NOT JUST A BLUE SKY

Just a bright blue spot in a dark space, is what I thought planet Earth was in this vast expanse of what is called, the ‘Universe’. Now, it isn’t anymore in the eyes of a child who saw a live video of Earth from Space by NASA. And I was blown away, not by the calmness of the background score, not by how huge it is, but by the sight of a blue sphere smeared with white clouds, where almost eight billion hearts beat.

Longer I stare, longer I feel calm. A bundle of clouds floating away slowly resembles a flock of sheep chasing each other on a place filled with snow. By each passing second, by each passing dimension, is a new view which one can never forget. Of all the planets in this galaxy, of all the asteroids, meteors and whatever maybe out there, ours is the only world where there are people, filled with thoughts and emotions. A view from the space reminds those out there, if any, that this world is a peaceful place. This world is a place where the leaves rustle without any fear, where every human being love one another, where every organism ever found by the mankind is having a good warm day. But in truth, amidst all the calmness and kindness is a world of rage and hatred. And what do we fight for? To exist as the only human beings in the only planet where life sustains in this galaxy? Is anybody out there who would like to come and help us and make us believe that it is a beautiful world? As we shut our eyes, we see darkness but we believe it is the light that holds us together. Only when we open our eyes will we ever realise there is nothing to fight for, but only to love each other, being kind to one another.

Eight billion hearts beat every second in this world, few with fear and few with happiness. In a world where everything is meant to be brighter, why welcome the fear when we can wipe it away with a brave smile on the face? Breathe everyone, and fight all the negative instincts. 

SEVENTY YEARS 

The first day I saw all the medals arranged neatly on the mahogany shelf, I wondered whose they were. The hometown was distant and a myth for my little brain, but the sight of it lulled me into a land of wild imaginations. The stories that died here, the smallest mischief, the greatest mishaps. The mightiest man in the village with the thickest moustache had a story to tell. It was the glory of the hometown. It was the story, always.

The only trophies I had earned was lip-syncing to a group song; stand aside a dance group, shyly shaking my hands and legs while others committed to it. Looking at it even know after lord knows how long brings the largest brightest smile on  my face, thinking about the things that had to be done to win as much trophies as there were in the mahogany shelf.

“It was your Grandpa’s,” my mother told me that day, putting her hand on the hopeful son. “He fought for our country’s freedom a long time ago.”

Before that day, my dream was to become a truck driver; but that day set off a new path. What he earned was to be kept safe, to be never let go of. In his album, he looked sharp in his uniform, the upper part of his lips lonely and his head shaved off like a barren land. In his eyes, a light that set me free; in his posture, a dream set to motion. From that day, playing shooting games turned from a hobby to a passion; solving puzzles turned from a dead game to the top of the list.

Now, the train is moving many miles per hour. Each passing tree reminds me of the days I never spent in my home, in my room. Then I see the smile on people’s face, the calmness reflected on their face. Their days rejoiced with happiness, freedom and of course, a story. “Remember the time...” said one, while another said, “I miss being in...” For all I knew, what I missed was home, where a soldier was born.

The train halts at a station, and soon enough kids rush by the window holding the plastic cut-outs of national flag. The new born ones are attracted to the orange, white and green sections with a blue wheel at the center, while those who learnt about the struggles and sacrifices hush them away while muttering about their disturbance. The siren howls again, and the little men run back to their positions like trained soldiers, waiting for the next train to approach; waiting for the next batch to hush them away.

I divert my eyes from them and to the fellow passengers, the ones holding their smartphones upright to their face. Their eyes reflect the colour of the nation’s flag, and I realise, they are forwarding their wishes to their friends by means of social media.