she looked......
She looked out of the window. Sleet and rain. Rain and sleet. That’s all she saw. What would she not give to see something other than the gray sky? Earlier she would have thought it an omen; an indicator of the journey ahead but would have rubbished it in the same breath. Omens and signs, what century was she in?
But this journey was now proving the possible existence of curses and bad luck. It was cursed from the beginning; everyone who learned of it told her not to go through with it. Was she crazy?
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t be foolish please, it’s very risky!”
“Why do you want to do this?”
For the last two months, that was all she had heard, day and night.
But the young are often brave and the brave are almost always foolish. It was a truth universally refuted which gave it all the more credit. She too was young and brave; maybe not foolish but foolhardy definitely. There was a carefree approach to one’s life bordering on the insane.
‘Why is my life important? I have no husband, no children, no money.’
So she got on the train to Kabul. Kabul, Afghanistan, war ravaged, city of the dead. The smell of acrid smoke mixed with that of decaying flesh gave it a flavor it could never hope to lose. Every pore in one’s skin had that smell. You could scrub all you want, take bath after bath, it wouldn’t go. And she had learnt that the hard way.
Two months in Kabul on an assignment had given her nightmares for life. She couldn’t forget the streets there, with huge moon-sized craters in middle. She couldn’t forget the buildings, crumbling away, exposed for the world to see inside. She could never the people, now more like animals, living in a primeval state. Hunting for food, eyes bloodshot and wary, always moving, always darting, looking for danger. Their bodies once fair, now blackened by smoke; rail-thin, their ribs showing, bones covered by skin with a thin layer of muscle in between.
The world prides itself on its humanity. Its ability to feel the pain of those in Afghanistan, they were humane so they would tell the whole world of their suffering. They were humane, so instead of aid they would send television crews and eager cub reporters. They were humane so they would film young boys watch their father getting shot. Film that instant recoil as if te bullet had hit the child instead, film the change of emotions on his face, from disbelief to anger to resignation in a matter of seconds. After all he had just seen his mother being shot and was yet to witness his uncle, his brother, his grandparents.
She was sent on a fool’s errand too. Told by her seniors that she would change the world; or at least make a start. She went with a television crew, she filmed that boy, she saw him recoil. She filmed him witnessing his uncle, his brother, his grandparents getting shot and then she filmed him. She saw him recoil for the final time as the bullet went through him. She saw his face go emotionless as he slumped to the ground, the life draining out of him. That was her last shoot; she left, intending to be rid of the nightmares once she left the place which gave them to her. But they didn’t. The smell didn’t go and the nightmares didn’t cease. So she was going back, for the last time, to wait for death. To help those there if she could, help them escape that fate if possible. But she would wait for that fate for herself.
But this journey was now proving the possible existence of curses and bad luck. It was cursed from the beginning; everyone who learned of it told her not to go through with it. Was she crazy?
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t be foolish please, it’s very risky!”
“Why do you want to do this?”
For the last two months, that was all she had heard, day and night.
But the young are often brave and the brave are almost always foolish. It was a truth universally refuted which gave it all the more credit. She too was young and brave; maybe not foolish but foolhardy definitely. There was a carefree approach to one’s life bordering on the insane.
‘Why is my life important? I have no husband, no children, no money.’
So she got on the train to Kabul. Kabul, Afghanistan, war ravaged, city of the dead. The smell of acrid smoke mixed with that of decaying flesh gave it a flavor it could never hope to lose. Every pore in one’s skin had that smell. You could scrub all you want, take bath after bath, it wouldn’t go. And she had learnt that the hard way.
Two months in Kabul on an assignment had given her nightmares for life. She couldn’t forget the streets there, with huge moon-sized craters in middle. She couldn’t forget the buildings, crumbling away, exposed for the world to see inside. She could never the people, now more like animals, living in a primeval state. Hunting for food, eyes bloodshot and wary, always moving, always darting, looking for danger. Their bodies once fair, now blackened by smoke; rail-thin, their ribs showing, bones covered by skin with a thin layer of muscle in between.
The world prides itself on its humanity. Its ability to feel the pain of those in Afghanistan, they were humane so they would tell the whole world of their suffering. They were humane, so instead of aid they would send television crews and eager cub reporters. They were humane so they would film young boys watch their father getting shot. Film that instant recoil as if te bullet had hit the child instead, film the change of emotions on his face, from disbelief to anger to resignation in a matter of seconds. After all he had just seen his mother being shot and was yet to witness his uncle, his brother, his grandparents.
She was sent on a fool’s errand too. Told by her seniors that she would change the world; or at least make a start. She went with a television crew, she filmed that boy, she saw him recoil. She filmed him witnessing his uncle, his brother, his grandparents getting shot and then she filmed him. She saw him recoil for the final time as the bullet went through him. She saw his face go emotionless as he slumped to the ground, the life draining out of him. That was her last shoot; she left, intending to be rid of the nightmares once she left the place which gave them to her. But they didn’t. The smell didn’t go and the nightmares didn’t cease. So she was going back, for the last time, to wait for death. To help those there if she could, help them escape that fate if possible. But she would wait for that fate for herself.
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pearls of wisdom