The Cries for Our Languages:Sacrifices Won't Go In Vain

Three

 

She sneaked into the province of the soldiers and laid all the sticks, more like huge pieces of timber around the area. She then poured all the gallons of kerosene on to the pile. Having matches in her bag, She lights one and looks at it. Then let it go. Then the fire started to eat all the kerosene covered sticks as if it were mere french fries. As the fire expanded, the screams of the mercenaries filled her ears. She stared at the moving shadows that hyperly ran, sprinted, even dove into the dry earth. Payal didn’t want to do this. But she was compelled, if they never had came into her or the matter of that, into anyones’ lives then Payal’s life would’ve been in peace. She would have her family back, Tara back, and all those innocent lives of the students who sacrifice themselves  up for mere sentences which everybody knew as a language. She turns away though she could still hear the helpless screams. In her heart, she has no mercy.

“You will all pay for what you have done. I will have NO mercy for you! Never!” Payal screamed at the top her lungs. Payal came back to her home. She stood in front of it, which was once brightly colored with brand new shingled roof, Jasmine flowers growing as a memento of her mother. It was as if her mother died once again in front of her but this time with her father as well. This war isn’t done.

She walked inside and grabbed the strap of her embroidered bag. Everything was ruined. Her life, her family, and her beautiful house. Tears brimmed in her eyes each falling like raindrops. She looked down at the floor and thought that her father has to have a proper burial.  She dragged her dad’s body, taking it outside. Just right next to the threshold were two framed pictures. One showing her dad and Payal hugging and smiling together. The other Payal’s graceful and beautiful mom and her dad. She let go of her dad’s hands and picked up the pictures. Each one had shattered glass on them. They must’ve been from the picture before they were broken. Payal hugged both pictures, not caring of the shards.

 

“Ow! My hand!” Payal’s hands were now filled with fresh blood. She cut herself accidentally with a sharp shard. She ripped a long piece, almost a sliver of her scarf and tied it around her bleeding hand. She then picked up her dad and dragged him to the front of the house. But as she did, her hand ached and gave a sharp, throbbing pain to her arm. But she didn’t give up. Then, she took her shovel and dug a hole about 5 feet deep. There she slowly put her dad to rest and covered the hole with dirt making sure the section is packed in. Payal sobbed and sobbed for her father. Suddenly something hit her and she couldn’t move. Her hands were being restrained from her as if someone was holding it. Her vision became so blurry all she could see was colors. She heard voices that sounded it belong to men. They whispered something in urdu that she understood. They were going to hold her captive. She wanted to say let go but something inside her compelled her not to.

 

How could I possibly not scream? These are people I don’t even know. How could I think I am going to be safe with them?  Payal couldn’t understand. Suddenly, she got up and had the strength to release from their grasp. She could see clearly and ran away. She ran into the jungle where most of the animals that Payal loved lived. She ran until she could no longer see her own home. She sat down on the edge of a log and gasped for air. She thought of those men who came for her. Anyways, she had no fear living in the jungle. She loves the serenity and the animals. She even has some friends who love her too. As she walked, the sounds of the birds and the trickling of the stream made beautiful music. Payal looked back at the path where she came from. She squeezed her eyes shut and just sat down by the stream. Touching the soft earth beneath her, Payal looked into her own reflection into the stream. Her salwar kameez was now ruined. All that was left of her picturesque dress was the blood stains that were in splotches. Her soft, graceful hands that once made Jasmines grow from the ground is now rough, covered with dirt, and are scratched.  Maybe her father’s death was the main reason she was discombobulated. Suddenly she felt a hand touch her shoulder.