This one is from my friend(Ritu). Personally speaking I loved this one and that's what make me share it with you all. Hope you all will like it too.
"Sharing tales of those we've lost is how we keep from really losing them." - Mitch Albom
That evening, we sat on the kitchen floor, waiting for mother to serve dinner, hands playing rabbits and birds as an oil lamp flickered shadows on clay walls; I was ten that night and happy that father caught so much fish, and that Bihu was near; I was to rehearse for dance and brother would play the dhol.
Then they came, sound of thick boots, and a gunshot rang. The curry pot fell with a clang when the army men with guns told they came for my brother; for he was anti-something, they said; father pleaded with them but they beat him up till his veins cracked and blood ran down to mix with the curry on the floor; and my mother cried herself to oblivion as they dragged her son out through the bamboo gate to the van waiting outside.
He was to be interrogated but he never came back, mother lost her mind and it never came back, father lost a side of his body, and it never came back.
Only if I could undo it all as I did every day in my mind" –
brother would walk backwards from the van
to the kitchen to resit on the floor-mat as he
also unbecame anti-something;
the blood would slowly unmix with the curry
and rise and refill father’s veins
as they quietly uncracked
and father unlost a side of his body;
mother’s tears would curl up her cheeks
to be resucked into the ducts
as her lips would bend in a smile for
she would hold the curry pot
that unfell because the bullet was unshot;
and we would unhear the boot thumps
as the four burly army men retrace their steps
walking backwards from the kitchen to the van
as we resume our talks
of the coming Bihu, the fish father caught
and all the while the burning wick would
play shadows on the clay wall.
- Ritu Monjori Kalita :)
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