By Debodeep Chakraborty
In the quiet, forgotten country of Itma, there lived a boy named Isma. Isma had never seen the world - he was born blind - but he had a heart that could feel more than eyes ever could.
He lived with his father in a small, crumbling house on the edge of the town. Life was hard. His father worked long hours, picking up daily wage jobs - carrying bricks, cleaning drains, anything to feed his son. Yet, despite their poverty, their bond was rich.
What Isma loved the most in the world were crackers - the sound of them. Every time there was a festival or a wedding, he would tug on his father's hand and ask,
"Can we go listen to the crackers?"
And his father, no matter how tired or broken, would smile and lead him through the winding streets, closer to the noise. Isma would laugh and clap, his face glowing with joy as the sky filled with thunder he could not see but loved to hear.
One year, when Isma turned ten, the crackers came early. But this time, there were no festivals. No colors in the air.
War had come to Itma.
Planes roared above. Bombs fell like rain. The ground shook with each blast. The sky bled smoke and screams.
But to Isma, it was a celebration.
He sat by the small window, clapping his hands in delight.
"Baba, so many crackers! Is it someone’s wedding?"
His father pulled him away from the window, panic in his eyes. They hid in a corner of their home as the bombing drew closer. But Isma couldn't stop smiling.
Then, the sound of boots. Shouting. Doors crashing.
The enemy army had reached their street.
Isma giggled, thinking more crackers were coming. But his soft laugh echoed through the silence - and was heard.
A soldier kicked open the door.
He aimed his gun at Isma.
His father shielded the boy with his body, raising his hands.
"Please… he is just a child. He doesn’t understand. Take me instead."
Isma, confused, held his father's hand.
"Baba, where are you going?"
His father looked at him, tears in his eyes, and whispered,
"To light some crackers for you, my son."
The soldier dragged the father outside. A moment later, a single shot cracked through the noise.
Isma, sitting alone in the darkness, burst into laughter.
"Thank you, Baba! That one was the loudest!"
And the war went on.
War does not just destroy cities. It silences fathers. It blinds love. It turns laughter into tragedy.