I was returning to my house quite hurriedly. Roughen and montane north-east side of my war devastated country, though never safe after the dark, has become more vulnerable. I was a school teacher of the only school in our environs, which was demolished by bombings. Only few structures were remaining. Fortunately, my tottering house was one of those. But didn’t know for how long.

I was trying to speed up as much as I could on those roughen roads when I saw the little girl crying, in the light of my motor-cycle. She was standing on the debris wearing a frock; torn here and there, bare footed.  Her hair and body were covered in dust. Though stopping there was not safe, I had to. Such a little girl couldn’t be left alone there. I parked my motor-cycle and walked to her.

She looked frightened when I laid my hand on her head. I asked, ‘What are you doing here at this time? Where do you live?’

Instead of answering she indicated towards a heap of a pounded structure which once was a house.  I asked, ‘And your parents?’

She broke down in tears. I felt so helpless. I, myself, have lost so many dear and near ones including my wife and son. But you don’t need to bother about this.  Carry on with your analyses and criticisms and protests. However, since there is no point huffing to you, let me go back to the little girl.

Staying there longer would not be safe. So I thought of taking the little one with me and hand her over to the officials of the refugee camps in the morning. I told her about my plans, to which she mutely agreed.

My two storied house was diminished to almost half. The upper floor had become totally unusable. I had shrunken my life to the usable portion of the lower floor. We had to spend the night in that limited space. Supplies had been rationed when the situation worsened. So, we had to get accustomed to live the life within limitations. The most important point was that we were at least breathing.

I gave the little one a shirt and a trouser of my son to change and engaged myself in preparing the meal. She stood still with the clothes in her hand. I asked her, ‘Do you need me to change your clothes?’ She nodded. I cleaned and changed her clothes and went back to kitchen. She was very cold. I was wondering whether the girl can speak. She might have lost her speech in the sight of the appalling death and devastation around her. Might be she had never spoken at all.

During our meal I looked at her more attentively. She was eating, in silence, like she had not eaten in days. Such an innocent, pretty face she had. What had she done to deserve such a worthless life, I couldn’t make out. Suddenly, a thought came in my mind. Why hand her over? We didn’t have anyone except each other. We could be companions. I could be a father to her and she could be a daughter to me. We could fulfill each other’s life. The thought made my meal delicious. I ate with satiety and thought of talking to her after dinner.

I made a bed for her on the floor beside mine and ask her to come over. Obediently she came and sat face to face. I started talking, ‘Look dear, I do not know who you are. You do not who I am. Neither do we know each other names. But we are same in one way. We don’t have anyone except each other. I mean you have me and I have you. So, I was thinking that if you want to stay with me you can. I will not hand you over to them.’ I paused for a while and she kept looking at me. I didn’t know if she understood me, but I was feeling relieved for having the chance to talk to someone. ‘You know, I had a son of your age, I don’t know yours. He was in second grade. Did you use to go to school?’ I asked her and without waiting for her answer I continued,’ I used to teach literature in the same school. But I don’t remember seeing you in the school. War has wiped out many memories though. We used to go and come from the school together, in the same motor-cycle. He used to call it his horse. Do you like it? It’s good. That day I had to go somewhere else so his mother went to bring him from school. I had not gone far when I heard the bombing. By the time I came running all had turned to dust including my wife and son.’

She came up to me as tears came down from my eyes. She wiped my tears with her little soft hands which were cold. I smiled at her when she spoke for the first time since we had met, ‘Why do they fight?’ I was so pleased to hear her talking but I had no answer to the question, which I admitted, ‘I have no answer. In fact, no one has.  People give lots of reasons for wars but no answers.’ She looked at me bluntly, I realised those words were beyond her understanding. I asked her, ‘Who were there in your family other than your parents? She replied, ‘I had a brother. We used to fight. But no one had to die for that.’ I stared at her for few moments. She continued, ‘My father was a car mechanic. Mother used to cook tasty food for us every day. My brother and I used to go to school. In your school. That day we were going to bed when the first bomb was dropped near our house. We all panicked and started to leave the house when the second bomb came in. Only I could get out of the house. When I looked back our house was not there. It had turned to debris with my parents and brother. But before I could cry, the third one came in. I felt that so many needles pierced through my body. But that pain was just for a moment.’

A tremendous fear shivered me. Why were her hands are so cold? She looked at me with the same innocence. ‘I still can’t find my parents and my brother.’        

Streams of blood came down her body, her limbs. Her face turned pale, bloodless before she evaporated in the air.

I remained clamped to the bed, motionless.