He was sat on his rocking chair with an open book pressed against his chest. His face couldn't be seen.It was turned the other side, towards the window, the only source of light at that dusky hour.His chair wasn't rocking. Not anymore.
Tina's grandfather was 81 that day when he breathed his last. He was 32 when he with his entire family had to leave everything behind to catch the last train to some place far away from their home. Some place really far away from their riot-inflicted homeland. They never got the chance to collect valuables or farewells. 2 years later, it was still too dangerous to even attempt the return. The tensions had surged and their home was now
in another country.
Tina grew up listening to the stories of her country's 60-year long freedom struggle against the rule of the Raj, and how her grandfather fought in it. All these years,he kept in touch with his friends from the struggle through postcards. Thoughts and memories confined in those 3.5"X 5" pieces of paper.
One such postcard was used as a bookmark in that book he was reading that day on his rocking chair. The postcard talked about a trophy he and his friends won as an arduous victory over a fierce opponent. About how after all these years, whilst the victorious spirit still floats high, the trophy is now corroding. The shine is lost on the withering leaves of memories.
The postcard had arrived 2 days before his chair stopped rocking.
This post is my entry for the weekly photo prompt writing for The Magpie Tales .
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