Friends Through War - another original story

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

Okay, this is another one of my original stories - one I started writing about eighteen months ago. Again - I'm hoping that by posting it here, I'll get the motivation to finish it!

***

Prologue

2nd January 2000.

I left Kashmir in 1947, when I was seventeen. I left my friends, my school, everyone. Trouble had been brewing in the region for some time and my parents felt that leaving was the only safe option for us. I wasn’t happy, but I knew, deep down, that they were right in the long term. We hardly bothered with packing, just left immediately.

I hardly had a chance to say goodbye to my friends. I didn’t have many as a child, but those that I had were the best friends I could ask for. Especially Murali; he had always been everything I could ask for in a friend, and more. We had lived side by side since we were children and had practically been confidents for each other for ten years. I thought then that leaving him would be the hardest thing I would ever have to do.

But I was wrong. Fifty-two years later, I returned. Not to the community where we had been raised and grown up together. No, I returned to a refugee camp where Murali and his family had been living for the past ten years. I will never forget the sight; he was lying on a flat hard mattress – I wondered if it was made of stone – with one blanket as fine as a sheet of glass. I knew as soon as I saw him that he was dying.

He was surrounded by his children and grandchildren when I arrived. When he saw me, he was shocked at first. I wondered if I should leave, but then he smiled. When he spoke, his voice was like parchment, but his words were clear:

“I’m glad you’re here, Sachin – at least I can see you, for one last time.”

He knew that he was dying.

I realise that it was horribly insensitive, but I had to ask – why had he never written to me until now after all that we had been through? He didn’t speak, but directed me to a single drawer, telling me to look inside after he was gone.

And then…he gave me one last smile and closed his eyes.

I opened the drawer and found the letters. I didn’t ask why they were never sent; I realised that I had no need to ask. Because then, I saw a man, almost as haggard as Murali, entering. I knew him immediately – it was Aditya, glaring at me with contempt.

We never did see eye to eye, but Murali’s daughter stopped us from doing something we may have regretted. What was in the past, she said, had to stay in the past.

I don’t know what made me do what I did then. I opened my case and took out a box. Inside were all the letters that I had written to Murali ever since I had left him. I showed them to Aditya and told him that I wished that I had sent them.

He looked at me and said something that I will never forget:

“Don’t ever forget your friend, Sachin.” And then he left. But when he spoke those words, I knew exactly what I had to do.

I had to tell our story. If I was to allow my dearest friend’s memory to live, even if it was just inside me, I had to tell our story through the letters.

This is the story of two friends, separated by war.

[Meef]

If you leave me hanging I swear I will haunt you! I'm so excited about another original fic from you
Ash! Please, please (with I had blinking kitten here) continue! big water balloon :hugs: for you!

[nightowl]

I second Aimee's comment.

We will follow you around the earth looking for the rest!

:beg:

You write such amazingly vivid stories - but you know that, don't you???

[Meef]

The Cult of Ash, nice wring to it. I'm thinking statues, maybe a temple or two and lots of slave boys. Maybe they all look like Ianto,John and Nick! Feast twice a year, no make that four. It would be a better number that way. Lots of food and songs written to the Glory that is Ash. Elaine are you in.

*Bows at the feet at one of the best writers she knows* And you know I mean it my dearest friend.

[nightowl]

That idea sounds like an original fan fic in itself, Aimee. I think you need to write that one down - if only so we can keep the four festival holidays straight.

:grin:

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

*Bows at the feet at one of the best writers she knows* And you know I mean it my dearest friend.

Yes, I do know you mean it. :hugs: And boy, does that scare me! I've got a reputation! :nerves2:

***

Part One

17th August, 1947.

Dear Sachin,

It feels like days already since you left, when in reality, it has only been a few hours. I don’t think you’ll have crossed the border yet, but then again, you know how my geography is. I don’t think we’ll ever forget the time I managed to get myself lost walking down a street. At any rate, you’ll never let me forget it.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget you either, Sachin. Our time together was so short, even though we only live two doors away and we knew each other for ten years. But ten years is far too short a time to be around such a true and loyal friend as you are to me. I know I won’t ever be able to replace you, so I’m not even going to try.

So – you’re going to India, then? It’s so strange that, after so long saying we would always be together, through school, university and everything, it isn’t going to happen. But I don’t bear you any ill-will; if anything, I suppose I envy you a little. You have a chance now to get away from here, from all the conflict and dispute that everyone is so certain will come – and come soon. Really, I suppose if you were going to leave, it would have been better to do it sooner rather than later. But I hope you won’t forget me, even if all you have to remember me by is this letter and the picture of us that I slipped into your coat pocket when no one was looking.

But yes, Sachin, I know about the potential for dispute over Kashmir. I only pretended not to, because I was not sure how serious it was and I did not want to create a panic amongst the members of our little community. But I have known about this for some time – I overheard our parents talking one evening about eight months ago. You know how inquisitive I am – I listened to them, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I didn’t hear everything, obviously, but from what I did hear, I gathered that we in Kashmir are going to be victims of a large amount of military attention from India and Pakistan, as well as a lot of media attention as a result of it. It is, to be quite frank, something that I wish I had not found out then, but I suppose in the long run, it is better that I know what we could be in for soon.

Maybe that’s part of the reason why you left. Did you, well, your parents, know beforehand and plan to go as soon as you got the chance? I never heard anything like that, but then again, I never heard any reason why you left so suddenly either. Nothing that I truly believed at least – everyone said that you were leaving because your father’s job changed, but they seemed to be hiding something. If this is the truth, then I’m sorry for doubting you, but you must understand that it was a real shock to me, even though I know it makes sense, deep down. I know nothing stays the same; I just can’t quite bring myself to accept it sometimes, no matter how hard I try.

Well, what’s done is done. I suppose all I can really do is wish you the best of luck in India, and, once again, express my sincere hope that you will not forget me, or forget the times that we shared together. I will never forget you, my first and dearest friend, I can promise you that.

Please stay in touch.
From your friend, Murali.

[Meef]

Oh my! I love how this is building, just giving enough of the current crisis but not enough to ruin the rest of the letters. I feel the pain Murali feels for loosing Sachin. I can't wait for more. Thank you Ash!

[nightowl]

Oooh, I love the letter ideas - to tell the story from the past, but from a present perspective - very unique!

Looking forward to more, and to see how this story develops.

I have a feeling I'm going to be doing a lot of :cryin: in this story!

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

9th November 1947.

Dear Sachin,

You remember how, for years, we loved so much to celebrate Diwali. We would run around causing madness with our friends, just like at Holi, when we were little, before exchanging presents alone and watching the occasional fireworks together. You remember that, don’t you? Surely, you can’t forget those happy times we spent together, away from everyone else – times where we could just be…us.

Well, even if you don’t remember all those times, I can assure you that I can recollect them as clearly as if I saw them in a mirror and, come what may, I will treasure them for the rest of my life. Really, they are all I have to remind me of you and the friendship we shared before you left.

This year was my first Diwali where I was alone – that is to say, without you, which, in all honesty, amounts to the same thing. Of course, I went out with the rest of our friends, but they might as well not have been there and they knew it. All I could think about was you and what you might have been doing that night. I wondered, as I walked through the streets, if you were missing me as much as I was missing you, or if you had found yourself a new set of friends.

It wasn’t just the fact that you were not with me that made Diwali this year seem so wrong, although I cannot deny that it played its part (‘it’ being, of course, your absence). While, during the celebrations of previous years, we have, as a community, come together and had some fairly colourful celebrations, often culminating with fireworks (occasionally, if you recall, of more than one kind).

But this year was so different, Sachin. There were no bright celebrations, practically no hint of happiness or joy and certainly no signs of any kinds of fireworks. Instead of music and gaiety, there was only silence, as though we were on a gravesite. You must surely understand why this is. Everybody is afraid now, since the storming of Kashmir by the Pashtuns in October. But it is not dying that everyone seems to be afraid of. We all know well that death is a part of our life and we cannot cheat it. Indeed, some say that to do so is amongst the most dishonourable things one can do – one must accept it when it comes.

No, what we fear is not knowing what will become of our community. You know that, as Hindus, we are very much a minority, even in Indian-administered Kashmir, when compared to the Muslim community. But this has never mattered, has it? Until now, we have always interacted with each other, regardless of beliefs, sharing each other’s festivals and funerals. But now, with the threat of war very close, I don’t know what to do. I would wish that things could stay as they are, but I know that is a foolish hope. It is almost inevitable that sides will be taken and friendships broken.

It seems that the Maharaja does not know what to do either. As you may have heard, following the attack from the Pashtuns, he called on India’s allegiance, asking them for help. I will tell you this, his task is not one I would bestow on anyone; being a religious minority in a land that you rule and not knowing what to do that can make things easier for everyone, rather than merely the majority, but not doing what is easy for him, either.

I honestly wish this had never happened, Sachin. But now that it has, I pray every day that you will be safe and that one day you and I will be able to meet again, without threat or danger.

With deep affection, Murali.

[nightowl]

One can only imagine what the adult Sachin must think of these letters, looking at them with the past experience of history.

I find these letters very beautiful - from the point of view of Murali where everything unfolds, and as a young man who lives through it.

Beautifully done, and so heartbreaking at the same time.

I look forward to watching the story unfold through Murali's letters. Painful though I fear the future may be, at least we have the knowledge that they both lived to see one another, so that they get through the conflict of what happened. But not, I fear, without much pain, which you will be sharing with us.

[Meef]

Ditto what Elaine said. This is something of real beauty. Make me cry, make me smile!

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

27th December 1947

Dear Sachin,

It is nearly the end of another year and only two days since Christmas. I have always enjoyed these celebrations in years gone by, even though I don’t believe in the religious background. Do you remember how our parents would sometimes hide leftover presents from Diwali to find on Christmas Day when we were small children? I still have pictures of us when we were covered in colours, the year they hid the paints. We just ended up splattering each other with them, like on Holi, too young to understand what they were.

I know it’s silly, but I sometimes wish things could be that way again, where none of us could really understand what the world really was; back when we were young and innocent. I especially wish I could say I didn’t try to understand why you left. It would have been so much better than to face the truth.

You know how bad things are when the sounds you hear around you, are bangs and scuffles as people are leaving. I would, as mad as it sounds, almost welcome the long lost sounds of bags being fastened and items being packed. That at least would give some reassurance, some hope, that not every departure is as permanent as yours was. Not every flight is a night-flight, as it were, but something almost planned. We could also hope for something else; if people are taking their things, does it not mean that there may be hope that they will return someday?

Oh, who am I kidding? Not you and certainly not me. Our little community is breaking and crumbling, much like a flower does when it catches the light of a pyre. No one wants to be here any more, because we are in the middle of a war zone. No one feels safe now, not even the Muslims. Tensions have already sprung up between families who once lived side by side as brothers, and I fear that it is only the beginning. Something has to give, Sachin, and it will, according to everyone, give soon.

One of the latest casualties of these events is our own schoolmate, Aditya. He was two years older than us and lived two doors down from me. He was also my closest friend, apart from you, but now he has gone. I heard that his father was involved in some sort of trouble and, barely hours later, they were gone. I don’t know where – they never left an address or anything. It’s not safe enough for that any more.

I know you never liked Aditya, Sachin. I won’t pretend that I know why, but I know that there was no love lost between the two of you. Even on those days where we would come home from school with the other village children and play cricket in the streets, I could see that you disliked him. You tolerated him, for my sake you said, and I thank you for that, but you did nothing more. All I want is for you to tell me – why? What was it that made you feel this way towards him, but to no one else? I hope you’ll tell me one day, though right now, I doubt you know yourself. Maybe one day you will though, but I can’t help but think – was your antagonism towards him a sign of what was to come of our, until recently, peaceful community?

Praying for the safety of friends and family – Murali.

[Meef]

My god I love this story! Please keep this going! I need to know more!

[nightowl]

This is beautifully heartbreaking as the story unfolds. In a war torn country, it is the children to can speak volumes. Their confusion at the changes happening, and how they point out the simplest of things.

Murali does this in his latest letter - I particularly love these two lines:

I know it’s silly, but I sometimes wish things could be that way again, where none of us could really understand what the world really was; back when we were young and innocent.

How many people have thought that at one time or another?

The other line that just tugs on my heartstrings was this:


Our little community is breaking and crumbling, much like a flower does when it catches the light of a pyre.

You know what's coming, and Murali can see it himself, yet he is trapped and unable to stop it.

Beautiful writing, as usual, Ash!

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

5th January 1948

Dear Murali,

I have no idea exactly what I can tell you that you will not already know. We – that is to say India and Pakistan – are at war, but you must be aware of this. It is, after all, your homeland that is being fought over, that soldiers on both sides are dying for.

I do not wish for you to feel that I am accusing you personally of being responsible for what is happening, Murali. I know that it is no fault of yours that people are being killed every day. I also know that, were you here, you would be marching, screaming and calling for it all to stop.

And I, of course, would be right by your side, as always. I may not have agreed with your methods of doing things, but if I felt that what you were doing was right, then it would take more than a wild rakshasa to drag me away.

But you’re not here, are you? And things are not the way they once were, are they? Everything has changed in so short a space of time that it almost feels like we’ve been sent into some alternate reality where nothing is as it should be.

I just re-read that and laughed at myself for even thinking it. You must think I’m insane for writing something so stupid. There is no alternate reality, except perhaps for the one in my mind. That is the reality before August – long before then, in fact. It is the reality of the memoirs of my ancestors, from before the British arrived in India. It’s a reality that I almost wish could be returned. As churlish as I know it is to blame them, I almost wish that the British had never come here and that none of this had happened. Yes, there have been stories of terrible poverty before they came, but I would willingly take that over the war. Peace, to my mind, is far more important than wealth. Money can be earned, but lost lives can’t be brought back.

But I know nothing can ever stay the same, Murali. Everything is a part of the circle of change. It is a vicious circle at the moment though – one of war, death, anger, fear and more death. With the coming of the New Year, so many had hoped that there may be a change, but so far there has been no sign of one and the effect is telling on everyone around us. We feel trapped, because we are too afraid to venture too far past where we live. We may, so my parents say, be safer here than we would be in Kashmir where we would be caught in the middle of all this, but the question is – how much safer are we? Is it really worth the loss of our freedom?

I suppose I shouldn’t complain though. After all, no matter how I feel, nothing can compare to what you and your family must be going through. To be caught in the epicentre of a war is bad enough, but when it is your own home that is being fought over it is even worse.

Good luck to you and to your family.
Sachin.

***

By the way, a 'rakshasa' is a Hindi word that means demon. It's used quite regularly in ancient epics.

[Meef]

More!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Please!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is turning out to be a heart breaking tale. These letters are so beautifully written and full of emotion. :Clapper: is all I can do!

[nightowl]

Oh, a letter from Sachin!

It's interesting in that it seems like poor Sachin is a bit more world weary than Murali - perhaps a natural occurrence of the events that have taken place. After all, it was his family which fled before the conflict started.

The contrast between both the tone and the content of the letters are interesting. On one hand, you have Murali mourning their lost childhood and reminiscing over past holidays and in the other you have Sachin who seems to be withdrawn and older for the experiences he has witnessed.

Though we know no good can come in the face of war, still one has to feel for these two youngsters whom have had their lives torn apart.

Lovely post, Ash.

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

12th March 1948

Dear Murali,

So much has happened recently that, for a long time, it seemed unbelievable that something as normal as spring could come by. It has though and with it came the hope that something approaching normalcy might yet be restored here.

Well, I suppose on some level that has proved to be true. Though it has not been on the level that I, for one, would have hoped. The weather is turning brighter and warmer, but the mood around me is not.

Two years ago, when we were sixteen, this time rolled around and I saw you outside wearing your oldest clothes and a broad smile on your face.

“Murali,” I said, though I was fighting back a laugh, “I don’t mind having some fun, but don’t you think we’re getting too old to be lighting bonfires and playing Holi now?”

Except that the last words were said through a cloud of orange as you doused me in powder and dragged me off the doorstep. “If we’re getting too old for it,” you said then, “we should at least make the most of the time we have left where we can enjoy it,” before you dragged me off to light the bonfire.

Had I known where we would be today, I would never have said, or even thought, such a thing then. But I have to say now, looking at the state of things here, that you were right. We should make the most of what time we have to enjoy our youth, while we still can. I should really thank you for dragging me off then, given how things are here.

We may have been a minority in our community back home, Murali, but we did know how to have a good time on Holi, no matter what was happening. Sometimes, I forgot to think of it in its religious context and just focused on how much fun it was to see the colours flying through the air. They were so bright that they almost made the sky and the sun appear dull. The whole scene reminded me of the rainbow effect you get when you have a stream of water against the sunlight, only a thousand times brighter.

It was so wonderful back then. But now I can’t help but wonder if it was all a dream. I try to remember, really remember, the colours, the laughter and the cheer that encircled us, but all I can see is a whirlwind of bright shades and faces that I can’t describe. I can’t even hear our music, even though I know it was there. It is as though everything is fading to nothing.

When I said that the theory that something approaching normalcy might be restored here was almost true, this is what I meant. I am slowly starting to realise that the constant fear and silence surrounding us is normal, Murali. Nothing has changed at all; not even the coming of spring will change things. There has been no sign of joy, no sound of laughter and, saddest of all, no sense that anyone knows what to do.

We just feel…powerless. Well, to a degree, I suppose we are all powerless – me, you and everyone caught up in this mess – because there is a war on and we can do nothing to stop it.

It is with a heavy heart that I see that these people are so shattered that they cannot even muster the energy to smile for spring.

I pray for you not to fall under such a cloud.
Sachin.

[nightowl]

How beautifully sad.

You have this wonderful ability to pierce the heart with your prose, Ash. This line in particular:




It was so wonderful back then. But now I can’t help but wonder if it was all a dream. I try to remember, really remember, the colours, the laughter and the cheer that encircled us, but all I can see is a whirlwind of bright shades and faces that I can’t describe. I can’t even hear our music, even though I know it was there. It is as though everything is fading to nothing.


There is such a wistfulness in this letter from Sachin - a hope to have a return to a simpler time, and the fast realization that not only will that not be the case, but that the memories of those good times fade in the face of adversity.

Beautifully done!

[Meef]

If you can not move people with you words, dear Ash, then they are stone or not living. My heart stopped when reading the beauty in this letter. The simple things and joys never are forgotten by the love of two people even when faced by horrors of war and the real world. We must all learn to enjoy life. For someday there will be those that are missing but never lost.
Thank you!

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

21st May 1948

Dear Murali,

“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” It is such a simple quote and yet it is so true, especially in the environment we find ourselves living in.

Every day since I left, I have prayed and wished that no more innocent blood should be shed. But now, I look back on the murder of a great man earlier this year and I can’t help but wonder “What’s the point?”

You must have heard about the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, Murali. It happened nearly four months ago, but it is only now that I have come to terms with it enough to talk about it.

I don’t understand it at all. Gandhi set about encouraging the values that people like you and I hold sacred, the most important of these being ahimsa and satya. And yet, the man responsible claims to hold the same principles in equally high esteem. But he then goes and kills a man in cold blood.

Why? Why would he do something that was so contrary to what he claimed to believe – and to someone who held the same beliefs? I’ve heard rumours of dissent, but I still don’t know why – and I’m not sure I want to know why.

But the irony of it all, Murali, is that the incident has, though I can’t understand why, driven me to do something I never thought I would do – join the army and fight.

I have hoped and waited for the fighting to stop and for diplomacy to take a stand, but I can’t see it happening any time soon, hardly anyone can. It is as if Gandhi’s brutal murder has drained us of what little hope we had for a peaceful solution.

The only way, now, that any form of diplomacy can happen is if all the involved parties, Kashmir included of course, have a vote – a fair vote – on what is to be done. That is what I have heard spoken around me and it is true, especially when it is people like you who are suffering because of it all.

I suppose that is the only reason I have chosen to stand and fight. I have no desire to attack what was my own home for so long, but this feeling of vulnerability that has set in has suddenly spurred me to do something a little…radical, for me at least. But I am not doing it for the sake of the Indian army, Murali. I am doing it for the sake of Kashmir. I know that you can’t always win by fighting, but I hope that I can show everyone that, no matter where I live now, Kashmir is still my home and I would willingly die to defend it.

And if I do die, so be it. I die for Kashmir, not for India, or for Pakistan.

From Sachin.

[nightowl]

Wow. Once again you impress with your letter from Sachin.

I am fascinated with how this story is unfolding, and how you are breathing life into dry historical events by showing them through the eyes of these two young men. They are being forced to leave boyhood behind and stand up for what they believe in all while in a horrible situation. I understand Sachin's inability to understand any of it - since war doesn't make sense yet he is drawn into it by the actions of an unscrupulous man.

It does remind me that for every action there is an equal reaction. Sachin reacts to the events from four months previous which put him on a path he never would have taken otherwise.

I look forward to more of this story unfolding....

[Meef]

Oh dear I want to believe that Sachin's decision to join the army is for the right reasons. But will he regret it? I love this story! Can't wait for the next bit.

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

3rd January 1949.

Dear Sachin,

A new year begins with something that resembles hope. I am slightly wary of saying explicitly that it is hope, but there is a definite feeling of relief around us now, something that has long been absent.

After the bloodshed of last year, I thought that happiness would never be found again. I actually said as much to several friends in a fit of despondency – and I have the bruises to prove it. To say that no one liked what I said would be an understatement indeed. I know it sounds silly, and, in hindsight, it was silly – and extremely naïve of me.

You must understand though, Sachin, the last year has been thick with strife. Every day, news of more deaths on both sides of the fence would come through. We held constant vigils at each other’s houses in the hope that something, anything, might change and hopefully make things better.

I first heard about what happened when I was walking home two days ago. I knew that something was going on just from the atmosphere around me. People were standing in groups, talking, laughing and embracing. My mother ran to me and caught me, pulling me into her circle of friends. She smiled and wept when she told me that a ceasefire had finally been taken.

I must admit to being a little shocked – it all seemed too good to be true. Was there really a chance that, after so many months of suffering and fear, we could finally start to dream of having peace? Could we finally start to live our lives as we used to? Well, maybe not as we used to – too much has happened for that to be possible – but without wondering all the time what was to become of us? After all that has gone on, such ideas seemed ridiculous to me before.

But I suppose it just shows you, Sachin – if you want something enough, it will eventually happen, usually when all your hope is gone. Life has a strange way of doing that to you at times, but I cannot deny that, after the shock, my happiness and relief was as great as anyone else’s. It is, quite probably, the only time I am happy to have been proved wrong – you should know as well as anybody that I like being right, considering you were usually the one who I argued the toss with all the time.

Looking around me now, Sachin, the turnaround in mood is such that I almost wonder if I have dreamed everything. I know that cannot be right, but if you saw it, I think you would agree. Before, we hardly saw a smile on anyone’s face; something I know I did not help with – in fact, I hardly saw anyone at all for several days at a time. That is how much dread there was around here. But now, you would almost not believe it was the same place. There is laughter and gladness everywhere and, let’s face it, there is more hope now than there has been in a long time. There were even small parties happening and the younger children even played cricket in the streets, something that has not happened for over a year – and I joined in myself. It was like being young again.

Of course, there must be caution as always, Sachin, but we have had little to smile about until now and I have no intention of dampening the mood by asking how long this can last, even if I am thinking it. For now, I know we must make the most of this happy time.

Wishing you were here, Murali.

[nightowl]

It's such a contrast to read their letters. In some way I see Murali as a bit of a dreamer, though even he has been changed by this conflict. Sachin seems more realistic, as if his dreams had been dashed long before Murali's had been.

The fact that Murali finds anything to smile about in a land that has been torn by war is amazing in itself. But what really spoke to me in his letter was the following:


But I suppose it just shows you, Sachin – if you want something enough, it will eventually happen, usually when all your hope is gone.

The speaks to believe lasting longer than hope. Hope is often something that you wish for that you don't expect to happen. Believe and wanting something bad enough is somewhat stronger. And belief goes a long way towards holding one together in the face of such adversity.

Another beautiful job and I will await the next installment.

[Meef]

Wow, I hope there is really peace. Not knowing the history, I couldn't say, But Ash I really love the hope that Murali has in his words. He tries so hard to be brave for Sachin, I hope it works out. It is sad that these two were separated. Love it as always. :clapper:

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

12th March 1949

Dear Sachin,

Everything has been remarkably calm of late, but it is not for the same reasons as it was before. Then, there was calmness and a silence sprung from fear, but now, with this ceasefire holding up, the quiet is much more serene, like you are looking at the moon and feeling the gentle glow shimmering over your face. It is almost a symbol of peace.

Peace; the word itself is so small and simple that it may be lost in a sentence. But, my God, Sachin, how long have we waited for it? Really, it does sometimes feel like we have waited for ever, even though it has only been a few years. But, as I am sure you know, a few years is too long, and yet even now, we do not know what is going to happen next. Before, the question that everyone wanted answered was when the war would end. Now that it has, the question is somewhat different; when will peace end? So far, things are holding together, but I always wonder how long it will be before something comes unstuck, causing everything to fall apart.

Even if the ceasefire does last, as my mother and father pray for it to, peace will not come easily in the long term. Too much blood has been shed on both sides for that to be possible. I know I have said that before, but I will say it again for the simple reason that it is the plain and ugly truth. You know that, Sachin and you know it as well as I do.

It is strange, though. Everyone around me is still revelling in this new state of affairs – though I suppose it is not so new now, merely something of a novelty after everything that has happened – but I cannot help but feel uneasy, though it pains me to say it. The more I think about this, the more questions make themselves known, spinning through my head like the Sudarshana Chakra spins on Lord Vishnu’s finger. At the moment, the most dominant question is, even if everything that we hope for comes true, what will happen next? Peace is not enough any more, Sachin. We need democracy as well if anything is truly going to work, and if we are going to have even half a chance to be able to feel safe again.

The question is – will it happen? Will we ever see the fairness that we crave and, ultimately, that we need? I hate to say it, but with the way things are going now, I cannot see it happening in the near future. When the United Nations agreed to the ceasefire in January, they instructed Pakistan to withdraw its troops and India to hold a vote to show what the people wanted, so that we in Kashmir could have our voices heard above the shouting and the mess that has surrounded us. Hopes were raised at this news, but so far nothing has happened. The Pakistani army has not been withdrawn and the vote has not been held. It is almost as if we do not matter to anyone, even though we are the ones living here. We should be able to say what we think and feel about what should be done in terms of our own homeland and the land of our birth.

Put another way, it is clear what India wants and what Pakistan wants. They have been fighting over it for so long. But when it comes to us the idea of fair play seems to fall on deaf ears. Neither of the involved parties seem to have spared a thought for us, even though, ultimately, we are the ones who are being made to suffer. We are praying and hoping every day that something will change, but so far nothing has.

Please, Sachin, for the sake of Kashmir and for the sake of your friends – help us.
Murali.

[nightowl]

What is that saying? You never notice something until you feel it's absence? That sums up Murali's letter here when he talks about peace.

From the early part of this story you have two young men who were innocent in their childhood. We've since moved on as they've been forced by war to grow up, and to lose that innocence in the harsh reality of what had happened to their lives.

This is a progression of that where you have Murali looking over his shoulder, waiting for the fragile peace to end, because human nature has taught him that there are no guarantees. Another loss of innocence.

His letter reminds me of the child standing between two parents who are fighting. In the middle, but too small to do anything to affect the argument above him. Take that further to Kashmir, and how it is the child stuck between these two warring giants, and the analogy continues.

That last sentence, that plea that Murali begs to Sachin for is heart wrenching, especially since one knows that the letters were never sent, and Sachin is only reading them now. Not that he could have done anything, since he wouldn't be in a position to do so, but it shows the faith that Murali still had in his friend that he would be able to help him in a time of need.

Beautifully done Ash, as usual!

[Meef]

If I could find one word to some up the letter, it would be hopelessness. I think that Murali is pleading with Sachin because out of all of the conflict in Murali's mind Sachin is still untouched. Sachin is a source of good times and youth. Where the war tells them it is time to grow up weather you want to or not. I feel like his pleas are justified, after all a friend is can be more reliable then a government or governments. I really should go read up on Kashmir, it has been awhile. Murali has away of showing us that the victims in war aren't always the dead. They are those trying to find answers to questions that will most likely never be solved. Ash you are the greatest amongst us! Thank you!

[John the Vic]

Ashley, may I say that this is absolutely mind blowing.. Sachin's and Murali's letters are beautifully heart wrenching, and I am almost convinced that I am reading actual letters written by two living people here, such is the raw emotion, the realism, the pain, and also the memories of joy long past..
Kashmir has been the "child between two warring parents" for a long time, there were two more wars after the one described in the letters, in 1965 and 1999.. However, just as Murali intimates in his letter, the Kashmiri people would have had the question "when will peace end?" on their minds every time that peace came about, and the wars themselves have not formed the whole of the conflict, there having been a catalogue of other incidents in between which have made life for the people of Kashmir a living hell for the best part of 60 or 70 years..
I look forward to reading more of this.. I can see from other posts above that others have told you already, but I echo their words also, you are a very talented writer indeed.. :clapper:

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

Kashmir has been the "child between two warring parents" for a long time, there were two more wars after the one described in the letters, in 1965 and 1999.. However, just as Murali intimates in his letter, the Kashmiri people would have had the question "when will peace end?" on their minds every time that peace came about, and the wars themselves have not formed the whole of the conflict, there having been a catalogue of other incidents in between which have made life for the people of Kashmir a living hell for the best part of 60 or 70 years..

I know; it's something that's shocked and touched me for a long time. I'm part Indian myself and I've got relatives up in the danger area (I've never met them though), so, in a way, it's also quite personal for me too. But it's frightening, because, even today, no one knows what's going to happen.

[John the Vic]

[quote="John the Vic":35ewmh1u]Kashmir has been the "child between two warring parents" for a long time, there were two more wars after the one described in the letters, in 1965 and 1999.. However, just as Murali intimates in his letter, the Kashmiri people would have had the question "when will peace end?" on their minds every time that peace came about, and the wars themselves have not formed the whole of the conflict, there having been a catalogue of other incidents in between which have made life for the people of Kashmir a living hell for the best part of 60 or 70 years..

I know; it's something that's shocked and touched me for a long time. I'm part Indian myself and I've got relatives up in the danger area (I've never met them though), so, in a way, it's also quite personal for me too. But it's frightening, because, even today, no one knows what's going to happen.[/quote:35ewmh1u]

This also reminded me of a book I read a few years ago, written by one of a team of climbers from Sheffield , England, who went to Kashmir back in the late 1980s to climb a certain mountain..
I will try to trace the particular book to find the exact story, but in it the author tells of a period of a few days while they were at the base camp of the mountain where they were first approached by Pakistani soldiers who told them that the area had been captured by Pakistani forces, and that they would have 24 hours to leave as their permit to climb, which had been granted by the Indian authorities, was no longer valid..
As the team were about to leave the following day, they were approached by Indian soldiers who told them that the area had been recaptured by Indian forces, and their permit was re-instated..
The following day, they were about to begin the climb, when Pakistani soldiers appeared again, telling them again that their permit was no longer valid, and they had 24 hours to leave.. After that, the team, which consisted of six men, gave up, having each spent over £15,000 which they had scraped together for the trip.. The author says they never went back to Kashmir..

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

28th October 1949

Dear Sachin,

This time four years ago, we were mere children, with little more to worry about than finding the time to study for our school work and working out whose house we were going to be visiting for Diwali. All the time, the threat of the circumstances surrounding us was present, but it was easy not to be continually drawn into the middle of it all, because we had each other. Ever since we were very small, we believed that, if we could only hold onto our friendship, then there would be nothing that could stop us.

How long ago that seems now, Sachin! If I didn’t have the faded pictures stored in my mother’s old albums, I would almost think that it had all been a dream of a time when there was hope and joy here; of a time when we could love the natural beauty of our homeland.

We didn’t have much, but there was enough to get by. And, even despite all that, the world looked so much brighter because we had each other.

It seems impossible to believe that so much can have changed in just so few short years, but it is so true. The news is enough to tell us that. But things are changing in the family as well. My father wishes for me to be married to Padma within the next month. She is a good friend, I cannot doubt that, but neither of us are ready for marriage at present, despite the arrangement that was made between our two families when we were very young children.

Yet the whole village is anticipating such a wedding, Sachin. They believe that even the thought of a great event will give some joy to us and our friends in these times of confusion and terror. Also, my mother is totally unapologetic about her open desire to see her grandchildren before the end. She says it will give her hope for a better future. I understand her, but, at the same time, I don’t see how anyone can hope to raise a child or children, let alone provide for a wife in such times.

Between us, Padma and I have managed to reach a compromise where our families agreed to wait until things are calmer. Admittedly, my father is still deeply hopeful for a November wedding, but eventually I fear even he will realise that this is an unlikely, if optimistic, desire.

There are those of us who despair of the situation and, yes, the wedding may give them something to hope for – something that they can carry on for. But after that, I find it hard to see light on the horizon. I suppose there is nothing to do but wait, though none of us seem to know exactly what it is we are waiting for.

Murali.

[Meef]

Thank you so much for doing another part. My mind often runs back to this story. It is the most amazing written piece I have read. In a lot of ways it is an epic, set up like a modern poem, gracing us with a vision in words. I love you ability to see things my dear friend. Don't make us wait for the next bit.

[nightowl]

What Aimee says is so true - very much an epic poem!

I love this series. It's so touching as you follow these two young men from childhood through an enforced adulthood as the reality of war separates them. Yet they still have those fond memories of each other, despite their cultural divide. I love the following bit here:


We didn’t have much, but there was enough to get by. And, even despite all that, the world looked so much brighter because we had each other.

That says so much. I also feel for Murali, stuck between what his family and village wants and what he feels in his heart. Who would want to bring children into a volatile situation like that? Of course, people still do, and it is that tenacity and faith that leads to the next generation.

Another beautiful post, and I hope to read more soon!

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

4th February 1950

Dear Murali,

Did either of us believe that we would be where we are at twenty? Did we ever imagine that life would be like this – that we'd find ourselves so close to each other and yet be so far apart?

I remember once how we used to joke about how, when we did finally hit twenty, we would celebrate by taking a trip to India to see some of the sights and maybe show some of the children our version of street cricket!

It sounded like a wonderful fantasy, though we both knew that, at best, it was unlikely and, at worst, it was impossible. Even without the problems that we have faced all our lives, with war and politics knocking on our door at every turn, the lack of money alone would have been enough for us to know that it could never happen. At least we would have known it by now, even if we had not realised it in our younger days.

I can almost smile at the irony of it all now that we are where we are. Look at us now; we're both twenty years old, but only one of us did actually end up making it to India, and believe me, I never once imagined, even in my darkest and most pessimistic moments, that it would be like this. I never thought that I would be coming here, not as a simple tourist, but instead as a refugee seeking sanctuary in a place that seems to be scarcely any less dangerous than the homeland that I left with my parents almost three years ago. I have found that there is no time to explore the sites we talked of so often and there is certainly no time for games such as street cricket. Every moment is spent at work, preparing for the next attack or the next war, whenever it comes, and making sure everyone in our care, from our loved ones to strangers, is as safe as it is possible to be.

I know, Murali, that we did come here to get away from Kashmir and so that we would not be caught up in the middle of such a violent mess. And every day, I find myself thinking of you and wishing that you were here with us; that you could have the same chance that we had of trying to make a fresh start in another country, where you might be safer. But then again, I almost don't want you to come and see what has become of your friend.

I know everything changes over time, but I've found that I've changed so much over so short a period of time that I don't know if even you would recognise me any more. No doubt being in the army has played a part in this, but my mother has said that she felt something in me change, barely two days after we crossed the border and arrived in India.

I don't know how she knows this, but I can understand her only too well. I feel so much older than just twenty years, and I don't think I like what this whole insane situation that we have both had thrust upon us is turning me into. I can see that things are changing, almost by the day, and I am changing along with them.

It reminds me of something your old grandmother used to say, Murali. She used to tell us, not only that life begins when you turn twenty, but also that it was in the twentieth century that everything would start to change. I admit I dismissed it at the time, but thinking about it now, I realise just how right she was.

The twentieth century is in fact when it all changes. But we're not ready.
Sachin.

[Meef]

This was very beautiful as are all the chapters of this story. I keep feeling so broken over these young men, that they touch each other, but never get to be around each other. The fact that they stay friends in mind is amazing. Shows us what humanity is capable of if given a chance. Wonderful Ash!!!!

[nightowl]

What an unbelievably sad letter Sachin writes. They've both seen so much horridness in a few short years, yet they both persevere though it all.

This letter is very poignant - there's something to laugh and cry over - the amusement over the idea of someone being 20 and wanting to teach "the children" about their way of playing games to the sorrow of the wars that have torn them away from one another, leaving them with this haphazard means of communication.

It is all the more sad when you think that Murali never sent any of the letters he wrote, but kept them. In reality, Sachin is reading them well after the fact, as an adult. The imagery is gorgeous, but at the same time, unbelievably said.

And that last line says a lot.

[Turquoise-Dolphin]

2nd February 1951

Dear Sachin,

I almost cannot believe that I am saying this, but today I feel happier and more relieved than I have found myself for over two years. But the reason for this is not something that I can share with many people here, most of whom seem to either have given up hope of late, or just look at any piece of good news as a blessing hiding a hand grenade or a machine gun – a tiny flicker of happiness quickly obliterated as the fighting continues on in its endless cycle.

But those are their words, Sachin, not mine. Not any more, now that I have news that has given me such hope. You see, Sachin, earlier today, I found myself reading through a magazine and finding an article about the situation which we all find ourselves in. Well, I say an article; it was more like a diary entry – a story of finding new life in these hard times – a story of hope.

The author wasn’t named and there was no clear sign of who he or she was – at least, not to the untrained eye. But the moment I saw the article, I knew that it was you who wrote it and my heart soared, because in that moment, I knew that, somehow, you were still alive.

I suppose I should have expected it really, Sachin. You are, after all, a fighter and, first and foremost, a survivor. Reading what you wrote about your experiences in the army and the bravery you and your comrades have shown was more than enough for me to know that. And now, I have to thank you for bringing hope back to me. I may not be a brave fighter like you, but I never stopped believing that you would be all right, in spite of the incomparable danger you face every day.

Though you may not know this, you have answered a plea I made many years ago when I asked that, for the sake of Kashmir, you would help us, just to give us some sign of hope. And now you have given us that, though I expect that very few others realise it yet. I believe that, and I hope that one day I can tell our families and friends, in the midst of so much death and destruction, even the news that one loved one still lives is reason enough for me, or for any of us, to have any hope. Because, Sachin, as you yourself once said to me, if one man can stand tall and survive, then there is hope, because then so can so many others.

My prayers go with you in the hope that you remain safe.
Murali.

[nightowl]

Oh, I'm so glad you updated this!

What an uplifting letter from Murali - and it goes to show how just one small thing can change one's outlook on a situation. How he knew that article was Sachin's is anyone's guess. But the fact that he believed it was lent hope to his own situation and with hope, anything is possible, even in a war torn country.

Definitely a reason to stand tall indeed!