This was definitely a prolonged hiatus in the gunfire from across the border. I raised my head and saw a buzzard taking a solitary flight. I tried to run but could barely totter. The precarious conditions which I had previously undermined had enlivened my macabre fears. I scratched my stubble and hollered at the top of my voice out of frustration. There was not a soul.
I had never believed colonel’s stories, always considered them to be his attempts at praising defence life by jacking them up a bit. It was his stab at breaking the drudgery of his lame job, which he claimed he carried out pretty doggedly all year long. The visitors’ diffident manner was always turned outwards by his enthralling, fervent anecdotes of his apparent heyday. He would slide down comfortably in his chair and cast a spell on the listener with stories of his marksman capabilities. He was a sniper of some order. But, I never wanted to sassy and tell him exactly what I thought about his trash stories. His face would have gone livid and he would have become furious. I always kept listening, which made me feel feeble sometimes. I was not the kinds who would sass him but listen patiently, smile appropriately and show my fake interest whenever he was so forthcoming. I used to think to myself, correcting his ways is like squaring the circle – a hopeless, meaningless, vain undertaking.
Once, colonel was cracking jokes about a black woman who had been gang raped by a group of troops near the docks. “The girl can’t tell her hole from a hole on the ground anymore”. This set Xobile’s teeth on the edge. But the colonel would not stop; nothing could make him realize that Xobile might take umbrage at his rudeness. I knew Xobile would soon go stark raving mad and strangle the colonel. I ordered him to retire to the barracks knowing his ephemeral bad temper. I knew he would forget this by the morning....
