Pseudo Writer

She lives at the border between them, a place that is the outskirts of both of them. A place that is ignored and yet crucial, for it is the battle ground for the two nations. She is sitting under a table, crouched, waiting for the surroundings to quiten. She is holding a cross in her hand tightly, mumbling something that no one can hear. She is waiting for her parents who went for food, maybe she is praying for their safe return. And this is what war zone creates, amidst all the glory that the world claims; a trail of the dead, and the living paralysed with fear. She survived, as a war orphan, and left the place, only to see another world, that went on, the place that was far from all the horrors, where everything was normal, too normal. She heard people talking, about power, about how their nation defeated the other one, and how they are not afraid of them. And she wondered if they actually know, what it's like to be hiding under th...

She comes from a place where hatred is but a concept. Where sun symbolises hope, and there is no glory in war. A forgotten place of peace, where her memories live forever. Where red is the colour of love, and danger is denied it's existence. Where eternal melodies reside, and music is what she breathes. Where she is as insignificant as she is paramount. She describes it very often, asks if anyone else will ever visit. Sadly, everytime I have to remind her that she is a figment of my imagination; a character in one of my many dreams, the one that I desperately want to keep, and yet the one that ends with my sleep.                                                     - Sushant Kumar Das