December bandages my oozing wounds with frost
I lay awake in the trench to protect your deep slumber
It's filth dampen my clothes not my heart
As I write this, my heart wanders
My son perhaps longs for my warmth
My wife perhaps gets tired of cooking stories for him
Tell them, I live for them but I breathe for my motherland
The tricolour flying high washes every pain
Either I would let my tricolour fly high or return engulfed in its bosom
Tell my son if his father fails to make home,
He would return everytime the tricolour is held high.
Ask him to not lament but be proud,
To not shed a tear but keep his head high
For he had left as a father to be a son of his country
And soldiers don't die, they live in hearts.
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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