(1)
He was told his father was a soldier. He had grown up hearing how his father had died as a hero. Every day after school, he’d open up his toys-trunk and decorate the battlefield on his bed: two battalions fiercely facing each other and his father, the red-black soldier, triumphantly bringing down defeat to the enemy. Somehow, in his battlefield, his father never died.
“How does it matter even if o killed him? He’d be up again when a new battle starts tomorrow.”
Sometimes the thought reassured him, sometimes it depressed him but nevertheless, his Dad remained a hero. He wanted to be like him. He’d imagine himself ceaselessly firing bullets at the enemy, saving his motherland (and secretly, in a selfish section of his heart, revenging his father’s death). He’d be a proclaimed hero, only that he won’t die. He’d never leave his mother alone. Never again would she have to pawn utensils to arrange the next meal. He’d be strong and valiant-just like the heroes of his comic books; as strong as Superman. Then he’d imagine himself saving his beautiful lady from the vile villain and go red and shy.
(2)
Then, they came to his village. He had rushed to greet them. As their hands clapped, he had felt a sense of pride. This was the first step. Soon he’d know them all and live with them, live like them, learn to be a hero.
(3)
His uncle had gone to get some stationary for him and had never returned. Three days later, they heard he was suspected of having links with the evil, sinister people they heard of all the time. They called him a terrorist. That was a strange word for a man who was so mild; in fact, a bit too mild for his liking. He could never have pictured him with a gun
Five days later they found his body in the bushes. He was now worried about his mother. He had seen how ruthless they could be- the other day five of them were doing things with the puckish woman who lived at the end of the street. He was returning from school when he heard her screams. He felt so afraid that he couldn’t even gather enough courage to tell anyone about the incident. Not even his mother. The toys-trunk lay untouched for several months now.
Every night before he slept, he wished for super-powers and every morning he’d check if God had granted his wishes.
(4)
It was a breezy spring afternoon. He was playing with his friends when he heard about the troops that were coming to their village. He was so happy that he hadn’t cared about putting on his socks. Shoes unlaced, he had sprinted down the street, to their camp. He had smiled when they waved back. One of them had walked towards him and now as he saw himself clap the soldier’s hand, he realized he had been still smiling. That smile was an old thing now. As he zoomed the picture playing in his head, he saw a line. A thin line that ran right through where their hands had clapped. The line that separated two different worlds. The line that made him give up his dream to be a hero. To be a soldier.
