I faintly remember drawing up borders on the wooden desk, which used to seat four of us, which was last but one in the row. That desk had more pot holes of not rain, but of compass dart games.These borders were heavily guarded by the restrictive rules which determined the extent of ones elbow beyond the enemy lines.
Today my life has turned several pages away from the joyous days of solitary confinement within those borders on the pot holed 6 foot desk in the 150 odd square feet of production unit housed in the prime intellectual real estate property. Now I see and hear, yet fail to feel, a certain border thrust upon me by history of struggle and pain and loss. This so called border has been a frontier for a fight. This fight (for what) is the tear that we, so far, have failed to wipe away to smile for ever.
Isn’t this period enough to bury the differences?
to sink the vengeance?
to ambush the pain?
to wipe the tear?
with dried tears that has its marks on the face I ask –
Yen mukam thaane therikirathu? (Isn’t it my face that is seen?)
piraku yaen intha kopam? (then whY this anger?)
Un mukam thaane therikirathu? (Isn’t it your face that is seen?)
piraku yaen intha maatrum? (then whY this indifference)
Ethukadaa thupaaki? (whY do u need guns?)
annan thambi thaanada? (aren’t you blood brothers?)