Dear Readers,
As a war unfolds where I live, every ordinary day becomes unordinary. Some random thoughts to make sense of today.
I squeeze a lemon in lukewarm water and settle on my balcony. Sunrise is the time for the collective chirping of bulbuls on the khejri, neem and palash, standing obediently on the opposite road. They create such a commotion, the kind that makes mornings bearable after last night’s sirens. No school children pass by. Drones sit tight on books and laughter, giggles and chatter.
Krishna walks in to rustle up a meal. I choose khichdi—light on the gut. I have a poor metabolism when it comes to news. Krishna shares about the sirens from last night—we did what you said, Madam, no light, no fan, no mobile game even for Guddu—but nothing happened. I read from the newspaper—intercepted missiles, foiled bids—and rattle names of cities attacked, including ours. The cooker whistles. Will you give me a printout of Guddu’s childhood picture to paste on my wall? She asks.
I do poetry all afternoon. What else can I do—I’m not a leader or minister or soldier—who’d listen to me? They’d rather mute me. I jump in and out of social media. Type, delete. The skies rumble. Type, delete. Who cares? The skies continue to rumble but we no longer run in open fields.
On a walk to the lake, I meet the same woman once again. In our minds we talk—how was last night? Did you hear the deafening booms? That’s all I hear, she says. Outwardly, we smile, no words exchanged, counting our perks.
My evening prayers are long, a list of gods to appease, somewhere asleep. I light a lamp—it must only burn until the Blackout, when we are hidden in the dark, only to see muzzle flashes. Then I eat and answer the phone. There are no bruises, none that I can see. Don’t worry!
The sirens blare. Or they don’t. I’m not sure, but I hear them. Under the dohar, in the dark, I watch an analyst speak the truth. Not a nice truth, not the kind that tells citizens of a war-ravaged country good things. His truth makes no promises. I have a feeble heart, so I block the channel. Who knows the truth, anyway?
Someone has opened a big wound on the west of my land. Will it ever heal? All night, imaginary sirens won’t let me sleep, moving like restless spirits through the khejri, neem and palash. Tomorrow morning when I sit on the balcony, will the bulbuls be there too?
*****************
Discover more from A Hundred Quills
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
A Hundred Quills 
It was so unnerving. I was thinking how frightening it must have been for those living in the border area. I didn’t realize you were staying there.
You’ve captured it so well in this post.
Let’s hope for beautiful mornings and peaceful nights.Take care, Sonia.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Tarang. I hope the gash we’ve opened doesn’t take long to heal.
LikeLike
I have been reading the news to know the details, but reading this made it so real and I feel helpless. I hope we never have to face a war.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Vinitha. Amen to that.
LikeLike
Isn’t this the third war that’s been fought over the same territory? None of the others has settled the issue, so you’d think these countries would seek another way to end the dispute. Compromise? That seems to have become something none of our nations is capable of anymore.
So sorry, Sonia. May sensible heads prevail and restore your beautiful serenity.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I agree, we need a better solution, Lee. I just hope our leaders can work out something. Thank you.
LikeLike
I can only imagine how unsettled you must feel. Every time I go to bed wondering what we will wake up to. In far off Bombay the thunder clouds rumble but as fellow Indians we feel your fear and pray that this madness has a swift and finite end.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. We are in a much better space now and hope good sense will continue to prevail.
LikeLike
praying for everyone’s safety.🙏🏼
LikeLiked by 1 person
🌸🌸🙏
LikeLike
I don’t know what to say except I feel you, your word, and your unsaid word that can fill the gaps on this screen. I hope a better sunrise prevails. How we take some of those mornings for granted huh? And how we try to go on like nothing has happened when everything there is to happen is happening! The travails of present times. Lots of love and prayers will not cease on my lips.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, how we take some of these mornings for granted. This is a big lesson I’ve come out with in this brief yet very long period.
LikeLike
Your words resonate deeply.
Really hits home.
Stay safe and take care ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
I didn’t know this was happening in India. Thank you for capturing what you and others are going through. Please stay safe, Sonia.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Liz. We are in a better space now with the danger (hopefully) behind us.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re welcome, Sonia. That’s good.
LikeLike
Sitting here far away, it all felt so unreal, so fictional, until I read your post. Just hoping that better sense prevails as soon as possible.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Sudeepa. All fingers crossed that good sense will continue to prevail.
LikeLike
I remember being in India, nearing the end of a visit, in 2019 when military action flared with Pakistan. I was in Bangalore at the time but it was surreal and unnerving. The world is so much more unstable now (even here in Canada where I always felt protected, sitting above an unhinged US has changed everything). I will keep you and all my other Indian friends, in my thoughts and pray for sanity to reign. What more can we do?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Right, Joseph. What more can we do? I’m praying all the while- maybe someone on either side will step up and stop the madness.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This was difficult to read. Cannot imagine how it must feel, because I’m sure the feelings run deeper than the poem captures, which is already so heartwrenching. Take care, Sonia.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Manisha.
LikeLiked by 1 person