyes to injustice. Less said about our perpetually closed ears, the better.

All the thinking was starting to drive me nuts. The sea was not providing me any solace today. I walked back to my bike and thats when I saw the man sitting on the rocks, the poor man who got beaten badly yesterday. There were bruises all over his face and it was evident that he didn't clean it or dress it up. I stared for sometime and then walked on with the same coldness that has come to symbolize our geneation. Kick. Start. Zoom. Again, on the endless highway. The mind was still disturbed. Thoughts collide into each other and create unwanted noise in my perfect world. A mind not used to thinking was finding this hard. I didn't see that big tanker lorry coming in the wrong side. The thoughts stopped colliding as the world around me stopped for an instant. The bike flew up in the air as I was flung head first on to the footpath. I saw blood. I saw red. I screamed. I didn't get any response from the silent world. My eye lashes almost met, for the final time. I saw someone walking by. A flicker of hope. I strained hard to look up to his face. He didn't turn. I could make out that familiar white wire. Yes, he belonged to the ipod generation. The owner of a mind, as cold as my now cold dead body...

pic courtesy-wired.com

your crusader Praveen

Song of the season

Warning:Following is a real crazy story written when I was in one of those rare demented moods. Am not responsible for any damage done to the brains after reading this.

It was a routine day for me. Carrying that worn out and 'almost dead' acoustic guitar on my back, I walked on under the hot sun. Street singing is not the best of jobs in the world. Many times, I've overheard high flying execuitives lamenting, 'Wish I could spend all day in the world of music. Wish it were my work'. I can't help but laugh at those romantic fools. Its that same old 'grass is greener on the other side syndrome'. It need not be green at all, sometimes it can be real black too. But, don't think am one of those idiots who is highly frustrated with his job. Though I have to walk miles, strum and sing non-stop, I do love it for the unlimited experiences it gives me. Now, you may be wondering -"This guy speaks like one who has done his english masters." No, I have never seen the gates of a school. All of it was passed on to me by my legendary grandfather who didn't have a penny to his name. All he possessed was an ocean of knowledge, this guitar on my back and a great collection of old music records from the days of Presley and Rafi to those of ACDC and Rahman. Those were the alms he got from some music lovers who were mesmerised by his brilliance. When he died towards the turn of the millennium, he left it all to me. That was the day I started my job of singing on the streets.

Though I intoduced myself as a street singer, am more of a train singer. There's nothing like walking the whole length of an Indian railways train and singing to such a diverse bunch of people. Somebody rightly said, to see the real India, travel in the trains. Today also am singing in the train heading to Chennai. As the loco pulled out of the sleepy Trivandrum central station, I started the day's work with an 'okyish' rendition of the classic 'Wish you were here' by Pink Floyd. Most of the time I get such crazy stares when I sing english songs. Sometimes people make me stop it and ask to sing in one of the million Indian languages. I, for my part, has made it a point to learn atleast one hit song from all the major languages in India. The train is not very crowded today, so I don't expect much of a collection today. In one of the cubicles, there was an old man with long hair and a pure white beard. The wrinkles on his face gave him an aura of respectability. I hope I'll look half as good as him when am his age.

"You sing pretty well, young boy"

"Thank you, sir"

"Can you sing me a devotional song?"

"Sorry sir. Am an atheist."

The old man smiled knowingly.

"My dear kid, Don't you know that you can be an atheist and still sing a devotional song? A devotional song need not be one which has chantings of one or the other God's name. It can be a supposedly devilish song like 'Number of the beast'. What matters is the frame of mind with which you sing. An 'angel of death' sung with all your heart makes more effect on God than a 'Krishna Begane' sung with a dirty mind."

Yes, He had a point. But, I hate it when people give me such boring sermons. Anyway I will sing some song for him and try to get something from him. As I finished singing 'Nothing else matters', I saw him shaking his head in a disappointed manner.

"What is it? You didn't like my song?"

"Not that. I liked your song. But you did the same mistake that I did 50 years back. Rather, I repeated the mistake."

"What???"

"Ok, Let me make it clear. Its now year 2060. I (or rather we) am already dead. Today morning, I stumbled upon a time machine in heaven. And, I had no doubt to which period I wanted to travel. This day in the train had changed my life forever. I was there at your place 50 years back and there was an old man like me who time travelled from heaven to alter this scene. You were not supposed to sing. You just had to appreciate the sermon I gave and keep quiet."

"OOOps"

"Didn't you wonder that you will look like me when you get old? You were right. But that was the only time you were right. Now, this scene will repeat again 50 years down the line. And you will be in my place then. Lets hope that the guy in your place doesn't mess it up then. Now, go and live that same old life with the same old scenes for 49 more years. Lets hope for the change atleast next time around."

Weekend Concert Update-

Watch Junkayrd Groove, the awesome band from Chennai performing Live in Bangalore at Kyra theatre in Indiranagar. Time - Friday 7 PM

For those in Mumbai and Pune, Motherjane is launching the myspace India secret shows alongwith Scribe and Black at Bandra amphitheatre. Time - 6 30 PM

your crusader Praveen

The new monk

The red hot sun was making me sweat profusely. All I could hear on Highway 36 for the past one hour was the loud thud of my Harley. I was happy to see a tunnel in the distance. The road looked like a shiny black tongue stretching out from the face of the tunnel. It was ready to devour me and the monster on which I was sitting. The dark ride through the tunnel was a kind of solace for me. I felt it was a kind of reflection of my past. If I take the pessimistic view, this ride from the brightness of the sun to the darkness of the tunnel might be a way of telling myself that I could go back to what I was, anytime. But, pessimistic views are not for me now. That was in the other life, when doom ruled my thoughts. The new me has spelt doom for those old thoughts which had ate me up, almost fully. Now, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe, if I turn back now I could see the same on the other side too. The light which I failed to see in my troubled past.

Back to the burning plate of the sun again. I could see a sweat drop trickling down on my dark glasses. The long locks are swinging like hell in the wind. I rode on like this for 5 more hours. The train of thoughts and hopes made that feel like just 5 minutes. The 'Floyds pub' sign on the highwayside brought a smile to my face. I donnow, somehow I could feel the tunes of Floyd's 'coming back to life' running though my mind right now. It was time to rest the monster Harley. As I walked in, I thought about the many days I spent in a stoned state. It was needed then to steel my heart considering the kind of work I did. I searched for a lonely corner, unlike the olden days when it was always a place for 'the gang'. The place was brimming with youth and new age metal music from the likes of 'Lamb of God'. I was happy that I could still connect to the music as well as the youthful atmosphere there. They say, 'you are never too old to rock n roll'.

My throat got wet, thanks to the 'old monk'. Suddenly, I could feel a discordant note. No, it was not the music. One familiar stranger just took his seat opposite to me. His style and demeanour reminded me of myself of the old. But the face seemed quiet familiar, only the expression on it was just opposite to what I could relate to the face.

I was startled when he asked, "Ever heard the final countdown?"

That's the dialogue so often blurted out by the old me. And the ones who heard that never lived to tell the tale. Did I make a mistake somewhere?

"You just asked me the question. You never let me hear the song"

Yes, I had made a mistake. Sometimes overconfidence can make you careless. Now, this is it. The result of one such overconfident job staring at me when I least wanted it. Because, this is the new me. Just then I heard the music in the pub change to 'The Final countdown'.

"Countdowns are best enjoyed when you have a pistol in your hand".

Yes, It was his time to enjoy.

"Pistols can save lives. One such thing in your hand saved mine 10 years back. I always wanted to say thankyou"

That was when I realised, I haven't uttered a single word until now. Is the 'new me' a coward? Will the 'old me' forgive the 'new me' for this? No, am gonna speak.

"Pistols can take lives too. One such thing in my hand 10 years back is gonna take mine now."

He smiled at that. He leaned in towards me and put the pistol in my hand.

"Some things are best left unsaid. I meant to say thank you."

That was the last I saw of him. I was again left with a pistol in my hand, the same size as the one which I threw in the river yesterday night. Is it back to the 'old life' for me? I was walking out when I saw them, a group of rogues beating up and molesting some helpless girls. I could see the cameras flashing and crowd looking in anticipation, but not a single soul to raise his hand. I just thought of the man's words, "Pistols can save lives". I had one such thing in my hand now. Yes, some deaths can save a lot of lives.

Thud!Thud!Thud!...The job is done. Before the hungry vultures from the media could devour me I had got on my monster. The thud of the Harley blended well with the still ringing echoes of the bullet. The 'new me' has done his first job. The first one in a long line...

PS- Was starved of subjects to write on. So I started something meaninglessly from one end. Still donnow why I wrote this.

your crusader Praveen

The Elysian fields-IV

Read Parts I, II, III, if you haven't already

Part IV-The end
After 7 months...

Am still looking at that portrait of Jay on the wall. A train of thoughts had taken me 20 years back in time. I realise it was a life in which the unpleasant things weighed a little bit more than the pleasant ones. And the final nail on that was hit today evening when I saw the news on the TV that Sammy had brought in last year. It showed images of the dead bodies of 3 young men covered with a white cloth. I went numb when a photo of the 3rd man was displayed. I was too shocked to scream out. I dont know how long I stood there staring at the screen. I heard the news anchor uttering words like 'educated','terrorist' etc and in between a name called 'Sam' too. Thats when I realised that the word 'service' meant something different to him. I began thinking on where it all went wrong. A little boy who was proud of his father and his country wouldn't get transformed into a cold-blooded criminal overnight. Its not possible to wipe away all that feeling of nationalism in one single moment. I somehow felt that I had failed as a mother and as a citizen of this country.

Having seen many such images in recent times, I was almost sure my son had ended up in a place where he was least expected. Then itself I made the decision to disown him. I didn't want a terrorist's body to be buried in the same land where Jay was laid to rest. I was more angry than sad. If I had one more chance to see Sam, I would've asked him the question, "Why?". At this moment, all my affection for my little Sammy vanished without a trace. I cursed myself for having borne him in my stomach for 9 months and for being his mother for 25 long years. I hanged my head in shame at having played a part in letting down my motherland, for which my beloved Jay had laid down his life. He might be watching from heavens and wondering if he's slipping into illusions even there. Still, even after all this, I would be lying if I said I didn't have even a bit of sadness. Which mother can hate her son with all her heart, whatever be the intensity of the crime he has done?

The next morning, I was startled by the sound of the gate opening. I saw a long line of school kids streaming in, all of them familiar to me from Sam's tuition class. They all had roses in hand. Two of them held a banner which read "We salute you, Sam". I was confused. Why would they hail a terrorist like that or are they just showing their love for their teacher? Thats when I saw the newspaper lying there at my doorstep. The headline read..

"Students storm terrorrist's lair"- '3 art students carried out an attack on a secret camp of terrorists near Anantnag in Kashmir. About 14 terrorists were killed in the attack carried out with grenades and country pistols. In the process, the 3 of them ended up losing their lives. The amateurishness of the attack signifies the fact that this is a sign of common men taking it upon themselves to do a clean up act rather than expect the Government to do something about the growing incidents of terrorism. This incident has struck a chord with lots of youngsters, raising a possibility of more such incidents....."

Before I knew how to react, I saw the kids placing the red rose flowers in front of the tuition room just to the left of our house. I saw tears in some of their eyes and a sense of respect in some others. I cursed myself again for all those thoughts of disowning Sam. How could I, in a fit of confusion and without knowing the facts, brand my Sammy a terrorist? How could I think that of my child who used to say proudly "My father is a soldier. He protects our nation." Why didn't I even give a second thought? As questions started piling up in my mind, a crowd was building up outside our home. As I sat there, I was reminded of that day 20 years back, when we waited for that ambulance. Then, I had little Sammy to fall back on. He was the hope which kept me alive all these years. Now, I have no one to wipe my tears. And I don't have to wipe anyone's tears too. I just have to wipe the dust from two portraits instead of one. They say, 'Every father is a hero to his son'. Jay was more than a hero to his son. When he died, a part of his soul stayed back inside Sam, without leaving earth. Through him, Jay fought on and also kept me company.

I was confused whether my life is a blessing or a curse. A blessing for having a husband and son who sacrificed their lives for the country. A curse for having to live a lonely life after the premature death of my husand and son. But, whatever be the case, I decided then and there to live on rather than to succumb to the lure of a suicide. Jay and Sam will never forgive me if I surrender my life so meekly. I will live on to see more Jays and Sams doing selfless service to their country. I will live on to keep their memories alive. I will live on to tell others "Never quit living". And I'll live on to tell the story of my husband and my son...A father and son who went on to stay alive even in death. As I walk inside, I hear one of those kids asking to his friend "How many enemies did he kill?". Yes, the same question that Sammy asked his Daddy, 20 years back...

PS- So, that was the end of my first story writing endeavour. A big thanks to all those who encouraged me with words of appreciation as well as to those who gave me some constructive criticism. I got the idea of this story after I read the news about a mother in Kerala who said "I don't want his dead body" after her terrorist son was shot dead in Kashmir. I was deeply touched by the courage of that mother who saw the country above her own son. But I didn't want this story to end in such a negative note of a patriotic child turning into a terrorist. So, I built up a fictional story of a father and a son with this plot weaved in between. I dedicate this story to that mother, her courage and her patriotism.

Pic courtesy-granneman.com

your crusader Praveen

The Elysian fields-III

Read Parts I and II, if you haven't

Part III
Though its been many years since Jay's last journey, I can still hear the gunshots after the ceremonial guard of honour reverberating in my ears. Sometimes, I see him sitting beside me and playing with Sam, only to wake up from sleep with a start. Sammy has grown into a handsome young man. He joined college last year. He joined an arts college and is specialising in English literature. The reason for him choosing this course is still unknown to me. After that tragedy, he has always kept to himself. In school, he had very few friends and talked only when it was necessary. Things didn't change much even as he entered college. I never asked him any questions on his behaviour as I thought this will only add fuel to the fire. I decided to play the waiting game and let things happen when they have to. He always spent his time with his books. He talked more to those pages than to me, though I knew I still had a high place in his heart through some of his words. Its just that he chose not to express his affection externally. I am sure that he has some parts of that sweet little Sammy left in him somewhere. I hope one day he lets him out.

Sam funded his college education by taking tuitions at home. I loved it when all those chirpy school kids came to study at his class. I think he was reconnecting with his happy childhood through them. We lived a decent life with the pension amount of Jay's service. Though, I sometimes wonder whether we are receiving the price of his life every month. The nation and all those who came to the funeral that day may have forgotten him. But, for us, who lost something precious that day, there's still not a day which passes without his thoughts. During that time, Sam got some new friends. Some of them used to frequent our house. They kept on talking for hours over the coffee and snacks which I served them from time to time. Because of my not so great educational background, I never understood what they were talking about. All I could grasp was something about an organisation they all were working in, which aims to do some service to the public. A portable computer, which they called the 'laptop' was their constant companion. All day they were drawing plans, studying about certain localities and discussing on various issues related to it. I was happy that at last my son has got into something that seems to capture his whole interest. He has begun talking to me more these days.

Last Sunday, while I was cooking, he came into the kitchen and told me-

"Mamma, atlast I found my destiny. For the first time in my life, I've a feeling that am making good use of my life. Am a lot more happier now that I've found many friends who happens to have identical thoughts as mine. I guess am coming back to life."

Should I say, I was happy to hear this? With a heart filled with joy, after many years, I told him,

"Sammy, This was the moment I waited for all these years, to hear words like this from your side. Your daddy's blessings will be with you all the time. I want that Sammy of old back."

He just smiled and left without saying anything. Only later would I realise that it was the last time I would ever see of him.

Final part coming up morrow...

pic courtesy-pixdaus.com
Read on here

your crusader Praveen

The Elysian fields-II

1st Part here
Part 2
Its been a month since Jay left home after he got an urgent call as usual. Last week, we couldn' talk to him as he was out for some emergency work. Sam has grown increasingly grumpy this week. He always had that strange sulky look on his face these days. He was evidently sad at not having talked to his dad in more than 10 days. Many times, he refused to eat anything. Atlast to make him eat, I had to promise him that I'll let him talk to his daddy for a longer time this week. But, what to say, it didn't happen this week also. He was still held up with some emergency, according to the officer who attended the phone. I had this tinge of uneasiness somewhere inside me but had to project my cheerful self before Sam. But, as if reading my mind, he asked me one day.

'Mamma, Won't daddy ever talk to me again'?

The pain in his voice almost made me burst into tears then. But, I held on with all my strength and told him,

'No sammy, He has gone to the mountains to buy you a gift from a yogi'.

He gave me a deceptive smile, from which I was not sure what to make out.

One more week went by with no news from Jay. The next tuesday morning, a burly gentleman was seen opening our gate and walking in. He had a small cover in his hand with that unmistakable insignia of the Indian army on it. I think Jay has delivered a letter through a messenger as he was not able to contact us for long. My heart leapt with joy. Sam will be back to his happy self today, I hope. Then, for the first time, I looked at the man's face. I could read a sign of discomfort there. He came to the door, held out the letter and uttered those dreadful words-

"I am sorry".

The first thing I saw in my mind then was a disturbing image of those castles that Sammy used to build in sand, crashing down. I slowly opened the cover and straightened the white paper. The words didn't quiet register and I still don't know what I read that day. I only remember that man telling me after sometime-

"The ambulance will be here in half an hour".

Thats when I saw Sam walking in slowly. I guess he saw that teardrop falling from eyes. He suddenly ran to me and asked-

"Mamma, why are you crying? I've never sen you crying. Who is this uncle?"

I heard myself blurting out-
"Sammy, your Daddy won't talk to us again. And he would never come back again. He's gone with the yogi to the heavens."

I was shocked to hear such dispassionate words being spoken by myself. And I wondered why I talked so straight rather than sugar-coating the fact to make it digestable to a 5 year old. Maybe, I didn't want to give him a rude shock when the ambulance came. So, I wanted to steel his heart to take it. To my surprise and dismay, He didn't utter a word after that. He just stood there with tears streaming down endlessly. I pulled him close to me and he came to me as if he were a lifeless being. We stood like that waiting for our long waited guest to come one last time. The man just stood there watching a small bird making its nest in a nearby tree. I knew his eyes were not actually looking at it.

The wait didn't last long. The ambulance came and with it a stream of neighbourhood residents. As the tricolor cladded box was lowered to the ground, I felt sam pushing away from me. He ran along with it as it was carried into our drawing room. The men accompanying it kept it down and neatly folded the tricolour. As I ran towards the box, I could see his face through the glass that covered it. He still had that glow and a proud expression on his face. A part of the letter came to my mind now, "He fought on till his last breath and even carried his superior officer to safety before succumbing to his wounds". The nation must be proud of him. But, I just couldn't play the part of that brave wife whom we see often in stories as the one who never sheds a tear. I wailed uncontrollably. Thats when I thought of dear Sammy. I looked around. There was a huge crowd already, known as well as unknown people, gathered there to pay respect to the nation's latest hero. I saw him standing just behind me with a passive face. I couldn't read even a tinge of expression of any kind in his face. And, I couldn't find a single tear too..

To be Continued..
Read on here

your crusader Praveen

The Elysian fields-I

This is my first attempt at story writing...Read on..

It is a particularly cold evening today. Being alone in a big house in such a weather would've been impossible for me some years back. My amma had a hard time consoling me in those thundery dark nights when I used to howl like a new born. Being alone also means I have nothing much to do. So most of my time is spend in conversing with nature. Looking at the white lillies swaying in the garden and gently reflecting the moonlight filled my heart with some unknown sense of happiness. But that is short lived as my gaze falls on those eyes looking at me from the worn out photograph on the wall. The flower garland on the photograph needs to be changed tomorrow.

My mind races back to the day on which that garland was put on that portrait for the first time, 20 years back. Sam was a cute boy of just 5 years then. Though he clung on to my fingertips all the time, he always used to cry wanting to see his daddy. He was very proud of his daddy. I once overheard him asking his classmate-

"What is your father doing?"
"He's an engineer. He builds our nation. And whats your father doing"
"My father is a soldier. He protects our nation"

I was struck by such high sounding words from my little son and his friend. But, the way he said that showed how much he respected his daddy and his profession. I don't know if am right to call that a profession. Its a life. Me and Sam used to walk 15 minutes to the nearby STD booth once in a week to hear Jay's voice. He used to prepare for this phone call from the morning itself. He could be seen sitting in that swing hanging from the Mahagony tree in the courtyard. But he would be motionless and staring at a distance, probably preparing questions to ask his dad in the
evening. He reserved his best dress for those days, as if his daddy could see it from miles away. It always filled my heart to see my boy smiling to himself all day. Even while walking to the STD booth, the usually chirpy Sam wouldn't utter a word. Once I dialled the number, he would get impatient tugging at my saree to give him the phone. I would barely get 5 minutes to talk to Jay. Then, it would start between father and son..

"Daddy, Is it cold there? Are you doing well"
"Yes. My dear. Your warm voice makes all the cold run away."
"Daddy, Daddy, How many enemies did you kill this week?"
Controlling his laughter, Jay would tell Sam- "10"
The more the number, the more happier Sam was.

Such questions went on for about 10 minutes until I snatched away the phone from him, which used to lead to a lengthy protest from Sam's side. Jay's holidays were a cause of celebration at home. On the morning of his arrival, Sam would get up early and would sit near the door with his eyes firmly set on the big gate. Even if there was some small sound near the gate, he would run towards it expecting his daddy. And, when the big moment arrives, its pure heaven. Sam would run and jump straight to his daddy's hands giving him the world's biggest hug. Jay's first day at home is spent in such expressions of love. The serious talking would start from second day only. The weeks he spent at home usually flew by in a matter of minutes. And most of the times, he would get the call to get back to duty urgently. Then, the blissful holiday has to be cut short. As cliched as it may sound, I have to say, "for a soldier, country comes first".

to be continued..
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Pic courtesy-http://www.adventuresinparenting.org

your crusader Praveen