Monday, May 18, 2009
A few million frail hands outstretched skyward.
While some folded hands symbolize a prayer for an end to their ilk's misery,
the others send warning signals to their near and dear ones, to help them live this wretched life just a little longer.
"If we could tide over this for 26 years, we can definitely survive a few days more", say the mothers.
Ducking artillery and maneuvering mines, the innocent clasp each others' hands tightly and defy the cruel fate before them.
Pain and suffering are eerily omnipresent; but the near of it all is imminent.
Uncertainty looms its head large over the optimists, and the pessimists begin to see the light.
Hands that snatched babies away from cradles and conscripted them to a world of agony,
are now six feet under or charred beyond recognition.
Aged mothers, scarred inside and bruised outside,
stop beating their chests in despair and tend the survivors' wounds.
Erased forever from their minds are thoughts of ethnicity, native tongue and color of skin.
Reaching out for help, they tap the shoulders of the ever-smiling lion-hearted soldiers.
Triumphant troops, with hands that once stayed folded in the quest for peace but had to reluctantly shower bullets, now, lay down their ammunition and join hands with the mothers.
Hand in hand, they stand, make a smiling pact and take a vow to protect their motherland.