Nineteen Year Old Pictures
Lately, it seems his days are strung on a wire; each dropping down to settle against its fellow in an inconsequential grey-rainy-day sort of way. James does not mind rainy days, and he enjoys midsummer chills and light, freezing rains. He is glad to think of peacetime now, because even after so many years he does not like the sharpness that lingers in the colours of the past.
“Shell shock,” they used to whisper in the hospitals. It had been 1945, hadn’t it, when they did not know how to cauterize a wound, let alone treat a man who shuddered feverishly at the sound of the word war. “Shell shocked, poor man. Let him go home. Let him rest.”
Let him rest, leave him be. And so James had been left to simply exist, developing a life for himself in a world of upcoming automobiles and engines, poring over car magazines with a desperation that belied sadness. He is an old man now, almost twenty years later, with hair that turned ungracefully grey at the temples and eyes that were bagged and blackened.
It is an inconsequential day. James is glad to have these, glad to brush off the trials and tribulations of his own life for a little while; glad to sip tea and think, there are better things to come. Still, it is lonely in his shabby grey dwelling, where things seem colourless even when they are happy in a dull light, and there is no one to talk to. These days, he keeps thinking with a peculiar sort of quickness inside him, there will never be another war such as that, and he feels somewhat better.
The teakettle grows insistent.
The newspaper clunks against the door, and he picks it up guiltily. He does not have sufficient funds to pay for it — no matter, he will not be this destitute after the veteran pension comes in, so he places the paper by his chair and goes to get his tea.
James tilts the kettle and watches the steaming dark liquid swirl into the cup; watches the milk settle in clouds as he stirs it in with the sugar. Then he goes to get his paper. He will sit down in the armchair and he will sip his tea and read the classifieds section. Tea in hand (he is becoming an astonishingly regulated old gentleman, he supposes ironically), he unrolls the paper.
And suddenly, he finds it increasingly difficult to breathe.
THE USA AT WAR WITH VIETNAM, roars the headline boldly.
He thinks, he thinks—he thinks he is sick. Or dreaming. Or drowning.
His face is sallow and empty suddenly but he does not notice (my face I don’t mind it – for I am behind it, screamed a limerick in his head.)
Nineteen years and a war have a way of changing a man.
He barely notices the teacup falling out of his suddenly limp hand.
He can only think in nineteen-year old pictures, but he doesn't want to see them again. He doesn't want to see.
USA AT WAR WITH VIETNAM! FIRST TROOPS TO BE DEPLOYED COME NOVEMBER!
“Shell-shock, poor man. Let him go. Let him rest.”
“Let him go home. He has seen far too much.”
“A medal of honour. Give him that, at least.”
He sees red light and white bombings. He was there.
He would have been so glad if he hadn’t.
He steps backward. The remains of the teacup crunch beneath his heel. He glances at them dimly and tries to pick them up, but the pieces remain pieces.
He thinks, vaguely, this is the first cup I've broken in years, because he does not want to think anything else. And he slumps down on the floor beside it with the newspaper still clutched in hands that will not stop trembling.
Written by Neha Shaji
Cambridge A-Levels
“Shell shock,” they used to whisper in the hospitals. It had been 1945, hadn’t it, when they did not know how to cauterize a wound, let alone treat a man who shuddered feverishly at the sound of the word war. “Shell shocked, poor man. Let him go home. Let him rest.”
Let him rest, leave him be. And so James had been left to simply exist, developing a life for himself in a world of upcoming automobiles and engines, poring over car magazines with a desperation that belied sadness. He is an old man now, almost twenty years later, with hair that turned ungracefully grey at the temples and eyes that were bagged and blackened.
It is an inconsequential day. James is glad to have these, glad to brush off the trials and tribulations of his own life for a little while; glad to sip tea and think, there are better things to come. Still, it is lonely in his shabby grey dwelling, where things seem colourless even when they are happy in a dull light, and there is no one to talk to. These days, he keeps thinking with a peculiar sort of quickness inside him, there will never be another war such as that, and he feels somewhat better.
The teakettle grows insistent.
The newspaper clunks against the door, and he picks it up guiltily. He does not have sufficient funds to pay for it — no matter, he will not be this destitute after the veteran pension comes in, so he places the paper by his chair and goes to get his tea.
James tilts the kettle and watches the steaming dark liquid swirl into the cup; watches the milk settle in clouds as he stirs it in with the sugar. Then he goes to get his paper. He will sit down in the armchair and he will sip his tea and read the classifieds section. Tea in hand (he is becoming an astonishingly regulated old gentleman, he supposes ironically), he unrolls the paper.
And suddenly, he finds it increasingly difficult to breathe.
THE USA AT WAR WITH VIETNAM, roars the headline boldly.
He thinks, he thinks—he thinks he is sick. Or dreaming. Or drowning.
His face is sallow and empty suddenly but he does not notice (my face I don’t mind it – for I am behind it, screamed a limerick in his head.)
Nineteen years and a war have a way of changing a man.
He barely notices the teacup falling out of his suddenly limp hand.
He can only think in nineteen-year old pictures, but he doesn't want to see them again. He doesn't want to see.
USA AT WAR WITH VIETNAM! FIRST TROOPS TO BE DEPLOYED COME NOVEMBER!
“Shell-shock, poor man. Let him go. Let him rest.”
“Let him go home. He has seen far too much.”
“A medal of honour. Give him that, at least.”
He sees red light and white bombings. He was there.
He would have been so glad if he hadn’t.
He steps backward. The remains of the teacup crunch beneath his heel. He glances at them dimly and tries to pick them up, but the pieces remain pieces.
He thinks, vaguely, this is the first cup I've broken in years, because he does not want to think anything else. And he slumps down on the floor beside it with the newspaper still clutched in hands that will not stop trembling.
Written by Neha Shaji
Cambridge A-Levels
