Far away in those militant trenches,
Sits a group of soldiers on their benches.
By staying in queue for the landline telephone,
They’re awaiting their chances to call home.
Just to pick up the call and say, “I won’t be there for Diwali,”
And as the call ends, they’re left with the feel of melancholy.
“I won’t be there, to light the diya, to sing the song,
Or to burst the fireworks and dance along.”
From the telephone, a young voice asks,
“Papa will you come for Diwali tomorrow?”
Before the call ends, the soldier would say,
“We left our happiness, we left our sorrow,
Just to guard you all for tomorrow.”
At their homes, it’s celebration, fun and joy,
But here, they’re left to fight with their foe.
Either on the morning dawn or in the evening dusk,
Some of them waits for a letter,
A letter that would make them feel better.
Some of them wrote back,
‘I’ll be there for next year,’
But some of them are yet to write,
Who’s last breath lies here.
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Daris Basheer, X-E, Indian Community School Kuwait |