A sad poem, a declaration by a soldier, was passed around on social media. A soldier relinquishing his worldly attachments and treasures , leaving it behind for family and friends, as he walks towards the battlefield, a field that holds his destiny.
He carries his earthly belongings in a knapsack, and the tool of his trade his rifle, as he readies to face the enemy.,an unknown man on the other side . He steps out with a prayer on his lips, with thoughts of his loved ones back home , of shattered dreams, his heart overflowing with emotions that cannot be dammed even by the line of control.
His eyes, the windows to his soul are bleak, as he waits terrified at the prospect of killing, of taking a life, which he was taught was a sin , or of being killed by a stray bullet, never more to enjoy the life which he knew as a sacred gift . The thought of sacrificing his life, or that of the innocent many, for the glory of his country had just lost its appeal .
Standing alone, in a trench so far from home, he looks at his companions on either side of him, some familiar faces, brothers in arms, some just strangers in uniform. Driven by a sense for survival he is galvanised into action, shooting to kill, though he had never in his life taken another’s life . As he surveyed the battlefield, all he saw was death and destruction. A terrible sense of dread and futility, washed over him .
Advancing forward, pushing the enemy line back, he knew his side was winning, but there was no elation, there was no cheer, no one to raise a cry of victory. There were men still dropping , victims of bullets from unknown enemies desperate to kill the other, rather than be killed. And if he survived, battle scarred and battered, he would return home, to be welcomed, not with pomp and show, but by his relieved family and friends.
Then there was another battlefield, a stadium filled with excited fans . Fans from far and wide come to watch their favourite team, play their favourite game, cricket . The sound of the ball striking the bat, lifting off to fly high, drew roars from the thick crowds, as they watched the slow progress of the game . The players considered heroes, adored by the multitude, their names on every lip, dazzled the spectators with dizzying swings of their bat .
The crowd shrieked with joy at each scored run or cried in woe at each ball drop, there were screaming highs or saddened lows, as the match progressed, soon to approach its finish. When finally the game was over, the winners were awarded the cup, as the stadium rocked with thunderous applause and cheering, the fans back home were in a fever of jubilation and celebration .
Then came the announcement on the following day of a felicitation arranged for the players at the team’s hometown stadium. There was no stopping the excitement that swept the city, tickets were sold and the afternoon took on the air of much festivities. The fans gathered, men women and children alike, to capture spots that would afford the best visual of the victory parade .
Oh, but what a crowd that was, growing like a tsunami, with multitudes flowing onto the street, people climbing over one another, over the walls and the fences to catch a glimpse of their favourite heroes . Needless to add, the crowd was soon out of control, turning the event into a stampede. What followed was a tragedy,with people wounded and dying . A welcome party, a felicitation, soon turned into the worst calamity.
The irony was not lost on many. A soldier, going to battle, willing to lay down his life for the safety of his countrymen, receives not the welcome of pomp and grandeur on his victorious return but the cricket players are welcomed as heroes , in a manner fit for kings and unfortunately on this occasion, at the cost of the lives of their fans, the very lives the soldiers had fought to protect.
Mary Jacob 