Airplanes In The Sky

The ground thundered and a roaring sound pierced the atmosphere. Argha looked up and saw two jets streaming across the sky. To someone else's eyes, they were just two grey dots leaving a trail of grey smoke, gliding through the pale blue sky. But all saw was the elegance of the jets. He could only imagine their elegant and streamlined shape, the magnificence with which they took flight like an eagle.

It was his dream to be in the air force, to fly a jet that he could look at with pride. True, the  idea wasn't completely original. His father had been in the air force. His admiration of his father was probably what inspired him to dream of a career which had his life at stake. The only sad part was that he had to think of his father in the past tense. His father wasn't with him anymore.

He remembered almost nothing of his childhood, but he remembered that day. He was making the obligatory amount of fuss about drinking his daily glass of milk. His mother was chasing him around the house. This was routine. Till that day, he had been like any other child. He wanted the same things the others wanted and cried when he didn't get them. But it was the year 1999, and many children like him met the exact same fate in the span of a few months. At precisely ten in the morning, someone rang the doorbell and his mother kept his milk cup on the table to go check who it was. The next thing he heard was his mother crying. He peeped through the living room door and saw two men in uniform. His father's jet had caught fire. He hadn't survived.

The day should have dissuaded Argha from being in the armed forces, but it had quite the opposite effect. The day changed him forever. Now all he dreamt of was fighting for his country. For him, jets stood for freedom, a soldier's uniform stood for patriotism, a badge stood for honour and nothing else mattered.

"Goal!" someone yelled. Argha got distracted. He fixed his eyes on the football game in progress. A group of kids crowded around the one child, the one that had scored the goal. After some pats on the back, all the players dispersed, resuming their positions.

Argha sighed. He was a 'different' kid. He wasn't like them. He cared for his country, not some stupid football game anybody could play.

A small boy with lanky legs ran in Argha's direction. He looked new. Argha had never seen him in the neighborhood. Nobody was letting the ball come in his direction. Argha smiled. One day, he's be on a jet, leaving behind this petty little playground where kids didn't know how ro make the new kid feel included.

The new boy ran left and then right, and in the process, his eyes fell on Argha. His eyes asked the question his voice did not, "Why aren't you playing?"

Someone else answered on Argha's behalf, "Let him be, he can't play".

The word 'can't' [pierced through Argha's little heart like a dagger. The hurt was something he faced everyday, but everytime he felt it, the wound felt raw and exposed. 'Can't' was the wrong word. It implied inability. He chose not to play. He wasn't like the other children! He was different! He was special!

"I can play. One day I will!" he cried out. The game stopped and a multitude of apologetic expression were directed at Argha. "They said I'll be able to do everything one day! They promised!"

But nobody had the guts to comfort him as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Feeling alone in a sea of sympathy, Argha grabbed his crutches and tried to get up without his mother to help him. He failed. He could dream of being the great man in uniform, but he was just a little boy. He could dream of flying jets but he was the boy who couldn't walk. He was the boy who really was challenged, the one who would have to learn to take a step before he learnt to take flight.