The Foot-box

Today our trainer shot down the football. That football was the last part of our childhood. The monks who had come here to spread peace during war, had left the football  behind. The monks were driven out of here by force. When me and other kids, of 10-15 years of age, were free from rifle shooting training, we used to play football. But today, our trainer felt we were getting distracted because of the football. They felt we are spending more time playing than training for war. So, to make the point he asked us to stand in a circle. He asked one of us to get the football.  I went and got the football from the box, where we usually keep it. I thought today the trainer will train us using football. I happily went jump-walking to get the ball. But, to my shock, he took the football from me, threw it in the air and shot it using his gun. We saw it torn to pieces, just like our childhood within seconds. The impact of high-calibre gun on the football shook us to the core. The whole day our hands were shaking. Even during training when we were holding guns, we were missing the targets. In silence we spent the day. But slowly the spirit was rising within us like a mysterious sea creature from the abyss. By evening, we were so excited, we wanted to play. Anything would do. We saw the box in which the football was kept, we took it and we started kicking it around. We started laughing and cheering, just kicking the box around. Our hearts were flying, like the box we were kicking around. The trainers were shouting. But the sound of our laughter, out-voiced them. They thought our spirits were in the ball, that our spirits would be crushed by tearing it. But the spirit is within us. And that spirit can make even the box roll like football.

~END~

(Author Notes: This story was written as part of creative writing workshop assignment, to use certain photographs to trigger our imagination. The photographs were of some masked militants, kids kicking around a box, some monks, etc. Teacher read out a better framed, similar story from a student of an older batch. I wanted it to be about kids holding on to their innocence, despite the world around them "going to dogs". But the story can do with much more sensitive treatment, I think. Also, why "going to dogs" should mean deteriorating? It should be "going to insensitive humans", no? But such is the world we live in.)