NO-MARTYR’S LAND

The red velvet was growing on the cool stone like moss. My toes curled as I tasted the metal in the air. The wind was whistling and summer scent swished through and tousled my wet hair. My brother always told me a wise man always has one more alternative. I could only think that it was out of place. The dawn’s quintessential ambiance; my mother’s strong coffee; my brother’s baby’s wet gurgles; the soft skin, the dainty arms, the yellow silk sliding down the curve of Savita’s little waist, her clinking bangles, the honey eyes looking up slyly at me through her lashes- none of this fit in with the man who lay on the stone, benumbed. If I had chased after the rustling leaves, life would have been swung into the current of the wrong tide. An intruder’s sin lay on my land, so I dragged the man’s last breath into the river of life. It wasn’t my fate, and so rain didn’t fall. The summer’s breeze swept the land gaily.