Catapult Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

Remember, if you ever had played-
Shooting small stone pieces
In a game of your childhood
Using a simple looking device
Made of a forked wooden stick
Fastened with an elastic leather band
On its two prongs
Called a catapult.

I recollect-
The face of a dexterous neighbour
Who would take extra care
By collecting the good clay,
Mixing with water in right proportion
While making tiny balls,
Sun drying then for several days
Resulting in very hard bullets.
He would use those
And his skill
Very frequently
To scare away
The troops of monkeys
Invading my village
Destroying the farmers'
Vegetables and fruits.

Dark were those days
Several decades ago.
Rule of law hardly existed then
In our remote village.
Soon after the sunset
All the houses were locked
Covering under a veil of deep darkness.
If ever someone needed a help
Loudest of the cries won't reach anyone-
One has to wait till sunrise therefore.

With the passage of time
And the turn of events,
Following a village dispute
Bitter became our relationships.
All the neighbours got united
On the east and west.
To chase us way was the mission.
They won't let us stay there.

Groups of irate men
Calling each other
While yelling at my family,
Hurling the choicest abuses,
Surrounding us on three sides
Often rushed towards our house
Over the hedges
Unprovoked in the night.

Two adults,
Three little children
Expecting no outside help
Feared the losses of their lives.
We'd scamper away from the northern side
While the catapult expert rained bullets
Hitting all of us
In the stark dark nights.

I am alive still now.
The dark nights are over.
The aggressor is gone.
The grace of God is brightly visible.
The bullet marks on my body however
Reminds a story only few remember.