MAY IT BE – Prologue

Everything stopped moving yesterday – ever since that call, the world came to a standstill. I don’t remember what I am doing throughout this time, the only memory I have is broken into screens where I see what’s happening around me, as if I didn’t live those moments myself but somebody put them into my head, asking me to accept it as reality.

That call – something about death, but it couldn’t be true;

the ride to the hospital, surely it’s not true;

the ride back home, is it true?;

nothing;

and then: this shroud?

My 17 years old son?

 

Summer in Karachi

O, silly, sullen summer breeze,

What do you see amiss?

The wind that holds her breath in wait,

Fair Maiden who won’t kiss.

The woolen blanket cast a dark shadow; within, the customers sipped chaye over bitter argument. It provided enough shade, but the heat the thick wool absorbed combined with the humidity on this sunny morning, drenched Chotu in his sweat. Mercury on the moods of the customers was a similar story – only an hour back, a scuffle had broken out between Dilbar Khan and Achakzai.

“Took her with her maidenhood” Achakzai had boasted about Dilbar Khan’s sister after smoking two joints. That had led to Dilbar Khan beating Achakzai a good deal before the others came to rescue. Two of Achakzai’s canines lay broken on the pavement where Cafe Quetta stood, marking Achakzai’s fleeing with a trail of purple blood. But scuffles like these were not uncommon in Cafe Quetta. There was a different unrest today, even Rehman Bhai judged so.

“My bones are silent today” The 40 years old innkeep said when Chotu went to him to refill his tray with more cups of chaye “there has never been an ill omen where my bones weren’t silent”

Chotu took the chaye and turned to the debate lit in the house today.

“your Prime Minister is dismissed by court,” Allah Dino said while chewing tobacco “such is the fate of those as steal from their country”

“We won’t desert his support” vowed Bilala, his tummy bouncing with his change of syllables “He is the true leader of this country”

“He is no leader.” proclaimed Imtiaz Khan as he scratched his white beard “the true leader is Imdad Khan, he does not steal”

“They are none of them leaders, ye fools” Allah Dino shouted, his fingers curled to a fist “They are both of them those rich bastards. I swear they do something for the likes of you or I will shit from my mouth”

“You shit from your mouth anyway, old tobacco teeth.” retorted Motorwala, a 17 years old mechanic.

Chaye tipped over the brim of the last cup on his tray as Chotu reached his final table. Hamdullah sat there, wearing his white doctor’s coat and his slim spectacles. He hailed from the North, where mountains spoke to the clouds. Like all northerners, his skin was pale snow, with little red spots of wisdom spread across his cheeks. He lived in Karachi as a student of medicine, and away from home he often tore bread at Rehman Bhai’s kitchen. Chotu liked speaking to Hamdullah whenever Cafe Quetta was less busy.

“Salam Alaik, Hamdullah” Chotu said in greeting as he approached

“Walaik, Naseemjan” Hamdullah replied. This was another reason Chotu liked Hamdullah, he called him by his birth name.

“Sangai Khair, Hamdullah?” Chotu asked while lowering the cup of chaye.

For all his effort to not spill it any further, as soon as he kept it on the table, a huge blast rang around them, shaking the very Earth beneath. Time itself slowed down; within a second, Chotu saw the cluttering of the cup on the saucer, the face of Hamdullah turning, and the cars parked on the street going up in fire. Whoosh, flames rose as high as Chotu imagined mountains to be. From one of the cars, a man emerged, burning arms spread wide and feet swaying on the ground in a mad dance, a drankard asking for a hug. His screams lasted a century in those few seconds before he fell on the floor, crisp in his death.

Chotu was slapped, shouted at, but Chotu did not blink. Nor did he speak a word. He stared like a man hypnotised by art, so Rehman Bhai swang Chotu on his shoulder and carried him, as the other customers also flee. Chotu saw Hamdullah carrying his bag of books  slung across his arm. Bomb, Chotu heard in the waste of words coming from Rehman Bhai’s mouth, terrorists.

His ears heard little, his brain was exhausted by the information his eyes sent its way. There from Rehman Bhai’s shoulder, he saw a hand, an arm, a leg – sprawled on the road in their bloody puddles, forgotten by their owners – a face with half the skull devoid of skin, bones without muscle in places, burned black from fire. There was a smell too, the sweetness of blood mixed with the bitter of ash and the tangy petrol and barbecue, giving the air a retchworthy aroma. Guts were exhibited on the grey concrete bathing in pools of blood and bile. Allah Dino stepped in one such pool and slipped as he ran. Chotu closed his eyes and opened them again, unable to believe if this is reality. Too bright, Chotu thought.

Too bright, and then he fell asleep.

A to Z Challenge: Flower.

[This story is continued from ” Away From The Sun ” – a memorial of a war survivor.]

After the funeral, I bid goodbye to Naseema to start a lone journey. Not because I was fed up of her, but because I needed to be all on my own. She insisted I travel with her and a hundred more people across the border, where the neighbouring countries had started accepting refugees. I couldn’t bear to go with her though, not away from the land where the blood of my beloved had drained.

It took me two days to properly be acknowledged with the country’s real condition. Until now, I only thought the rubble and broken masses were in restricted areas. Now that I was on foot and traveling here and there, I saw that the entire country was stripped of any development. It was the ghost of a civilisation that lived here now, in the bare ground that absorbed radiation without protest. Days were dark with fear, nights were filled with dread. I walked all the way from Rehmatullah Bagh to my old neighbourhood, where I once lived with Gul Khan.

The streets were unrecognisable. Where once houses rang of happy children and streets were filled with gossiping wives going about their chores, an empty silence now resided, filling up their void in a desperate attempt to be noticed. Shadows lined the streets in every corner, adding to the gloom that was not only visible, but could be felt in your bones.

Hope went away very soon. My house was a mass of broken blocks, but I stayed there nevertheless. I used to sleep in what used to be the living room. With its ceiling gone and a series of parallel construction beams exposed, I half wished I would collapse with this house one day. Perhaps life would be so kind to take me when I was asleep. My neighbour, Rukhsana, came to give me food every day. It was tasteless, and I barely remember eating a few bites every now and then. Rukhsana had worry in her sunken eyes. I didn’t. I only had grief.

My heart was like the land that lay outside, stretched wide, with no growth on it. No hope, no destiny, no future, just staying there. Existing, and doing nothing else.

I spent most of my time outside the house but within the boundary walls. I sat there in what used to be our lawn, staring into the once green earth that was now stubbornly weedless. My heart sank even more when I saw this.

Rukhsana was going away as well. She wanted me to come with her family. Her husband had sold their house in very cheap money, and they were moving with their child away as refugees. She tried persuading me every day. Every day I found no reason to agree with her. There is no use in staying, she said. No use in going away either, dear Rukhsana. No use living. If only you understood.

Yesterday she told me they’re going to leave tomorrow. She said make up your mind, and that she will come say goodbye if I didn’t decide to go with her.

In my dreams, I saw the hospital. I saw a thousand mothers wailing, a thousand dead babies, a thousand nurses raped. I saw no hope. But at the end of it, Gul Khan was standing at the horizon, smiling, and he said two words “go on”

I woke up with tears in my eyes and I couldn’t breathe. My body was drenched in sweat. I moved outside through the back gate  to air my lungs and saw a glorious sunrise. From between the rubble of the broken city rose the golden lamp, oblivious to the problems of the world, going about its work, bringing a new day back to life.

A new day. I stood motionless. For the sunrise was not the only thing I saw that awed me. It was my first time since my arrival in the back porch. In the middle of the rubble and the broken tiles stood a small shoot of green leaves, with a single pink flower. It cracked through tiles and tradition, broke through darkness, and brought hope back where it belonged.

A to Z challenge: Away From The Sun – tribute to war victims.

I breathed heavy as I sat among the rubble of the broken buildings in my shelter. A distant sound of another bomb exploding sent shivers down my spine and a whimper escaped my mouth – it had been 3 years since the war started but I still hadn’t gotten used to the missiles tearing through the air and falling to destruction. In the beginning, we were assured by the government that nothing would happen to us, that this was a targeted operation against terrorist factions in our country. Slowly, however, the distinction had ceased to exist. Households were hit at random every day, with the international media only showing the success rate of their war on terrorism. People were stripped of their families, an armed rebellion began to gather, growing every day: people joined in for frustration and anger, wanting to avenge the deaths of their family members. The government’s offences were met with equal forces, and soon the entire country reeked of rage, no one knowing who is killed and why. I remembered…

belonging to a happy family. Marrying a husband of my choice. Gul Khan, he was called, named after the rose flower. We only saw two years of a peaceful life, and then the United Nations decided to strip our country of terrorism. Initially, we heard less explosions and more sirens of police vehicles and ambulances, but soon the sirens began to diminish, getting lesser and lesser in comparison to their counterparts. 

Gul Khan died one week ago. He joined the names of the ‘honoured martyrs’ published in the weekly local newspaper. My one beloved, at the age of 25, left me widowed with an eight months pregnancy. I remembered…

it was dinner time, and power went out. We heard shouting outside our house. Gul Khan went to investigate. I heard a ringing in my ears, growing closer every second, ever so slowly. But it wasn’t slow, I only wished it were. I was pushed back by a strong force and after that, memory only gave me a dozen days struggling between morphine and reality in the hospital. I gathered bits and pieces of “so sorry for your loss, there was a blast, Khan is no more.”

there were days after morphine. There was oat meal and yoghurt, in a room with hundreds more like me, which was our makeshift hospital. Everyone wailed, cried. I would say I stopped my tears but they never came. My only friend was a nurse by the name of Naseema. We used to enjoy each other’s silence, and consoled each other of unknown losses.

Today morning, the hospital rang with shouts of “freedom for all”. There was a band of men, all dressed in black and faces covered. There were guns shot in the hospital, a few nurses were raped in front of us and I only felt surreal. I wonder if I was immune to emotion by then. It was Naseema who dragged me out of there, helped me escape, though I don’t recall how, and then there were more blasts and buildings fell right next to us, and Naseema and I took shelter in a deserted motor workshop.

The cramps started a little while back, ringing simultaneously with the firing outside. Every bullet shot was another spike of pain in my belly, and Naseema saw me through it all, helped deliver the baby in the shelter. I rememeber wanting to name the baby Gul Khan if he were a boy, after his father.

It was a boy, though he did not cry, did not breath when he came out of me. We lay there in the rubble, Naseema and I, and the tears finally came. Arms wrapped around each other in a consoling embrace, we fit in very well with the broken world next to us. Alas, it was a story of charred dreams, like the skies that were full of smoke and flying ash.

The next morning we mourned, though we did not have the luxury to wear black. In the distance, a few sirens still wailed, a few rockets still sounded. My heart longed for the ringing I had heard when my husband died, wanting to meet my beloved and the one child I couldn’t love properly. But we payed respect, we were solitary. Because that was the only option that was left to us, to call them honourable martyrs and calm the morose wife who lost her husband and a mother who lost her child. It didn’t matter now, it was all in the past, all we could do was mourn those were away from the sun.