6 minute read
ECHOES OF COMBAT
by Sreelekha Chatterjee
Runa cowers under the bed, panting heavily, with her heart pounding like a war drum Uncontrollable tears continue splashing on her dress, blinding her Unexpectedly, a deep, hollow sound, followed by a frightful roar outside, startles her She drops her mobile It clatters onto the floor without any visible damage Stirred, her eyes wander around the objects in the room, appearing blurred and indistinct
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“Runa, are you there?” One of her colleagues taps on her closed door
“Y-yeah, I-I’m h-here ” Runa wheezes, mumbling under her breath
“We’re waiting for you downstairs Come soon!” The same colleague resumes
Runa can’t hear any more knocks on her door, but her beleaguered mind can identify the thudding of heavy guns and the rumbling of tanks somewhere nearby.
An appalling flash of lights emerges on her windowpane like a petal burst of bloom, followed by a loud, rushing sound in the air that dies in a shrill explosion, cracking the branches of trees in the forest beyond their guesthouse. What if they are hiding in the jungle? They’ll reach within no time She wonders how her colleague is so calm and composed Didn’t she see the army men stationed at various points while entering this border town? Now, gunshots are being heard Dropping flat onto the floor, Runacrawls out from under the bed She decides to keep an eye on the window to trace any blazing missile The smoke will certainly apprise her of any adversaries’ attempts to disarray their tranquility Just then, she hears loud music coming from the lawn Cautiously, she inches her way upto the window
Through the open window, she sees her colleagues partying on the lawn of the guesthouse The darkness of the cold evening is ripped off by high-powered lights, somewhat like searchlights in an army post But an impregnable mist still hangs above the adjoining road After a long train journey, her admirable, indefatigable colleagues are having fun some sitting with drinks and chatting, some loitering around. All happy faces. No one seems to be aware that something unusual is going on nearby; probably the neighboring country has attacked again.
“Guys, come inside! Shelling is going on.” She shouts ineffectually, repeating herself over and over again, without any head down below turning toward her window, until her utterances become raspy and come to a halton being choked with emotions
Nobody notices her The loud music is drowning her voice She recalls the day when this Diwali party was announced in the office along with the trip to this hilly townto celebrate the tenth anniversary of the IT company where she is an employee
It’s the same border town where her father, Colonel Raghu Mishra, was posted twenty years ago She was seven or eight years old at the time It must have been like this day when a function was going on at the army station, post triumph at the frontline Victory holds a distinct benefit to a man who desires peace, but many seldom live to experience it They were unaware that the enemy had sneaked in While they were busy merrymaking, the infiltrators bombarded their building Subsequently, it was an endless current of dust and debris among the wrecks of soldiers, as the pictures in the newspapers had shown Those images haunt her to this day A scene of martyrs piled in groups like dead leaves in a trash can, laid side by side in white shrouds, and trenches being dug for their rest one that she had seen in a horror movie appears before her eyes. War can never be an efficacious exhibition of gallantry, as both the battlefield and its aftermath have time and again recorded gruesome setbacks.
She tries to remember her father’s face, but all she can recall are the recognizable faces of her schoolteacher who had hugged her when the news broke out, her school cab chauffeur who never failed to say “good morning” every time he met her, and her ever-smiling therapist who gifted chocolates whenever she visited her
At a distance, the sky suddenly brightens up with streaks of light assuming a flower-like formation, accompanied by a popping sound, drawing her attention Anybody will mistake them for firecrackers, but she knows these are the aerial shells bursting high up into the air She espies a plane flying with lights blinking It resembles a comet with a bright, fuzzy head and a long, trailing appendage she had seen once in the night sky
Suddenly, from a window of the opposite wing, a shot rings out The noise is something that will wake the dead from the grave She ducks her head and stays still below the window Her eyes catch a stream of blood oozing out from her left hand She has been hit But there is no pain, as if her hand doesn’t exist Motionless, she sits for a while, with her head bent low A throbbing pain starts in her head, sounding like wheat grains crushed in rollermills
Dragging herself up, she peers at the other side of the building from where the shot was fired. The area seems dark and lifeless Unperturbed, her colleagues are enjoying themselves as before She has to bring the incident to their notice, or else they’ll have the same fate as her father Turning around, she looks for something that will capture their attention Her eyes spot a flower vase adorned with beautiful gerbera flowers She strews around the flowers, and carelessly, empties the little water left inside the flower vase that awkwardly falls on the floor and spatters a few drops on her Taking a deep breath through her nostrils and mouth, she grabs the vase with her right hand With all her might, she chucks it down through the window to where the party is going on An agonized shriek is expelled, as someone hit by the vase on the lawn flops down on the grass The music ceases, and a group surrounds the injured person All point toward the first-floor window, where Runa is still watching them.
“Come inside! They’re here to harmus.” Runa collapses on the floor, screaming her heart out.
There is a rush of footsteps outside, in the corridor, and then heavy banging on her door.
“Open the door!” A male voice bellows
The voice of this visitant is with timbre Long ago, in her childhood, she heard similar voices when left alone in a room But those were voices without any expression or shade plain, simple calling her by her name Leaning her head on her shoulder, and without taking her eyes off the door, she tries to listen attentively to the drawling chants of soldiers, dull thunder of strikes, and rifles tuning in the air But all she can perceive is a deep and painful hush, with an unsteady beating of her heart, as if a machine that is nearing burnt-out fuel and resounding with a feeble screech Oh, how much she yearnsto find solace in her long-gone mother’s lap
“Not safe to open the door They are coming ” Runa tells herself, crying and sniffing, that it’s from a benign source and not from the man who shot before
“We are your colleagues Shekhar, Raju, and Vikram Nothing will happen. Just open the door.” The same male voice, but in a much gentler tone.
Shaking violently, Runa reaches the door, halfconvinced that they are her colleagues and not people from the enemy territory.
Submissive to the influence of the voice, she finally opens the door Her brain reels from the accumulating experience ever since she stepped into that area, and she falls into a swoon When she regains consciousness, she finds herself being carried on a stretcher An ambulance is waiting at the gate of the guesthouse
She hears snippets of conversations going on among her colleagues standing in groups
“Poor thing, her father died in a bomb blast when she was only eight years old ”
“So many years have passed, but the trauma ”
“Shush Don’t say anything Runa will hear us ”
Runa doesn’t say a word; as to her, they seem to be speaking in a language she doesn’t recognize. She hears the distant growl of tanks and whirrs of engines, probably of fighter jets. When she looks up at the black firmament above, she sees the sky full of starry planes.
Sreelekha Chatterjee’s short stories have been published in various national, and international magazines and journals like Indian Periodical, Femina, Indian Short Fiction, eFiction India, The Criterion, The Literary Voyage, World of Words, Writer’s Ezine, and Estuary, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies such as Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series (Westland Ltd, India), Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), and several others She lives in New Delhi, India
You can connect with her on Facebook at facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1/,
Twitter -@sreelekha001, and Instagram @sreelekha2023.
