By Sharika Nair
When the widow’s eldest son came back from war in a coffin, her brackish tears seeped into wells. The villagers ordered water in tankers.
When the widow’s middle son came back from war on crutches, her laughter rattled
doors and shattered glass windows. The villagers covered their houses with tarpaulin.
When the widow’s youngest son came back from war, mute, the widow fell silent too.
The villagers started whispering, “She is cursed.”
When the war memorial came up in the village square, her sons’ names were etched in golden letters on the towering edifice.
The villagers never learnt the widow’s name.
Your writing has a very cinematic feel to it. The scenes and expressions come across so clearly.
It honestly feels like something that could shine as a c0mic.
I work with visuals, and your story stuck with me.
Happy to ch@t if you’d ever be interested.
Thank you so much 🙂
Hmmm , I can connect with this.
Thank you
I wonder why “they never learnt he name rather than “they never had her name carved also” or something like that.
PS: I’ve seen villages in France with their WWI memorials listing son after son and fathers and even grandfathers.