Early Morning Musings Part 4
I Dropping bombs must have been either very terrifying if you are ridden with a conscience, or very pretty if not, especially if you are high on patriotism. Imagine flying a huge metal pipe through black flak mushrooms, zigzagging through death like a two-wheeler in Pune, and as you make a U-turn back home, marvel at your doing. Little orange flowers, spreading like fireworks across a black earth. Brick and flesh bursting fountains of smoke. Whoever said “Death is an art” was surely a part of the bomber crew. II The wind is a liar. It promises freedom – a scent from the sea, coldness from the mountains, a feather or leaf from the East, the fresh petrichor from the West. Blasts you full in the face, freeing the hair, flying the beard, ringing the ears, releasing the heart and lungs