Shruti Sonal
I had died three hundred and thirty-three times
Till my body finally gave in
Ten times on the last day itself
First when I woke up in the morning
And did not find my son sleeping beside me
Second when I found him wrestling with a barbed wire
Trying to reclaim his playground and his childhood
Third when I carried him back to the house
And found no food to feed his starved body
Fourth when I heard gunshots in the distance
And knew my neighbor’s’ house had been pierced
Fifth when the ground beneath us shook
As if possessed by the jinns we heard of in tales
Sixth when screams were drowned out by sirens
Of foreign airplanes hovering in the hollow sky
Seventh when it was announced that
There would be some collateral damage
Eighth when I found no words to explain to my son
That the complicated term meant we’d have to die for peace
Ninth when I looked towards the heaven
And found no God to pray to
And finally tenth, when my breath gave in
And my bones melted like snow
I felt no pain, none at all
For I had died three hundred and thirty three times already
Till my body finally became dust, like the rest of my homeland
Shruti Sonal is a young poet based in New Delhi, reach her at [email protected]