Galwan

Bugle, parade

Sharp creased trousers.

Honour.

A life. A bank account.

 Money to send back home

 For an old man, an old woman

A sister to be married,

A brother in school.

A flight, a truck, a posting.

Gun between my knees.

A name I’d never heard before.

But ours

A first.

Friends.  Brothers in arms,

A week; two.

My phone,

Clear screen, no connection.

A girl, some pay-cheques down,

Shallow waters by the Harmandir Sahib; the temple, the imam by the masjid, the SDM’s office.

We would marry.

June, my father, his white beard flowing

Sweat across his body

Hand on the wheel of an erratic tractor.

June, I, icy, freezing.

Nails on a cold rod.

One patrol.

Just one.

My father, his white beard flowing.

The boy from school.

His bag, his lunch box.

Me in a box.