For the one last time

It have being callous not to write about it. But what to write about, Dantewada represented all what is wrong with India's security apparatus. The 'MASSACRE' of 76 Jawans is the grim reminder of fact that the nation is still not united and there is still a fire in the belly. But I am more or less appalled with the general reaction of blogging community, who failed to mention it. When bomb exploded at the Bangalore stadium, we sprang into action writing pieces, when Pune happened we where shattered, but why on earth our reaction is so different when it comes to massacre in Dantewada, Silda or Orissa. Why are we such callous about maoist violence. Just because it doesn't affects us directly or it is just not glamorous. In this incident of Dantewada I have seen many news pieces but not a good reaction of city slickers. We are too busy with IPL tamasha.

Now, after this short but true lecture, I present the poem I wrote about the slain Jawans, not the only ones who died at Dantewada, but the one at Silda, Orissa, J&K and any other part of the country fighting the insurgents. It is the least I can do.

For the one last time

For the one last time

Her cell-phone rang

“Take care of kids” he said

And the line went dead.

For the one last time

He unlocked his gun

Aiming for the target

Bullets have him overrun

For the one last time

He prayed to god

He thought of his loved one’s

Till a bullet stuck his jaw

For the one last time

He took a deep breath

Taking cover under a tree

Landmine tore his leg

For the one last time

He took an aim

Killing a few

Then he was slain

For the one last time

He hurled the grenade

The usual thud

Then he found six coming

For the one last time

He took her picture out

Holding it to his heart

Falling! His hand held it tight

For the one last time

He feared for his life

Firing at all direction

One got is balls out

For the one last time

His life went through his eyes

Childhood, youth, manhood

Laid there, in blood

For the one last time

He wished to live

Amongst the dead

He gathered his ‘tines

For the one last time

He gathered his dreams

He wanted to be an artist

Battlefield became his sheet

For the one last time

He wept to live

The battlefield’s sympathy

Bullet through his brain

For the one last time

He waited for death

Miles away from home

His brothers made him bled

For the one last time

He saw his blood

Nothing was different

Between their flag and his blood

For the one last time

He blew the whistle

The final attack

Bayonets on barrel

For the one last time

They called for help

And nobody came

Laying their bodies to rest

For the one last time

The class war claim

The lives of poor

Whom the class represents

For the one last time

They came back home

Draped in flag, packed in coffin

The dead were somber

For the one last time

Their widows cried

The future was bleak

The promises hollow

For the one last time

They were criticized

For their tactics and strategy

Their sacrifice unnoticed

For the one last time

The Nation outrage

The dust settled

On wilderness came IPL

For the one last time

They turned in grave

Asking for the vengeance

Crying on decadence.

© Tarun Mitra