Love and the Great War :part 2

Walking ahead, he could now clearly see the pale yellow and crumbled walls of the hospital, with pine covered mountains in the background. For a moment,  he wanted to run to those pines and disappear in the bosom of the trees, away from the war, away from the trees, away from the din , away from pity. But then the thought of Marie came back rushing to his head, the only reason for his existence in this world which had long rendered him as a poetic and broken souvenir of the Great War. Marie was a woman of immaculate beauty, a woman whom any man can fall in love with. She had come as a part of Red Cross Mission , barely six months ago when Jean was on the edge of the cliff ready to be hurled in the abyss of pain and agony. She came as the light of the North star in the starless nights of his life. She steered him to the safety of the harbor. Each night she would come and listen to him in utmost attention while he told her about the war , the Greeks, Trojans, Paris, all about the world but himself. And she didn’t complain about it. She simply peered into his dry and pale eyes , as the candle laid the mountain of wax around it. It was on one such quiet night that he realized that she was the anchor while he was sitting on the deck of the ship enjoying the sunlight. The realization was almost mutual. The peace, calm and affection they felt in each other arms was something both souls yearned for. The smooth and silky hair was where he could spend a lifetime without contemplating. The honey hued arms, the velvet skin , the slow and gracious falling of the eyebrows on the eyes was something he was addicted to, like an opium hooker to opium.

He reached the door where the guard saluted him. He slipped into his bedroom and picked up a book. He waited for the sun to disappear, to slip again in the limbo of nothing and everything.

Love and The Great war- part I

Jean Renoir was sitting in Café ecstacy , Milan, Italy. He didn't know what day or date it was. Neither did he remember the time from which he had been frequenting the café. The red wine in the left hand and cheesed toast in his right had become a permanent feature of those long and dreary mornings.

He picked up the newspaper, La Avante, not out of curiosity but out of the pre mechanised habits he had developed over the past months. It was the newspaper that brought him back to the surface of war and reality. There is a thing about wartime that not a single soul can escape its gloom. The sun though bright lacks the energy and ferocity, the rain though comforting is melancholic, the rain though unchanged is contemplating. Jean saw the name of the dead and injured soldiers on the newspaper. Each day he saw the names and each day he longed to return to the war front.

After he had finished his breakfast and flipped through the blood stained wartime newspaper, he decided to go back to the hospital. He started walking listlessly towards the St. Claise hospital located in New Milan. The walk was twenty minutes long and Jean enjoyed it after the heavy early morning breakfast.He enjoyed watching the people of Milan going about their normal work of the as though nothing had happened. The cafes had started filling up and the few operas that were still open were preparing for the evening show. Jean noticed how the endless number of shops that lined the main thoroughfare  had dwindled down to a few grocery stores, all of them looked over by a woman or an old man incapable to pick a gun. The sight of a young and healthy man walking down the streets of Milan drew looks of disgust and contempt. All boys and men who could walk were expected to fight. But Jean with a crutch in his hands was spared of  these looks. At the end of the thoroughfare, he bought a couple of cigarettes from Mrs. Lambert’s everyday store. She helped him lit the cigarette and the first inhalation sent a chill down his whole body. The time between inhaling and exhaling sent him to a universe where his solipsistic existence marked life and its frivolities. Exhaling , he noticed the spirals of smoke in the clean Milan air of autumn. He paid her two lira and went forward towards his destination. The cigarette and the thoroughfare were finished in an uncanny unison. Hence, he found himself standing at the La Irdine bridge . The water beneath was glistening in the sun like a freshly forged metal sheet. So clean was the water , that he could see the silt and gravel on the river bed. The fishes of all sizes and hues were afloat almost oblivious of the prejudices of the world around. Leaning   over the rails, Jean threw the cigarette stub almost involuntarily. The stub was carried away by the light breeze in a doleful way as if the air was also mourning the loss of the loved ones in this fruitless and never ending war. The stub met the surface of water head on and pierced its silvery sheen with its hot and burning head. A tumultuous smoke went up as the stub drowned in the water, helplessly. It was only when the stub had settled with the slit that Jean moved from the spot. 

Silhouette

The sun is bright
but fierce
The rain is tranquil
but piercing
Is it merely a coincidence
Or a conspiracy
by something divine
The skin is numbed 
by the rain
baked, by the sun
The hand wants to write 
the mind refuses to comply
The heart's flooded
with waves unknown
while the soul runs dry
Suddenly, the eyes
are startled
by a silhouette
with sun above 
and damp earth beneath
The ears strain
to catch a breath
or sound
but all they hear
is the rain's muffled silence...

staring at the water

The night is cold and quiet
The moon in its full glory
is playing with the shadows
and the treacherous game makes him harrow


He chases them
while they phase
They glide over the brook
And wryly he looks


Staring at the water listlessly
His thoughts wander timidly
They rush through forests unknown
and seas unfathomed
while his heart is unbound


Staring at the water listlessly
A beautiful face bows over him
Two souls on the brook's edge
hope that the moon is caged

But the moon rises 
while they share their blues and violets