M T Muanding Guite
The wrist-watch was a token of remembrance of the time of peace
Not far up to the west of Churachandpur town, one can clearly see a tapering iron frame in the distance. Beneath the side of that high-rising tower is a residential school, flanked on either sides by a government tourist lodge and a CRPF camp. Once conceived by the late Rajiv Gandhi, it saw the light of day in his late grand-father's honour, namely Jawahar Navodya Vidyalaya, during the mid-1980s.
My brother has been studying there for five years until the virus of ethnic violence infected their vicinity. Since I left him for further studies in Delhi, we got in touch with each other through letters, rather irregular due to postal delays. Everytime he wrote me a letter, it is wrapped inside my Dad's, sometimes I received it along with that of my mother's and sister's. It was always his letter that I read last for its emotional and inspirational contents. I know I have to spare some time to ponder over it.
One such letter he wrote on the 14th December, 1997 arrived exactly a month later. I scanned it through and kept it aside, then I went to deliver a reply to the letter my brother wrote. Nine days passed, as I opened and went through it again I came across the most heart-wrenching letter of my life: "Dear brother," it read, "I have to stay at home along with the Family and may never return to enjoy my hostel life again. A few days ago, our local elders escorted us home. I assume they perceived some untoward incident might occur, since one of our schoolmates was killed in the town bare 20-minute walk from our school. But inside the campus we are safe. Our classmates, belonging to the other warring tribe gave us each every assurance for our safety, even to the extent of lying down their lives first.
"Dear brother," he continued, "for some truants it might be a day of joy and freedom from school. But for me, it was the saddest day of my life. As I packed up to leave, my tears came rolling down. A close friend of mine was beside me. He belonged to the other feuding tribe. He was my best friend and he could easily discern my sentiment. Before I left, I gifted him the wrist-watch on my hand as a token of remembrance-a small gift to a great friend. What do you think?" I could hardly finish the last lines as tears of joy and pride came gushing down my cheeks. I glanced at my watch, it was two in the afternoon.
My prompt reply was, "Bawi (My dear brother), you did great. I am so proud of you. I broke down and cried as I read your letter. You are the first to bring happy tears to my eyes." I could always hide my feelings under a smile, but at that moment only tears of joy could stop my emotion. "Now I am writing from home," I continued reading the letter, "but the memories of my friends at school still linger in my mind. I may be more secure here. But I value the times I spent, the food I shared, the games I played, the jokes I cracked and the nights I dreamt together with my friends are much more precious than what I become of now. I can still hear the shrieking in pain of the girl students. I also shed tears as we parted ways. I'd love to stay back very much. But I know I should not cross the line of teachers.'
Life in that school, I know, was peaceful and calm for I had also been a resident there for more than two years. Anyone can make fast friends, and the pangs of separation that befell these students will ever remain fresh in their minds.
Must the young suffer too? Can anyone guarantee that these, and the many more displaced students will ever hold their pens and pencils again? Who is responsible for the mess? The government? Apparently not, for they must have taken enough measures to contain the clash, at least in their own yardstick. Are the bureaucrats and politicians to be blamed? Definitely not, for peace agreements can only be signed at conference tables.
If we ever lost faith in the firm resolutions of these budding youngsters, aren't we a total failure? Perhaps not, for in everyone's heart there is a soft corner. I wish the inner voice speaks to each and everyone's heart. to restore peace and harmony again. I have a firm convinction that if either of the warring tribes tries to remotely do what my brother did with his most-prized possession - gifting away a wrist-watch - the severity of the ethnic war could be much lessened, let alone stop it.
Now I am scared to see the mangled remains of many parts of my hometown being levelled to the ground. I am still haunted, like every living person in the town, by the fear of being hit by a stray bullet. But I believe someone, somewhere in their midst will find the time to look at the small wrist-watch, my brother's gift, anticipating the end of war. Then I can go home peacefully to meet my brother and discuss our ambitions as we usually did during our stay at home. Or, will that watch ever last that long to see the dawn of peace?
Hans Raj College,
Delhi University
Source: CAMPUS CALLING, North East SUN March 15-31 1998 VOL 3 NO. 16
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| North East SUN March 15-31 1998 VOL 3 NO. 16 |
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