A grey childhood

That was the day
When my childhood
had seen the last rays of the sun
And that was the night
which buried my childhood
in the depth of darkness.
Today when my grandchildren
are playing patriotic songs
in high volume
wearing orange white & green dresses
my mind has become
the tape recorder
replaying the cassette of
that dreadful day &
nonplus night
And the photometry
of those eerie events
is flashing before
my eighty-five-year-old eyes
making them feel more helpless.

The clock was ticking at twelve
and maa was shouting at me
to have lunch,
but her voice
had no power
to make me run inside
and to stop me
from playing with my best friend Zarina
in the courtyard of our house
that red-bricked house
which was the tallest among
all the houses in our village.
My father who used to
call meetings often
& solve many disputes
on a cool note
was looking tensed that day
The sweats on his forehead
was completely in sync
with the anticipation in his voice
The paleness in the faces
of other villagers
were telling the tale
of some kind of anxiety
The discussion was sounding heavy
without any halt
like that of the atmosphere
during listening to a thriller
and forecasting the next twist.
Suddenly everyone got muted
when the radio started blaring
“India has been partitioned
into two nations.
Some parts of Punjab & Bengal
will fall in Pakistan.”
Although unable to understand anything
the eight-year-old kid in me
assumed everything
from the talks of the elders
that I was not going
play with Zarina again.
That evening,
the pond near our field
where I used to swim
bid me a goodbye
the banyan tree
in which I used to swing
was looking at me with teary eyes
until along with other elders
I disappeared from the land
which taught me to laugh while crying
to speak while fumbling
to walk while stumbling.
The refugee camp of Amritsar
became our destination
compelling us to begin our journey
in the path of uncertainty
tearing the darkness of night.
Maa, nani, chachi, didi
were walking slow
wearing the weight of
coins & jewellery stitched
in their blouses & petticoats
Papa, nanaji, chacha & bhai
were forwarding fast
being loaded with
swords & machetes.
Suddenly the sound of screams
penetrated my ears
and my eyes got stuck on
a gang of hooligans
approaching towards us
like a swarm of bees.
Before I could think anything
my mind became a black hole
listening to the shrill sound
emanating from nanaji’s mouth,
seeing the separated heads of people
who used to bring me candies
who used to feed me in their hands
who used to carry me on their shoulders
who used to squeeze my cheeks
to whom I used to meet daily
to whom I was listening a moment back.
Before that black hole in my mind
could have got filled with any thought
my ears heard some footsteps
coming closer
Imagining myself
being killed
those barbarous ruffians
I shivered inside,
but controlled my body.
I laid on the ground like dead
until those goons returned back
considering me dead
I was breathing faintly,
Faint enough to wake up
Waking up had no purpose
for me then
The child inside me was dead
Dead because there was none alive
who would pamper me like a child
The matured woman in me
bloomed that night at the age of ten
whose childhood was snatched away
in the soil smudged with
the blood
of her beloved ones…
©ruchiabhisikta

Bowing down before those brave souls because of whom today we are celebrating “Azadi Ka Amrit Mahotsav”🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳

But we can never feel the pain of those who lost some precious parts of their lives due to the migration during partition of India. They may not feel the same excitement that we feel on 15th August. Because freedom is a word for which they have paid a price, immeasurable.

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