A mother, a son, an aunt

A mother, a son, an aunt
a burning coffin, the back of an ambulance
except, they were still alive.
They wouldn’t have been there, if that bullet hadn’t struck him.
They wouldn’t have been there, if that bullet had killed him.
That would have been mercy.
How does a mother comfort her bullet-ridden son as inflammables splattered and trickled on their bodies?
What words of courage or curse would a son utter of the last nightmare at the sight and cry of his mother and aunt’s skin blistering and catching fire?
It didn’t seem long ago scents of infancy lingered when the mother nurtured him
But now, the last scent of them was of their own bodies burning.
Her identification said she was ‘meetei’ but her son bore a tribal name.
Which god did she turn to for comfort in the growing wails and screams when their bodies were set afire by people who carried the same blood as hers?
All because she married and birthed tribal blood. The lowly status they once abhorred but now seek as a privilege.
For some, there is peace and closure in burning the dead, a cremation when final goodbyes are uttered with trembling lips.
But how does one say goodbye to those burned while still alive?