Sunaram tied the red and black band around his head and picked up his hand made rifle. He did not really know what to say to his mother while taking leave of her. It might be the last time he would see her. His mother was widowed. His father was a farmer who died of malaria due to the poor treatment he received at the local village hospital. He had no money to spare to go to the city and get his father treated there. In fact, going to the city, itself was a big bother. There being only one bus that left at 7 AM in the morning, it was impossible to take a sick man through a five hour journey in an overcrowded rickety old bus to the city. And he couldn’t possibly afford to hire a car which the richer, luckier folks did when they needed it.

Whose fault was it that they had no money? Whose fault was it that his father died so miserably? Being a young man of seventeen, he knew not exactly who to blame. But nevertheless his blood boiled in anger and pain.

After his father’s death, it was left upon him to earn for the family so that they could manage two square meals everyday. But it was difficult. He was not illiterate and had studied till his 9^th standard in the local public school. That was when he started failing again and again; until finally, he managed to reach his 10^th standard. And that was when his father was struck ill and died. Being educated to some extent, it didn’t suit him to do the manual labor that poor folks had to do. And that made him unhappy. There was no dignity in it.

Then one day in the evening, in the village, came a man of about thirty, flanked by armed youths aged not more twenty. They were all carrying guns and were dressed in smart military uniforms. The man seemed to be of great importance. He stopped at the local market and called upon all the people to listen. The village head who was present went and shook hands with the man. It seemed that the man was famous amongst the elders and was well respected.

And then, when the gathering was complete, he broke out into a speech. He spoke of the rich culture of the folks, the rich and fertile lands that their forefathers had owned. He bellowed on and on about how history stood witness to the hardships our past generations have had to face, how their rightful inheritance was taken away and why. It was only the government to blame, he said. He spoke of the oil fields which were rightfully theirs and how little the state earned because the companies owned by the rich who never had set foot on this pure soil, took away all the profits leaving the state with meager earnings. He spoke about the atrocities of the army which raped, plundered and murdered their people who gathered the courage to stand up against the state, at will. He paid his tributes to the martyrs of the land who had fought to free this land of the British. But to what end, he asked. Is this what their forefathers wanted?

The time for another freedom movement had come, he said. It was time for the tyrants and the corrupted leaders to pay for what they did. It was time for them to get back what rightfully belonged to them.

Sunaram was greatly moved. He knew someone was to blame for his father’s death. And here he had all his questions answered. His blood boiled with rage and desire for revenge. And he was not the only one. The crowd that was gathered there shared the same opinion and everyone shouted in unison. “Down with the dictators, long live our motherland”.

It was at this moment that it was decided that each family in the village would donate something or the other to this great revolution for freedom. Those who were rich donated money and those who were poor, well, it was suggested that they join the movement directly and do what others could not achieve and hence acquire martyrdom and respect that they never before had seen in their families. So, Sunaram, along with some of his friends, enrolled.

It was a tough life, training in the jungles. There were hardships they had never seen before. There were times when the weaker ones fell sick. They were sent back to the village and were looked upon with disgrace. But after a year of unimaginable toil, the platoon was ready for action. They were given a week leave to go back to their homes and meet their folks.

Sunaram spent the whole week helping his mother who was getting rather old. She would die soon. He had no brothers or sisters to look after her. And cataract made it all the more troublesome for her to survive everyday. He was troubled by the thought of her dying alone and uncared for. He even dreamed of her lying in bed and taking slow deep breaths, trying to cling on to life. The dream would come true some day and he could do nothing about it. He wondered if whatever he was doing or was going to do, meant anything. His mother would undergo the same fate as his father. In fact, it would be worse as he would not be there to tend to her needs in her last moments. Or maybe, he might get killed too in some unknown, unforeseen battle. Would killing more people prolong her life and bring her the comforts he had always dreamt of bringing to her?

Once again, Sunaram had no answers. He was not really a bright fellow. He was simple and straightforward. His motto in life, like Boxer’s in Animal farm by George Orwell, was “I will work harder”. And he did exactly that to become one of the respected members of his platoon.

The week of rest had ended and Sunaram prepared to leave. He put on his leather boots and his khaki uniform. There were things he could not comprehend. There were things that he wanted to understand and solve. But some things are impossible, or at least so difficult that it is not possible for everyone to do it. He was just another pawn in the chessboard played by the greater minds. And he intended to play his part well.

Taking up his backpack, he got up. He shot one look at his old mother, standing by the door. He tried to say something; and then he left without uttering a word. Nothing could be said anymore. This was his final goodbye.