dream, FICTION, poetry


And the little girl who wasn’t more than six years old, decapitated the man and his daughter.
She was just following a short story that had gone wrong.

Her family was welcomed by a woman and her son. The son was no more than eight years old.
The war had spoiled everything- from relations to enmity- everything. The boy’s father had been killed by the “Nazis” of the dream.
They had spared no one.
They had no reasons for doing so. This wasn’t a sport.

But just like leaves hanging on to the tree even after a nasty cyclone, the little girl and her father hung on to life, pulling it off by the skin of their teeth.
The two families were hunted by the same hunter; they were suffering the same fate, recuperating from the same malady.
They were happy together in the few hours when they forgot everything and watched their children play.

There came a woman knocking on the mother’s door. The four people inside the house were alarmed and out of breath. The knock meant death.

But not today – the woman who stood smiling, holding her daughter’s (who wasn’t more than four years old) hand, was a friend of the mother. But, the woman was a mass-murderer’s wife.

Despite her hammering heart, the mother opened the door and let the stylish woman and the daughter inside, asked her if she wanted tea and cookies – and was denied curtly. She said that since they were friends, this would be a formality.

They laughed heartily, forgetting the deaths and murders.
The children played happily just like any other day, making castles of old cereal boxes. They used pages from books to decorate the fragile castle. They dreamed that their dream was coming true. They fought, only to kiss later. They were children of dreams.

The women remembered the good old days, trudging softly on the present, stealthily.

The man played the neighbor, who happened to just drop by.


And the world was changing. Only hours ago they’d been drinking to their health and friendship which was to last till the end of the world.

No one forgets the happy days. Happy days are so rare these days.
No one can forget the cold days. Sad days are immortal. Irritating.

The mother and the father were leading the fight back. They did not have many people with them, but they were enough for the unresisting Nazis.

Only the daughter and the father held the swords. The mother walked behind them with a scythe. They killed everyone on the way to reclaiming their Freedom.
They decapitate every man, woman and child. None resisted, or fought back. The Nazis knew their end was this. The way to end was this.
The cold blooded murders took place happily.

The father was told to spare the stylish woman’s husband and her other daughter- who wasn’t more than seven years old. They were the friend’s family after all.
They went on the rampage with the same vigour but now, looked at the peaceful faces of the victim – before the kill.


The mother held the father’s daughter’s hand. And the woman held her daughter’s- who wasn’t more than four years old. They walked on the road, which was brimming with vile laughter and festivity. They were going home to the mother’s son.

The woman told her dear friend that she hasn’t heard from her husband.
The mother said that they were spared.

The father’s daughter asked who they were talking about.
The mother told her that they were talking about a man and a little girl, who were in the building they had just attacked.

The father’s daughter remembered a man.
The girl remembered a child.
They were holding hands, she remembered.
Their eyes were moist, she remembered.
She remembered them precisely.
And she remembered her indecisive moment before she brought her sword hard on their necks.

She remembered how the strength for the kill wasn’t enough.
She remembered how in that brief moment she had dreamt of the girls being friends and playing together. She had even dreamed that her father had a friend in that man.
She had closed her eyes and opened it to see the bloody corpses.
She then remembered her father running to her and taking her to the next victim.

The father’s daughter told the mother that she had killed them.

The mother looked at her with hatred.

The mother told the woman what may have had happened.


The father met them on the road. The air was bad. His little girl was shocked. The mother was angry. The woman was crying and her daughter did not know what the hell had happened.
The father was told everything.
The father cried and put his head between the mother’s head and shoulder.
He whispered to her that his daughter did not know who the man and the girl were. For her they were what they told her they were, someone like the Nazis.


Kashiv woke up with a sudden jolt and looked around. His eyes were searching…

Image courtesy – Pinterest

36 thoughts on “THE DREAM”

  1. So much more to this than meets the eye! The dream sequence with the poignancy and tragedy of war, the politics, guilt and double edged sword of truth and lies, wrong and right that go into it… Wow!

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thanks a lot, Isha! You always encourage me. And you always get to the bottom of my post, where the seed is moist and ready to germinate. It is there that it starts and it is there that you catch the thread.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Everything that begin, ends. But it’s a recurring problem, which temporarily ends by blinding the eyes and one can never tell who is right. Thanks a lot for stopping by and reading!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. The Runner is a runner and a swimmer, a swimmer!
        The shadow is a progeny of the dark, just like the body that leaves the soul and mixes with the ground.
        Everything will leave you, even your thoughts leave you through words.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. The gifts God endowed me with to write, *&* the talent God endowed with me to make others feel what I feel, what I want them to feel that-which they want to feel=I never have writer’s block *&* I write constant, deep, *&* complete!

        Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s