The fences on both sides had become very narrow these days. The air carried the scent of gunpowder, and shadows of fear lingered in people's eyes. Those who once lived on the same land now stood under two different flags.
Mukesh Pal held a rifle in one hand and binoculars in the other, gazing across the border. His orders were clear: report any movement immediately. But for the past ten minutes, his binoculars remained fixed in one direction.
Two hundred meters beyond the border, in the half-abandoned village, a fifty-five-year-old man was gathering essential belongings with his grandson. The government had ordered the entire village to evacuate - war could break out at any moment. Raja used to make clay toys and sell them in nearby villages and towns. Now, he was packing his Clay Horses - recently crafted - into a trunk. That was all the belongings that fit into a Suzuki pickup. Five or six other pickups stood nearby, being loaded with other families' possessions. Raja and his grandson, Humayun, stepped forward to board the vehicle.
As soon as the driver started the engine, the sound of a stone hitting the back of the pickup echoed. Both the driver and Raja quickly got down and moved toward the rear. There, they found a stone wrapped in paper. The driver tossed the stone aside and unfolded the paper.
"Dear Raja, forgive me for being a servant of the Indian government. Because of its wrong decisions and false pretences, you are forced to leave your village - the same village where you once gave shelter to others. But I promise you this that when you return, your home and my Clay Horse will be waiting for you, safe and sound. Yours, Mukesh."
As the driver read, Raja looked toward the border and saw a hand waving from behind a small hill. Swallowing his tears, Raja looked at the Clay Horse holding in his hand, waved it in the air, and placed it against the wall of his house.
Ten days later, when Raja returned, he found the walls of his home intact. Overjoyed, he stepped forward - but then a scream escaped his throat. Right at the threshold of the main gate lay the bullet-riddled body of Mukesh Pal, and beside it, written in blood:
"I kept my promise."
And in Mukesh's hand, the Clay Horse was drenched in blood.
Mukesh Pal held a rifle in one hand and binoculars in the other, gazing across the border. His orders were clear: report any movement immediately. But for the past ten minutes, his binoculars remained fixed in one direction.
Two hundred meters beyond the border, in the half-abandoned village, a fifty-five-year-old man was gathering essential belongings with his grandson. The government had ordered the entire village to evacuate - war could break out at any moment. Raja used to make clay toys and sell them in nearby villages and towns. Now, he was packing his Clay Horses - recently crafted - into a trunk. That was all the belongings that fit into a Suzuki pickup. Five or six other pickups stood nearby, being loaded with other families' possessions. Raja and his grandson, Humayun, stepped forward to board the vehicle.
As soon as the driver started the engine, the sound of a stone hitting the back of the pickup echoed. Both the driver and Raja quickly got down and moved toward the rear. There, they found a stone wrapped in paper. The driver tossed the stone aside and unfolded the paper.
"Dear Raja, forgive me for being a servant of the Indian government. Because of its wrong decisions and false pretences, you are forced to leave your village - the same village where you once gave shelter to others. But I promise you this that when you return, your home and my Clay Horse will be waiting for you, safe and sound. Yours, Mukesh."
As the driver read, Raja looked toward the border and saw a hand waving from behind a small hill. Swallowing his tears, Raja looked at the Clay Horse holding in his hand, waved it in the air, and placed it against the wall of his house.
Ten days later, when Raja returned, he found the walls of his home intact. Overjoyed, he stepped forward - but then a scream escaped his throat. Right at the threshold of the main gate lay the bullet-riddled body of Mukesh Pal, and beside it, written in blood:
"I kept my promise."
And in Mukesh's hand, the Clay Horse was drenched in blood.
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