To run home again
He stared up at the whitewashed
ceiling. He could not remember for how long he has been in the hospital
now. All he knew was that after the blast his whole troop had been
hospitalized. Only he and two others had the fortune of to be alive. He
knew that the others were already discharged. The final soldier had been
taken home on the shoulder of a sobbing brother. Yet, the soldier was
grinning. "See you mate." He had called. "Or, rather, I won't see you."
 He had started laughing uncontrollably, and was hastened out of the
ward by a muttering nurse. Only later did he discover that this
particular "mate", was blinded for life. He felt rather sorry.
That man had a strong passion for reading, it seems unlikely that he
would ever be able to do so again. The only problem was that he had no
idea how seriously he was injured. He could not get up. Or rather, the
hawk-eyed attendant will not let him get up. Whenever he tried, the
attendant would rush over, shouting, "What do you think you are doing,
mahatthaya?
Keep still or I will call the doctor, won't I"? Tall and rather
handsome, he was not the type one would expect to see as a foot soldier.
He was the sort of person you would see on television advertisements
telling the audience what a thrill it is to be a part of the battle. In
fact, he had been featured in one. "I don't exactly feel 'thrilled'
now."
He said to himself. "Mahaththaya, it's time for your medication,
isn't it?" The annoying attendant was at his bedside. As he took the
half a dozen pills, the attendant went on talking. There is good news,
isn't there The doctor says you will be fit to go
home in several days, doesn't he?"
He almost choked on the pills.
"What? Are you sure?" he asked.
"Of course!" The attendant gave him a sour look, as if to show how
insulting it felt to be doubted.
"I know everything that happens `round here, don't I?" The attendant did
not bother to keep the note of dignity out of his voice.
"Well" he replied, "In that case, thank you very much for the news".
However, he was not sure whether the attendant heard it or not, for
he was already half way to the door, to tell off an old lady for coming
into the ward when the visiting time was over.
He did not care. He felt over the moon. He was going to go home! He
missed his family very much but more than anything, he missed his little
daughter. Last time he saw her, she had just turned two. Talking
non-stop, half of the words which nobody but she herself understood, she
was the soul of the home. He could picture her right now, talking with
the squirrels, running after the dog, yelling “Naughty bawwa! Naughty
bawwa!” and waving a stick.
Forgetting where he was, he laughed aloud. That girl had some
character. He knew.
Somehow, she had managed to be the pet of her very strict
grandmother, her happy-go-lucky grandfather and of the whole
neighbourhood. She dared to question her grandmother about superstitions
in a way that at the age of 27, he himself did not dare. Somehow, these
childish inquiries rather than making the old lady angry, made her more
humane. At the age of two, she had a way with people, which-he felt
sure-would lead her to a bright future. She would be about five years
old now. He had repeatedly applied for leave in order to go home. But
they were repeatedly rejected.
“Ha, now see if you can stop me from going home to my baby” He said
menacingly to nobody in particular.
 From under his pillow, he took out a crumpled picture of the little
girl who had apparently inherited her father’s looks. He smoothed the
lines as best as he could.
“Thatthi is coming home, baby, “ he said to the picture quietly, And
laid a kiss upon it. Holding it close to his heart, he fell in to a deep
sleep. A sleep full of dreams.
He saw his daughter running forward to meet him, as he reached the
gate. He took her in his arms and swung her round. Her joyous yells
echoed around the neighbourhood. His wife was looking at the two of
them, teary eyed.
saw them racing down to the river; he saw them plunging into the deep
waters; he saw himself teaching her to swim; he saw them stretched on
the sandy bank, looking heavenwards. He saw himself going to school with
her on her first day; he could hear her proudly telling her friends
about her “Thatthi”, and about all sorts of adventures, embroidering the
stories here and there.
He saw the three of them walking hand in hand on beach, looking at
the sunset.
He smiled in his sleep. He was so happy and contended that he did not
hear the doctors approach him.
“We are thinking of sending him home day after tomorrow. We have done
all we can,” said the younger of the two.
“Yes, we should have as many beds vacant as possible. Under the present
situation...” the older doctor left his sentence hanging.
“And, Sir, I have been meaning to ask you,” said the younger. “This
patient has no idea of his situation. I have been wondering how to break
it to him....” He trailed off hopefully.
“What? Do you mean to tell me that this soldier has no idea that he has
lost both his legs?”
- Minoli Wijetunga
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