Fire cascaded from the sky! The shrieking of the objects falling from above was like the wailing of banshees. The inky darkness of the night allowed the sweeping long tails of red and orange plumes to be visible. It fascinated little Mariam, but her mother was terrified. She called all her children to rush to the shelters. “C’mon, hurry up! The devils are coming, hurry up!” she shouted and pleaded at the same time. Mariam, the youngest ran after her mother, into the shelter. “Mom? I forgot to bring my bag! I will just get it!” she cried in despair.
“No! No! Stay right where you are.”
But Mariam had vanished. She did not hear her Mother’s curt instructions.
Running towards her home, she was suddenly flung back, before being dropped like refuse, in the street. “BOOM!” The deafening noise drowned every other sound. Her leg hurt and her head throbbed.
The bag!
She tried to get up… but couldn’t. The pain seared through her right leg! She screamed, terrified, “Mom!” The cold breeze blew, carrying her sobs with it. Fear settled slowly in her heart.
***
“Someone may be needing me,” Anastasya thought, as she pulled her threadbare shawl closer and walked into the streets. The planes had come again, bombing her town, rather what remained of it. Taking her walking stick; her companion, her extra limb, she hobbled outside. She could see the town in flames, rubble and ruin of once beautiful homes, stood like ghosts. Shattered glass, uprooted trees, broken cars, grieving in shadows, listened to the sobs and cries of its people, whom none could save.
That’s when she saw the girl. So young. What was she doing outside?
Gently she asked, “Let me see…”The gentle voice, the calmness of the person had a strange effect.
“Are you an angel?” asked Mariam.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Laughed the old woman. “Whatever made you say that?”
“Am I dead?”
“No! You have got hurt… I will get some one or something to help. OK?”
Anastasya used to be beautiful, once upon a time. Some still thought she was. The wrinkles on her face were the umpteen years she had been kissed by the wind, on the mountains, her home. The fine golden hair had lost its sheen, working in the fields, growing golden grains. The knobby gnarled hands, had never seen a moment’s rest. She did not have any children, even though she had a couple of husbands.
Ever since the war began, her farm, her town and her home had been destroyed. Shredded to bits. From tending cattle, she now tended humans. Specially the helpless ones. “God, have you created me to see this, which no one should?” she would ask at the end of her prayers.
***
In that moment when the world turns from darkness to light… when the sun rises, the sky rejoices. The inky blue is replaced with pink, lilac and golden hues, welcoming the new day. The little girl whimpered in pain as she lay on the street amidst shattered glass and ruins of her neighbourhood. Calling out; “Mom… mom…” from time to time.
“There! You need to fix her leg!” Anastasya said.
“You will be fine, Dear! What’s your name?” she spoke, comfortingly.
“Miriam!” “And yours?”
“I am Anastasya!” she smiled as she gave Miriam some water.
The young man alongside, had already set to work, fixing the wound. “It’s a nasty cut but luckily nothing broken,” he said warmly. They helped her up and got her to sit on some broken stuff.
“Ana if that’s all, I will get back to the hospital,” said the young man.
“I want my mom!” whispered the little girl, trying not to cry.
“We will wait for her here. She will come soon,” assured the old lady, but fearing the worst.
Time has a habit of standing still, when you want it to fly. That day, it hovered over the two. The sun reached the zenith.
“I am hungry Ana!” murmured the girl, trying not to wince. She blinked her tears away.
“Let me get some bread!” Anastasya said in her calm voice.
As she hurried down the street, she saw a woman lying on the street, blood had oozed and dried down her back. She turned her around, to help. The striking resemblance to Miriam, confirmed her worst fears. She had seen what she had not wished to. Quickening her pace to the baker, she got him to part with some of the old loaves and hobbled quickly back to the little girl. Handing her the stale bread she patted her head, “Where’s your father?”
“ He ,” she said gobbling big bites of the dry, stale bread, “went to war”. Even the tough, chewiness, was delightful.
“I will just be back, you finish your bread,” informed Anastasya.
The aroma of food, even stale bread, in a land where there is none, can be Heavenly. A mangy mongrel smelt it. It came and sat down close. Growling, deep in its throat, with eyes only on the food. It pounced on the helpless child and snatched the bread away. The child who had been holding all her pain and grief till then wailed mournfully, snatching it back, shouting, “No! No!” through a torrent of tears.
Anastasya waved her stick menacingly, as she hobbled back to shoo the dog away.
Pic: Image by Brigitte Werner from Pixabay
