Anand philosophically states: “On quiet days and nights exactly unlike today, when am alone at the fence, I sometimes think–A bullet can feed a mouth. Why waste it?”
Now with typical army fervour: “So, my brother, aim and fire. Pray that your bullet always finds its mark, else that is one hungry kid you just killed. For sure.”
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Anand: “And when you do meet my wife, please do tell her that in my dying moments I only remembered her but missed only my Bullet, my Royal Enfield 500! Ah… How I used to ride her?”
Ashwathamma: Ride whom?
Both laugh.
Anand puts on his Ray Ban Aviator one last time with hands that drip of his own blood. He takes a cigarette and holds it in his mouth. One last puff is what he desires. Searches for a matchbox in his pocket(s). He concludes that he has exhausted all his matchsticks one-by-one just like his bullets.
Anand requests Ashwathamma: Chap, ek aakhri sutta? Aapke paas maachis hain?
Ashwathamma: My pleasure, Sir.
Ashwathamma moves. Suddenly, a bullet finds its mark. Anand gapes through Aswathamma’s forehead. For the first time in his army life, Anand weeps. Ashwathamma did not even get a final goodbye.
All is quiet on the western front. If only for a moment.