At War

||30. The Thirtieth||

Thursday, XXXX

Our lieutenant is gone. Yes, it is as simple as that. He is gone, vanished into thin air, and we would be more concerned about some sort of elaborate conspiracy, but fuck that. He ran away. I know he did, I can feel it in my bones like sparrows feel the promise of summer and rain. I should sympathise, I understand what may have driven him away. It is obvious. He is a simple man, a good man, and he cannot do it. He cannot, in good faith (or even bad faith), stand in front of the people who have been so kind to us, so generous, and say that he was taking away the few luxuries they still have. Luxury yes, education here is a luxury. I would tell you all about it, but see, I am the next in command, and the unenviable task of revealing this in the village notice board. Unni stands beside me, and I am so pathetically grateful, anyone seeing that or reading this will have an appreciable amount of second-hand embarrassment. That being said, I must admit, in this ungodly moment, that I love having Unni by my side. It settles me, you know? The press of his warm body against mine, the minty smell of the precious soap at the lodge. But, I digress. Forgive me.

Dear one, I see it in the eyes of the people. The sorrow, the grief, the betrayal.  They are not even mine own, so why do I feel such pain? Is it because they treated us like their own? Is it because they fed us and clothed us and gave us a familial touch? Is it because we have danced with them in their halls and sung with them under trees and got drunk in the dark corners of their bars? Is it because their kindness has seeped into our bones and curled in our guts and warmed our hearts even though the colour of our uniform is wrong? I cannot, dear one. The lovely mother who owns this lodge, how can I do this to her granddaughter? There is a wet patch on my uniform. Unni was crying. And he came to me. I feel like a fool, not knowing what to do – a newly born goat kid bleating to the meadow, a colt trundling on trembling legs. He came to me, as if I would know what to do.  And now, all those people we have spoken with, all those tentative friendships we made – they are ground to dust. Oh! How I hate them, those nosy, horrible ministers in high- rises! What does that dame think now, the one who said I reminded her of her lover? By the spirits! She must loathe me so, the selfish, opportunistic colonist that cost her a kiss and a dance! I can hear her cursing me for cheating her, can hear her rage for I tainted her lover's name. You know what? I probably deserve it.

The streets are almostempty. The windows are shut. The whole place is quiet, eerily so, and it is wrong, wrong... wrong. The people are subdued, and it is an unfair look on them, and I must say I am scared something fierce. We have been ordered to go to the school. I know not the local language, but I have heard it, and it is beautiful. I cannot do this, I cannot. To snatch away the books from little hands, and the dreams from wide, wonder-waiting eyes? I did not sign up for this. I want to go home, sweet one, come take me. I want to go and hide behind Ma's skirts like we did when we were children. We did not get thrown out of school, we learnt our language and history. What war is this, which causes such sorrow? What worth does this paltry piece of land have, if deprived of joyous people? I cannot do this, not now, not ever. The teacher is an old, old man, and he walks bent upon a stoop, and he has stayed here for six long decades, dedicating his life to the service of the community that has raised him. How can I drive this man away? What will I tell him? We, a bunch of street louts who have probably never known anything of service to community, will have to shout at him, and push him out, for he will not go peacefully, I am sure. This is not happening, dear one.

I would say Yours sincerely, but there is nothing less sincere in the world than what is happening

The Soldier.