The war was over. The rebels now owned this powerful house. He was guarding the present of these ex-rebels against their past. He remained ignorant of this change of guard. Like rest of his friends in the camp, he also did not give a damn to what he was doing and why he was doing. It was not his business to question.
He was executing orders with utmost discipline. He did not nourish questions. He had lost all his reasoning power to the yelling of his trainer when he joined the prestigious His Majesty’s cavalry. While he was obeying the orders with unflinching monotony, His Majesty was dethroned. Before he could realize it and make plans to go to His Highness’ rescue, his ownership was transferred to other majesties. Now he has many. And when you have many you have equal chances of being loved by all or not at all. His case was the latter one.
He did not care about that. He had gambled his life for his family and later added nation as the main recipient of his sacrifices. The glory of a soldierreplete with patriotism, the gloriously recorded valor of Gurkhas fight with the Enlish, were contributing factor in making him a soldier. He loved the lahurey lok dohoris on radio stations, which always told lahurenis to take care of their house while they guarded the nation against enemies. He was inspired by the tears of the Lahureni in lok dohori albums that she would shed while cutting grasses in the meadows and look in the distant for his arrival.
Birey held that pride and that rhetoric to his disposal whenever his wife called him home. He has always used it to pacify her emotional and carnal desires. Patriotism has always assisted in sabotaging his wife’s personal desire. Desire to share herself with him.
Ten years down the road, Sani also has resigned to her fate. All of her lahureni peers also sleep alone with their families and follow the unspoken and proud tradition of lahurey families.
Every night she slept in sweet memories of that rendezvous that they had when he was at her service for a week, the last summer. Even after an year, even after being washed numerous times, and tanned by the sun for an equal number of times, the bed sheet still held the fragrance and warmth of those encounters. It would make her go insane every night when she lied flat on it and stare at the wood and mud floor above her, in the dim light of the kerosene wig lamp.
The fragrance would fuel her desires and burn her more than the kerosene burned the wig. Kerosene emitted black fumes from the flame, but her desires did not ventilate any fumes. The flames annihilated her, without emitting anything. Her fist would end up clinching the bed sheet and her sighs would heat up the room, but still he would not come there in bones and flesh. His long-recorded presence would ignite desires and cravings every night, but would leave her to herself after setting her and the room on fire.
Time is great healer. But for her it had not compensated the lack. How could it? For every now and than, her loneliness foiled her efforts to overcome the longing to be in his arms. At the end of every night’s mental, physical and emotional fight, she would come to terms of her incapability to change fate. It would disarm her and put to sleep. Sleep did not heal her wounds that turned grey each night. It helped her in brushing aside their pain momentarily. Like alcohol, it helped her in forgetting the pain rather than healing the wound.
While he continued to be at the service of their majesties, she continues to be at the service of his memories. She clings on the hope that one day he would be solely with her in bones and flesh. A day will come when they would serve each other. Only each other.
She continues to wait, even now when he is heading to the sentry pier feeling fresh for yet another eight hour vigilance.
— Edited- 10 am- 17 Oct, 2013—