Amma

• Megha Mani Maran, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2021

Living life without warnings. Appreciating the gifts brought by life whether it be the greyness of the excruciating times or the soaring fireworks of the bright present. After all, there is only one life to live. These serine thoughts became the rhythm of the pounding beats.
It had been quite the sight of home as the busy air had streamed across the midst of a summer evening at Nagasaki. The echoes from the crooked streets had painted the salient picture of the tiered houses clinging onto the hillsides of the inner bay. As gold had been mined by the great efforts. As soft silks were woven into delicate kimonos. Home had been home. As busy children synchronised their hands making Chanpon. The divine scents of the scrumptious soupy delights had found their way through the unsealed windows, bringing the heavenly warmth. The final shades of peacefulness had completed the sacred portrait of home. Family. Unity. Belonging had been the other half of the heart of home. Elders had led the path of teaching to learning. Learning to remember. Remembering to live. Mothers had spoken the words of the art of planting roses in graves and shaking the right hands. Fathers had prepared the way of living one life. Together, they watered the wild stems of branches of family.
Nagasaki. A town filled with joyful echoes that planted the seeds of colourful memories. The treasurable moments of the soft giggles to the sweet melody of mother’s love echoing past the -
The silent prayers for peace by the wounded kimonos had showered across the blessed temple shrines. The elders had whitened the tainted ends of the road of life, as the gust of wind blew noose around the roots of roses planted on graves.
The trees stood solemn, mirroring the silence which enveloped the streets. The soft pinks which once stood as an omen of prosperity stood as a reminder of what was lost. The painful cries of children continued to echo past the crooked streets. A sense of blissfulness had faded. The rain in the season of hope had dwindled into the epoch of hostility. “Although we were the ones who were thought to break the political handshakes between communities, we wanted to live the one life given”-
The mushroom cloud stood salient. Windows had been shattered into a thousand pieces and others sank into broken piles. The grounds were once again flat.
Miles away, the distant sirens attempted to compensate for the chaos that entered the paths of the painful cries. Ears had deafened. Breathing now had become difficult. The abandoned streets were filled with endless piles of bodies on either side. Memories of the blissful moments had darkened. Home wasn’t home.
Drowned into the depths of despair. The palpable sense of loss swarmed across the wounded hearts as each step had sirened the ears with crackles of bones. Feet that were covered with soft pink petals of the cherry blossoms had been stained by the red pool of innocent blood. The silence had spoken the language of absence of Mothers and Fathers. Sons and Daughters. The innocent children who had paid the respect of bowing down to their beloved mothers and fathers. Many had drifted into the hope of meeting in other worlds whilst others were splashed with black paint as they wept a thousand tears.
As Westerners have perceived us as the enemies, the tears of our children will forever ring past the Chanpon carts. The guns of the soldiers had finally fallen silent. The last body had fallen. No one to mourn for him. The sons and daughters had now taken the seat of elders, speaking the language of wisdom. A string question remained unanswered as the clouds began to hover over the straight line of black coats.
“Why?”