The television is certain.
The television is certain.
The YouTube channels are certain.
The cover pages of dailies and weeklies are certain.
Maps appear.
Arrows move.
Experts speak in freshly ironed voices.
They say strategy.
They say history.
They say regional balance.
Infographics bloom—
colours, numbers, projections,
possible futures.
Nothing makes sense.
As the camera wanders,
there—
a school bag
resting against a low concrete edge
on a stretch of tarmac.
Everything else on the screen
blurs.
The bag is small.
Fabric printed with cheerful patterns
meant for a morning of classes.
It must have been packed
not long ago.
A notebook carefully placed.
A pencil sharpened.
Perhaps a lunchbox
wrapped in foil.
Somewhere, earlier that morning,
a child must have tugged
those straps over her shoulders,
complained about homework,
run out of a doorway,
lace loose,
late for the bell.
Perhaps she had planned
to show a drawing to a friend,
a butterfly
coloured in bright yellow red and black.
The media keeps explaining the war.
But all the history,
all the strategy,
all the certainty
cannot explain
why a school bag
sits alone on a road,
its straps fallen open,
its bright cloth
darkened
and stiff
with blood.
**
(Kamalakar Bhat is a bilingual writer, translator & professor of English. His published work includes a volume of essays by Kirtinath Kurtkoti, which he edited & translated)