Once in a Sublime Dream.
The sun hasn't risen yet when I wake up. It was still the vague darkness that filled the room. It took a while for my eyes to open up and settle. I see this place every morning, the exact same way. Yet, I need these moments every morning to remind myself of the place I'm in, the people I'm with, the person I am supposed to be. Then, when I've made these ideals very clear to myself, I open my eyes perfectly wide and take a deep breath and let everything around me in. Today too, I did this.
I look around. The dawn would break in a few seconds, I concluded. Next to me, breathing heavily with a stirring snore I was so used to, he lay, motionless except for the occasional rise and fall of his belly.
I sit upright in bed, hold my hands together and say a silent prayer.
I make coffee for myself and green tea for Hazil. He wouldn't wake up anytime soon because its a Sunday. Slowly, I walk towards the veranda and sit next to the maroon pillar, sipping the coffee, head
resting sideways on the pillar, watching the tiny road that ran past our house. At my feet, the day's paper was thrown and forgotten. I didn't feel like reading the paper today. Today is the first Sunday of the month and I am expecting a letter. The postman only comes to our town on this particular Sunday. The only letter he receives, addressed to this place, is the one Tariq writes for me.
At exactly, quarter past six, I hear the cluck-cluck of the postman's worn out tire falling in and out and up and down the hollows of the kachha roads. He stops in front my gate like always, drops the letter in the letter box and leaves. I check on Hazil once and walk towards the gate to take the letter. I rush inside and sit at the dusty work area behind the kitchen. The door, I keep, half open-half close. With my heart pounding with the pace of a rider on a horse, I open the letter.
Dearest Meeran,
I hope you are fine and fortunate to receive this letter. Healthy too I suppose? Very well, if you're reading this, I must assume you are.
Before I get to anything I would wish to tell you, let me make it clear to you that deep in my heart, very much genuinely, I'm sorry if I've caused you any pain, any discomfort, any insecurity. And if I've not, I'm bound to, so I apologize to let you know that hurting you would be the last thing I'd prefer doing. Nothing is meant intentionally. Time and circumstances sit side by side me, as I pen this down, forcing me to tell you what I must tell.
You have never asked me, not even once, in your previous letters, whether I love you. I do not know why. Are you afraid of the truth? Afraid of what your heart might elope to do? I wouldn't blame you Meeran. We are all slaves to desire. Sometimes, it runs all over us. Corrupts our brains and mixes in our blood, making it difficult to realize whether, the venom kills us or makes us. But I'm about to answer that unasked question.
Yes, I do love you. In the true sense of love. Not the love that longs or craves. The love that admires. The only love I'm capable of providing you. Love is not a question. It is an answer.
This will be the last letter I'll write to you. If it were to anyone else I'm writing this , I would've not been so sure of saying this. But you , out of all people, will be able to understand why. You hold that wisdom in you. The wisdom that understands other people. Sometimes, the right thing and the wrong thing are the same.
Not even once, have you spoke of your life beyond Hazil. Hazil loves you. I don't think you have to think of a life beyond this. If I pose questions, it would do wrong to you. I do not wish to do that.
You own a light in you. Are you aware of that Meeran? You are a pure hearted soul with no vices. If I could, I would have never written to you. I would have never brought this upon us. But I had to. I did write to you. Something I wish didn't really happen.
Yesterday, when I read Wamaq Saleem, I though of you. I thought of when you'll ever sing again. I tried singing it myself. The melody is beautiful. Simple, but beautiful. Sing, will you?
Somehow, there is so much I can't tell you through this letter. You'll understand if I try to tell you but it is not about the subtle understanding. I don't want to dump this on you. I feel heavy and direction-less. I've stopped short. Maybe this is the end and I need to go back?
I hope you'll be happy. Or at least try to be happy.
Yours,
Tariq.
I read every word again and again and again. Even though, everything is simple, it feels like everything Tariq has written hides something. Something ... I read each word with so much of meticulousness that after a few seconds, the word feels meaningless. Like just a vacant space.
From the bedroom, the bed creaks. Abruptly I rise. Usually with a heavy heart, but this time, emotionless, I throw the letter into the fire burning next to me. I didn't even fold the letter. Every word , I can see vanishing into the flame. The letter, now just paper, crumbling into nothing.
I don't feel any pain whatsoever. I knew and I realized this day would come a long while back. Still, somewhere, I had hoped otherwise. A foolish thought perhaps. Without reason, my mind wanders.
I can let go now, for there is nothing to hold onto.
I look around. The dawn would break in a few seconds, I concluded. Next to me, breathing heavily with a stirring snore I was so used to, he lay, motionless except for the occasional rise and fall of his belly.
I sit upright in bed, hold my hands together and say a silent prayer.
I make coffee for myself and green tea for Hazil. He wouldn't wake up anytime soon because its a Sunday. Slowly, I walk towards the veranda and sit next to the maroon pillar, sipping the coffee, head
resting sideways on the pillar, watching the tiny road that ran past our house. At my feet, the day's paper was thrown and forgotten. I didn't feel like reading the paper today. Today is the first Sunday of the month and I am expecting a letter. The postman only comes to our town on this particular Sunday. The only letter he receives, addressed to this place, is the one Tariq writes for me.
At exactly, quarter past six, I hear the cluck-cluck of the postman's worn out tire falling in and out and up and down the hollows of the kachha roads. He stops in front my gate like always, drops the letter in the letter box and leaves. I check on Hazil once and walk towards the gate to take the letter. I rush inside and sit at the dusty work area behind the kitchen. The door, I keep, half open-half close. With my heart pounding with the pace of a rider on a horse, I open the letter.
Dearest Meeran,
I hope you are fine and fortunate to receive this letter. Healthy too I suppose? Very well, if you're reading this, I must assume you are.
Before I get to anything I would wish to tell you, let me make it clear to you that deep in my heart, very much genuinely, I'm sorry if I've caused you any pain, any discomfort, any insecurity. And if I've not, I'm bound to, so I apologize to let you know that hurting you would be the last thing I'd prefer doing. Nothing is meant intentionally. Time and circumstances sit side by side me, as I pen this down, forcing me to tell you what I must tell.
You have never asked me, not even once, in your previous letters, whether I love you. I do not know why. Are you afraid of the truth? Afraid of what your heart might elope to do? I wouldn't blame you Meeran. We are all slaves to desire. Sometimes, it runs all over us. Corrupts our brains and mixes in our blood, making it difficult to realize whether, the venom kills us or makes us. But I'm about to answer that unasked question.
Yes, I do love you. In the true sense of love. Not the love that longs or craves. The love that admires. The only love I'm capable of providing you. Love is not a question. It is an answer.
This will be the last letter I'll write to you. If it were to anyone else I'm writing this , I would've not been so sure of saying this. But you , out of all people, will be able to understand why. You hold that wisdom in you. The wisdom that understands other people. Sometimes, the right thing and the wrong thing are the same.
Not even once, have you spoke of your life beyond Hazil. Hazil loves you. I don't think you have to think of a life beyond this. If I pose questions, it would do wrong to you. I do not wish to do that.
You own a light in you. Are you aware of that Meeran? You are a pure hearted soul with no vices. If I could, I would have never written to you. I would have never brought this upon us. But I had to. I did write to you. Something I wish didn't really happen.
Yesterday, when I read Wamaq Saleem, I though of you. I thought of when you'll ever sing again. I tried singing it myself. The melody is beautiful. Simple, but beautiful. Sing, will you?
Somehow, there is so much I can't tell you through this letter. You'll understand if I try to tell you but it is not about the subtle understanding. I don't want to dump this on you. I feel heavy and direction-less. I've stopped short. Maybe this is the end and I need to go back?
I hope you'll be happy. Or at least try to be happy.
Yours,
Tariq.
I read every word again and again and again. Even though, everything is simple, it feels like everything Tariq has written hides something. Something ... I read each word with so much of meticulousness that after a few seconds, the word feels meaningless. Like just a vacant space.
From the bedroom, the bed creaks. Abruptly I rise. Usually with a heavy heart, but this time, emotionless, I throw the letter into the fire burning next to me. I didn't even fold the letter. Every word , I can see vanishing into the flame. The letter, now just paper, crumbling into nothing.
I don't feel any pain whatsoever. I knew and I realized this day would come a long while back. Still, somewhere, I had hoped otherwise. A foolish thought perhaps. Without reason, my mind wanders.
I can let go now, for there is nothing to hold onto.
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ReplyDeleteNice work, well written. :)
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