If I was The Magician

He travelled across Asia during the Raj
in the army, world war two
in ships, on foot, in swamps, in fields
that looked similar to his own in the anonymous village.

He was a foot soldier, carrying a rifle with bayonet and few bullets
one of the multitudes that were littered across
the invisible boudaries of either sire of war
subservients holding fast to the orders and honour.

He even thought of writing his diary,
atleast that was mentioned in his letter
but no one ever discovered it, even after the war.
Perhaps, he hid it and never returned to the place.

The boy has known him only through stories
told by dadi or papa when he has not felt sleepy.
He tried to get dadi to read him the letters (there were only two)
when he was in 4th grade, but she only sang those songs
the language he could not understand, and held him close.

When war ended, he did not return
no one knew in which country he died, if he was burnt or buried
or if he was captured. Years later, a friend sent a note
said that he died in Burma, and was buried with other soldiers.

The boy was sitting in the classroom, examination
and wondering on one topic that he would write an essay on.