“I wanna be an airborne ranger,
Live the life of guts and danger.
Airborne ranger,
Life of danger.
I wanna be a scuba diver,
Swim around in the muddy water.
Scuba diver, muddy water.
Airborne ranger, life of danger.”
Planting a sapling in my garden, I reminisced my older days. For a soldier, a cadence is like a movie projector. An 8mm reel running through the camera exposing my memories, switching to the other side and laying me bare in my ordeals. Now I can just plant saplings rather than mines.
I came inside and washed my hands off the dirt. I opened the door of my closet and there she was. Tall and elegant, standing remotely without impetus. M1903 Springfield, my very own rifle. I didn’t have the real cartridges now, except the dummy ones used to accustom a soldier to a rifle. Sitting knee deep in those muddy trenches, with one eye on the enemy’s move and the other on the bleeding cut on my comrade’s leg. The grubbiness and mushiness of the trench was due to the blood lost during yesterday’s siege. Before I slipped into the echoes of assault fires, I was jolted back by the sharp edge of the bayonet. A drop of blood. Taking a wet cloth, I started to clean the bore of my rifle. Are wars really fought today? Wiping the dust of the grooves, I wondered when was the last time this bolt action rifle had been fired. Wars are to be fought, not be talked through. Our world has seen the rise of great orators, speaking gallantly about courage and reforms. Wars do need orators, but more importantly commanders. I see young soldiers with their proud uniforms and disciplined judgement protecting our country from perils. But they don’t have my Springfield, they have much less potent, silent weapon- diplomacy. A boy learns manhood and camaraderie in training, just to be a silent spectator during treacherous times. We had cadences and songs, do these boys have songs for diplomacy? I still remember how I failed to adjust my rifle’s rear sight leaf and missed out on a killing. That sense of failure, the trepidation of shooting a man, the trembling during adjustment of the aim and the sight of blood gushing out of arteries. War is not violence, it is a struggle for peace. Do you expect that a hundred years from now, history textbooks will educate students about diplomatic talks and wars fought? Sorry, “averted wars.”
Putting my rifle back, I sat on my rocking chair, listening to Comptine d’Un Autre Ètè. The soft keys of piano and the hard, raucous hands of a war veteran. The symphony by the pianist and the war tales. Letters of love. You may achieve supremacy by diplomacy, but it won’t be a legacy.
karanvankani 