My Short Story for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, hosted by Priceless Joy.
Photo provided by Dawn M. Miller.
Trying to count the years gone by, as he looked at the leafy concrete road he visualized a school boy carrying a home-made tote bag, walking under the bridge towards his school on the other side.
The Britishers had built the bridge for villagers’ convenience but, by the time people got habituated to using it, the country was divided into two and the metallic bridge soon became a rusted ‘border’ laden with moss and debris.
He looked around. Forest had overgrown where fragrant marigold and jasmine flowers bloomed once. The guava trees he used to climb to the top were now full of wild creepers.
As he sat brooding, a pair of pigeons came from nowhere. He recollected how his mother used to give him food for his birdy friends he met along this school pathway.
The pigeon pair suddenly fluttered away, vanishing out of sight over to the other side of the bridge. He decided. He too will cross the bridge and visit his old pals. No border can stop him today.
(The sub-continental borders were formed in 1947 when India got independence and was divided into two countries.)