Everyone was going into the house but I was coming out. I needed to be out. Out there. I remembered that my mother always used to say to stay indoors. And I almost always obeyed. But now for the last ten years, there is no one I need to obey. I am my master and my slave.

Suddenly with the blast something flew over my head. And for a minute the world was mute to me. The din of the explosion followed by sixty seconds of mourning in silence. Those sixty seconds were the happiest moments for me in the first blitz. Ten years ago.

I crossed the almost deserted street. There were only a few people running hither thither to save themselves – to save themselves from the air raid. But for me. I went past the ruin of the ffirst blitz and sat on the nearby bench under the tree.

Ten years ago I was a kid and had gone to see it. It had flown over my head and I knew where it had fallen. I saw. It was an arm – just like mine, except for the yellow wristband smeared with blood. I turned my face away from it. I ran away from it. After the blast the house was on fire. Fire – towering, engulfing, smothering, cracking, burning – devouring the house. I was standing at the garden-gate and looking at the fire raging round the house. Near my feet there was a photo album. Soft embers were creeping on its borders. I put my boot on it and suffocated it until it died. Buit I dare not open the album. Who knows how many more butchered arms I might see there. I gazed at the blaze when someone touched me at the back at the back and said, "Aye you! The school bus didn’t leave you here to stand. Go. Run home fast." He pushed me in the direction of my house and vanished in the wilderness of a blitzed city. And I still stood there looking at the blaze.

While sitting on the bench and waiting I took out the photograph from my pocket and began to gaze at it. That’s her father. That’s her mother. That’s she. I don’t know her name. And that’s her ten-years-old brother. A family that was, ten years ago.

A ten-year-old boy standing in the street and gazing at the bombed house during an air-raid aroused the apprension of not one but many. So when one of them strongly reprimanded me to go home I went and hid behind a tree. There no one will be able to see me but I will be able to see the burning house. Suddenly it seemed that everyone was aware of the war, except for me. Everyone knew about the blitz, except for me. Everyone was ready to meet the peril of this man-made disaster, except for me. I don’t know how long I gazed at the blaze but when I turned my face away from it the fire had got smothered in the ashes. So I turned away from it and saw people still running hither-thither except for a girl, hardly twenty, who was walking slowly and gazing there where I had been gazing a few moments ago. I came out of my hiding, stood near the garden-gate and gazed where she held her stunned gaze. She came; pushed me aside; opened the garden-gate and went in. It was then that my mother came and dragged me home. That house became, forever, the ruin of the first blitz.

As I heard the first explosion, I folded the photograph, put it in my pocket and rushed towards the direction of the inferno. The house was blown into pieces except for its anterior portion on the left. There wasn’t any raging fire even though the lawn was fuming. No human casualty. Everyone safe in the cellar.

The school was closed after that. So there was no way to get out. Only sometimes when my mother was asleep I stealthily went to the terrace. I got the chance only in the afternoon. That day in the afternoon I was on the terrace. I could see the burned house I could see the girl. She was sitting near the garden-gate with the album on her lapand her head in her hands. Contemplating. Meditating. Overcoming. She stood up, kept the album where it had been and went in the house. And I could still see her. I had heard from my mother that the planes pelted bombs from the sky. I had thought of an idea to save myself from those bombs. I intended to catch them and throw them back at the plane. Though I knew it will not reach the plane, but I’ll be safe. Only the one that I had heard of which destroyed full cities, the Atom Bomb, will be too big to be caught. That was the only danger, otherwise I was fearless.

That was how I used to think ten years ago. Now I know that even a splinter from a stray bomb can kill me. Still I am fearless. I enquired at the cellar. Really no human casualty. All was well. I came awayfrom the spot, back to the bench where I had been sitting. Someone touched me at the back and said, "Rush home." Everyone was in a hurry – just as they were in the first blitz. I went and sat on the bench facing the ruin of the first blitz.

I saw her coming out of the smouldering heap – her house. I saw her falling on her chest in the garden. Her face facing the grey grass. She lay there motionless. She only shivered along with my mother and me when the planes started carpet bombing a mile or two away. I shivered because I had no idea what I would do if they start carpet bombing my head. Still I stood on the terrace alone. Looking at her. My mother came up and began to drag me down. I pointed towards the girl lying still. She dragged me down and said, "Don’t look there!" She might have thought have thought that the girl was dead. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t dead. She was just lying there, still. She was motionless for she was exhausted of the tragedy. She needed to imitate death for the time being to live. And she will live.

Often in peace I sat on this bench but today I was sitting on it during war. I began to curse myself for not asking her name. Why didn’t I ask her name? At least I would have known her name. I would have called her name in the ruins. Even though not expecting to get an answer, I would have still called out. Her name.

I went out with my mother the next morning to buy some necessaries, even though bombing was still going on in the outskirts. While she stood in the queue, I went in through that garden-gate. The girl was still lying there, face down. Hearing the slightest sound that I made she raised her head and looked at me. Her eyes were red. I was sure that she didn’t sleep the whole night. I retreated hurriedly from there and stood near the garden-gate,. She came towards me, knelt, held me tightly and kissed me on the mouth. As she released me I saw the redness of her eyes flooding. She left me and I left her there. With my mother I came home. I didn’t say anything to her. Neither she did. Her grip was tight. Her skin was pale. Her mouth was dry. Her eyes were red and her namewas … I didn’t ask her name.

So now I was sitting on the, alone, and waiting. I can already hear the screeching of the planes in the distance. The first blitz that this city experienced, ten years ago, had lasted for three days. And it was on the third day that the planes had sterted carpet bombing. But now even though I hear the roaring of innumerable planes in the distance, it is only my wild guess that they will start carpet bombing. So I rest assured.

I n the afternoon again I was on the terrace. I saw her rummaging through the debris of her house. She also saw me. And, though from the distance I couldn’t quite make out clearly, I think she smiled. I also smiled. This time I saw that below her right knee her bell-bottom pants was torn. There was also a reddish scratch on her left arm and she had, unawares, marked her cheeks with ashes. But she was that same girl in all her turbidity. She had spirit of survival. The black smear on her cheeks showed her attempts at mending the ravages of war. She should not clean them. She need not clean them.

Suddenly the din of the planes began to grow louder and louder. I looked overhead. It was still clear. I was no longer resting assured. I had already experienced one carpet bombing ten years ago and the present developments were indicative enough of another. But I was still sitting on the bench and waitng.

It was the third day of the blitz. And for the first time I disobeyed my mother. I went out – out to the garden-gate. She was not there. I picked up the album and slowly opened it. I saw her; her father, her mother, and her ten-years-old brother. I took it out, folded it and pocketed it. And as I turned my head I saw her. I saw her walking down the street. Her cheeks still had those black marks. Going away with a street-smart guy. Away from her home – the ruin of the first blitz.

They have started carpet bombing.

And I heard the explosion. My house was bombed. They blasted off my house. I threw the album and stood up. I had already lost sight of her. I ran and crossed the almost deserted street. I went and sat on the nearby bench under the tree. The planes went zooming over my head. Carpet bombing. I was sitting on the bench alone and fearless. My wild guess came true. This time they have started carpet bombing on the first day of the blitz. That was the last time I saw her. And now I was sitting on the bench and waiting.

Waiting, either for my head to be bombed off or for her to return. Waiting.

I didn’t ask her name.

Waiting.

Carpet bombing.

Her dry mouth.

The smear on her cheeks.

Waiting.

Copyright: Amit Shankar Saha. (1997)