Tag Archives: war

Of A Christmas Without Snow

(An old lady thinks about her husband as she writes this letter… To her husband, to the snow, to the winter that is slowly withering by)

I’m thinking about you as I write this.

 An entire year has gone by in a flash. The sun was out here. Autumn did cast its cloak. The winter has arrived, but there’s no snow.

 I’m sitting in this big white room. The chandelier stares down at me in an awkward stance. Everything around me is white-dull, dark white. The walls have queer shadows imprinted on them. They trap the melancholy of this place-the silent cries, the hundred thousand dreams that threaten to ooze out of this place. The white holds the silence.

 The mist has descended from the mountain. It presses against the window, whispering against the glass. It’s as if I’m viewing the world from behind a cloaked mirror. I’m trapped within the mirror. I’m looking at the universe, seeing them stare back at me without a trace of response. It’s as if I’m no longer there.

 Slightly hitching my gown up and tucking a strand of my white hair behind my ears, I stand up and walk to the windowpane. The fabric of my gown drags behind painfully. It warns me to not breathe the breeze that has started to waltz outside the windowpane. It whispers me not to get carried away by the memories. It spreads its invisible hands and tries to hold me back.

 With every stride, I feel the cold, white marble caresses my feet. The chill presses against the wrinkles and cracked skin. They make a shiver to trail upward, but, it never touches my spine. The fabric crawls along without a noise, its shade mingling with the white everywhere. Everything around me is as white as the Christmas snow. But, what I’m looking at, casts a gray glare.

 Everything outside the window is gray. Colorless. Lifeless. Devoid of any shades. The mist has tucked them under her blanket. She, probably, doesn’t want me to see the radiant shades. She doesn’t want me to call back the kisses under the colorful mistletoe. She doesn’t want the Snowman to lure me into building a cheerful one. She protects me, only by trapping me away from the world.

 As the white ceases away from my peripheral vision, I realize I’m near the window, staring right out at the world.

 Bringing my hands up, I touch the misted glass with the tips of my fingers. It blends with the chill. A vague scent of winter seems to have sneaked into the room. It teases my senses for a spell before being withdrawn by the void of the clean room.

 It reminds me of how much you enjoyed the winter. It reminds me of the time we first met-it had been a Christmas morning. You had held my hand and guided me down the aisle. Everything had been so red and green and gray. You had taken me to the fair and bought us cotton candies. I had had my teddy bear so near to me as I had gazed into your black eyes. I had struggled with the unknown emotions at the pit of my stomach. And you had held my hands when we had kissed under the snow.

 Leaning against the frosted glass, I press my face against it. I’m not looking for warmth; I’m looking for something that feels real against my skin. You.

 See, the snow is here! The silhouettes against the shades of gray are slowly starting to bathe themselves with the Christmas snow. The universe outside is suddenly as white as the room I’m in.

 A flicker of hope takes birth in my eyes. I look down from the window, anticipating your arrival. You had promised me that you’d return with the snow.

 My eyes are refusing to stay awake. Someone is calling for me. There are faint noises around me. Everyone is so excited to see you. Everyone is waiting to hear stories of the war. I’m so proud of you already. I wait, patiently.

 Christmas is here. But it doesn’t feel real. The winter is here. The snow is here. You aren’t…

Of The Delusional Human Heart

She pulled out a few letters from the old, brown leather bag that she clutched weakly in her hands. The little young man, who had helped her get on the ride, had asked her to leave behind her bag in the waiting area, but she had smiled at him and told them that she needed to keep it with her.

She ran her hands over the skin of the letters, running the tips of her fingers along the crumpled edges of the hundred letters she had written to her husband over the year. There were blotches of ink on them and some letters had been smudged. Yet, she could read them like the back of her palm. She knew the contents of the letters, in her heart. Subsequently all, she was the one who had penned them with extreme care, debating her husband’s replied with every course she wrote with the drying ink.

How she had been so madly in love with him to write the letters and expecting him to reply back when he was serving the country at war! Oh, how she had been so madly in love with him that she kept on sending the letters without an address on them! Oh, just how madly in love she had been to write “To, My Husband” on top of the pale, yellow envelope and throw it into the mail box and require it to be handed over! Indeed, she had been so crazily in love with him that his loss was breaking her apart every second the ride moved up a short bit in the breeze.

The old mailman, with his several thousand wrinkles intricately drawn upon his face and a bald, shiny head, had seen those letters and collected them over the years. More often than not, he would have discarded them as they never carried an address, but something close to the letters reached him. Maybe it was the illegible writing of the solitary woman who sat near the window, waiting for her husband. He had lost his wife and he knew the grief. So he kept them in a corner of the post office.

And one day, he had seen the old lady make her way to the post box again. He had run after her and inquired her husband’s name. And he had written it on all her letters and sent them with the army men who occasionally came to their town.

Only, the letters had returned back to him as no one had claimed them. With a painful heart, he had given them back to the old woman.

The trumpets and several noises filled the town. The men were coming back from war. Instinctively, she looked down from there, thinking that her husband would be there, although she knew that he would never return.

Yet, a part of her held on to the hope. A part of her believed that the news reporter had made some mistake while reading out the names of the soldiers who had died on the field.

How could her husband be one of them?!

He had always been so strong and so bold!

He had survived several bullet wounds!

He couldn’t have died!

Oh, the pitiful, human heart!

With a painful smile etched on her face, she returned to those letters and read them aloud as the ride soared up. She read those letters to her husband who was probably somewhere, listening to her…