As the train let out a very loud sound, it startled me. I was dreaming about the home I had just left behind . It is a marvel of life, how we spend years in a place, without as much as noticing the slightest of objects that make big differences in our lives , but when we leave the place, the people, each and every little object keeps hitting the memory back and fading aways , like a pendulum the mind keeps going back and forth through the past.
Such was my state when the train pulled into the platform at this remote village called Servia. My fathers and forefathers, who have been the masters of colonization all their life, much to my distaste, have their eyes on this piece of land.
I had always kept a special dislike for the way the massacre of people was thought to be essential to extend dominance over a certain piece of land. My mother disliked it too, along with the fact that man had always differentiated into caste, class, and race. She beleived in one god and his billion followers. But then, she tried to convince me into not despising my father's actions by explaining to me the various examples of nature wherein one species has to dominate the other and lives have to be sacrificed in order to do this. This was never understood by me.
When I entered the village, I saw my uncle Leopol standing outside the platform .He was my father's colleague and companion. He appeared very sad.
As my mother came to him, he whispered something in her ear . Her expression's gave away the news. The news which mother was, in a way , aware of , but convincing herself all these days that the otherwise had occured. But no person has power over god.
My father had died.
To be more specific , he had been killed by one of the natives of Serpia who , like him, beleived that bloodshed was the ultimate solution.
And that evening we went to his graveyard as I laid flowers on his tombstone that read "In Loving memory of Colonel Francis Savez."
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