The Letter
Monday 1 April 2013
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“I simply want to live, to cause no evil to anyone but myself.”
- Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
- Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
Unarguably, a war has no actual
winner. All that a war brings with it is colossus death and destruction.
This is a fictitious letter from
a soldier to his wife that brings out his agony and emotions who struggles
between life and death in the battlefield.
Dear Braveheart
A fight is on across the border,
a hated deadly fight. It feels as if a threatening, slow-moving monster is
gradually approaching towards our territory and frightening everyone in its
way. A miasma of fear has suffused the battlefield and there is plundering and
marauding on both sides. Even our Commander feels short of breath and his
encouraging appeals sound completely out of place. This is perhaps my last
letter to you. My tank has been hit by a torpedo and I have been injured badly.
There are faeces and corpses all around me. But I must thwart the attack on the
dignity of my mother, my nation. I wish I could!
It is unbearably hot and my
throat has been parched to dryness. I feel emaciated in this scorching heat and
am lying in a pool of sweat and blood, languishing among the corpses that look like
large motionless lizards. I am writhing in excruciating pain, begging for a few
drops to water to quench my thirst. I wish I had something to eat, but it is
just impossible. The bullets that have pierced into my flesh have disabled me
to run for my life. I find it difficult to even crawl and meander a way through
the debris to a ‘safe’ place. How destructive a war can be!
As I straddle life and death, I feel
compelled to ruminate over the worth of triumph in such a war that has caused colossus
damage to both the sides, the massive bloodshed and widespread killing of
innocent people and the destruction that has been caused to the infrastructure.
Is there an actual winner in this war, I wonder!
Indeed, this war has left an
indelible impression in my mind, ripped my heart apart and left me scarred. There
is nobody to mourn the death of those who have sacrificed their lives for their
land. There is no priest to chant divine words for the peace of the departed
souls. Instead, salvos are being fired upon us and our misery has become a
reason for celebration for the hostile enemy forces.
Your portrait is lying on my chest and I am peeping into your golden eyes. Pardon me for leaving you bereaved. I shall carry the burden of this guilt like the chains of a prisoner. May the force be with you to and give you the strength to face this challenge. I'm afraid you won’t probably get a chance to lament at my grave.
Will I have a grave?
*The soldier succumbed to his injuries a day after he wrote this letter.
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