He stares at the sky for hours, silently
From one corner of the verandah-
Nursing with his other arm, strong
Veins out, the empty stump that
Grows out of his left shoulder.
And sometimes hums music of the old days.
He was muscular, not an ounce of fat
He was in the Army, Father told me
Not of his own choice, he wanted
To be a violinist. The house
Used to fill with melancholy-
When he played it.
When he did not.
Till one day, Grandmother tells me
It was mid-spring, they had the news
That he was alive, and safe- she had
Made Kheer for her son's arrival, and
She had dusted the trunk that contained
All the girls' photographs she wanted him to see.
Young man, straight from war- this was the time.
And he entered, swinging violently
All but one arm- went straight in his room
And his beloved violin, he shattered
At his Father's feet.
He wept.
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