Under the willow tree

There were two children under the willow tree. The girl had soft brown curls and a chubby face. The boy was slightly taller with dark hair and cute dimples. “I’ll be a princess when I grow up,” she announced. “I am going to become a soldier,” he declared. “But soldiers go to war and die,” the girl said tearfully. “No, silly! I’ll always come back to you,” he smiled, “I promise.”

The willow tree remained the same. But the children had grown up. “You’ve got beautiful voice,” she commented, opening the lunchbox.  “Yeah?” he ruffled his hair trying not to sound too pleased, “And you’re the best cook in the world!” “Thanks,” she blushed, “So, any new songs yet?” 

“I am working on one. Want to hear it?” he asked through a mouthful. “Sure,” she grinned.

“It’s too dangerous. Please, please, don’t go!” She pleaded with the beautiful boy before her. “There’s a war going on and you know that I’ve always wanted to be a soldier. I must go,” he tried to make her understand, gazing deep into her tortured doe eyes.

“My brother’s still here. He hasn’t gone,” She argued feebly. “He would have been the first one to join the army if he didn’t limp,” he countered.

“But what if you never come back?” she whispered. “I will. I promise. Remember, my dad was a soldier too. And he always came back,” he reassured her.

“You’ll write to me?” she murmured, defeated. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled, “Only if you promise to write back.”

She rested her head on his chest and let her tears fall, “I do.” Days were followed by nights and weeks stretched into months. Seasons changed and life went on. Their emotions flowed freely in the hundreds of papers that traveled across the seas.

His words felt the tremors of explosions. They smelt of gunpowder and dust. They ached with the yearnings for a beloved’s kiss and a homey embrace. They bled, sweated and struggled. They screamed in pain for every fallen warrior, friend and foe. Death, apparently, had ceased to be poetic. They prayed desperately for the colour white. Her words were like balm to his ravaged soul. She was his oasis, his guardian angel. She spread sunshine and warmth into his dark, desolate world. He lived to read her letters. He needed them like air and water. They gave him the strength and reason to love, hope and survive.

Monsoon had arrived early this year. The pretty girl braved the rain to procure her letter, long hair flying in wild brown waves. But it wasn’t the familiar scrawl that greeted her longing eyes. This one looked cold, formal. It didn’t speak of warmth and promises. It contained the one word that shattered her world—”missing.”

Across the world, in a dingy hospital, lay a broken soldier, beaten and battered, yet his heartbeats were getting stronger by the minute. You can stop the clock but not the time. Time is like dry sand. The more you try to hold on to it, the more easily it slips away. Ten years had gone by. The sky was still blue and the grass still changed colours. The earth still revolved around the sun and the stars still twinkled. But things had changed, for better or for worse.

It was midnight and the pub was finally deserted. The singer picked up his guitar and entered the tiny office where his salary was waiting. He put the money in his wallet and gazed forlornly at the old photograph tucked inside.

He knew his life was waiting for him back home. With difficulty, he heaved himself up and grabbed the crutch to practice his walk.

Suddenly, a plump woman bustled in. “Good morning!” she chirped, “Your breakfast!” She helped him onto an armchair and placed the tray on his lap. “You know her?” she pointed at the picture on the table.

He grunted. “She’s my cousin’s fiancée,” she informed, “He’s sent me a note and her photograph. Quite pretty, isn’t she?” He choked. “Water?” she inquired.

He was startled by the footsteps. “Same old, huh?” The owner of the pub, a large man, stood behind him. He sighed and pocketed his wallet. “Ten years! Move on! It’s tragic that such a handsome face should waste away!”

“Missus’s fine?” he changed the subject. “Yeah,” the big fellow shrugged, “We’re selling this place and moving back home. She wants to raise the baby amidst our folks.” He nodded. “Go home, dude,” the owner continued. “There’s nothing there,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing here either. You’ve been running away all these years,” his companion retorted, “You may have won wars. But your personal demons have ruined you.”

He shut his eyes wearily. As always, the beautiful face swam before him. Yes, he owed himself a closure and a beginning. It was time to go home.

The place had changed. There were more houses and the roads were smoother. But the air smelt the same and it was raining like it usually did during this time of the year. He adjusted his duffle bag and walked on.

The willow tree looked exactly the same. The houses stood side by side. His legs carried him through the kissing gate to the one on his right. His hand rang the bell. The door was opened by an angel in blue.

A moment passed. Or was it an eternity? It was raining heavily. The two people sat at a table on the porch, sipping tea and stealing glances.

“Alright,” she began, “Where have you been for so long? I thought you were dead!”

“I promised to return,” he smiled, “I always keep my promises.” She stirred her tea moodily. “A nurse told me that you got engaged to her cousin…” he trailed off. “I never got married,” she muttered, “I am single.”

“Uh… I’ve been singing at a pub in another town,” he finished awkwardly, “And what about you?” “I am a restaurateur,” she said softly. “You’ve always been an excellent cook,” he smiled. “Want a refill?” she asked.

He shook his head. “So, are you single?” she asked casually. He nodded. “Not due to the lack of proposals, I suppose,” she smirked. “I could say the same for you,” he grinned.

“Nobody wants me,” she chuckled darkly. “Says who?” he quirked his eyebrow, “I do!” “That ship’s already sailed,” she replied firmly.“No!” he pleaded, “Trust me. I’ve never wanted anybody else!”

She breathed deeply and shrugged out of her cardigan. Her arms, shoulders and back were deeply scarred.

“After receiving that godforsaken letter, I ran into the woods, heartbroken. A bear attacked me. My brother and his friend had followed me with a shotgun. The bear was too quick for my brother but his friend killed it,” she sniffed, “He proposed to me later and I accepted out of loyalty. But in the end, I couldn’t marry him. My heart wasn’t in it.”

“I am sorry,” he rasped.

“Some miracle saved my face,” she gathered the cups, “I am scarred…body, heart and soul…Why would anybody want damaged goods?”

Wordlessly, he stretched his left leg and folded his jeans. She dropped the cups, shocked.

The leg was wooden. “It almost killed me,” he murmured, “I am broken…body, heart and soul…”

She stared at him mutely. He clasped her hands in his own.

“I wish this had been sooner. I wish I had done better. I haven’t composed any songs. I haven’t got a ring. I can’t even get down on my knees. We’re both scarred and broken. But I know that we can heal together. Will you marry me?”

And she breathed the word that he had been dying to hear.

Yes.

The afternoon was crisp and fresh after the downpour. Two children were seated under the old willow tree. The boy tugged at the girl’s pigtail and she punched him playfully. The old occupants of the place smiled at each other, their eyes brimming with undying love and unshed tears.

He put his arm around her shoulders and she put hers around his waist. They turned in silence and walked away across the ground, past the willow tree, back towards their little sanctuary.

- Nitya Pandey