Reminiscence

As I sit here, listening intently to the sound of the sheeting rain outside, I recall those interesting tales we used to hear during those pleasant rainy days, sitting around Naano...

When Abba was posted in Jehlum city, we were allotted a house opposite to the river. It was one beautiful place. The exterior of the house was made of sheesham (timber) with sloping roof. The house had a spacious garden stretched at its front. The garden had almost every sort of fruit and every kind of flower. Walking idly through the vast concrete road, every evening, with our tea cups in hand, we would go and sit by the river. The soft reflection of the sun shining at the river like a pearl, cool breeze teasing the branches of tall neem trees… Peace and tranquility. Life back then was so much simpler than it is now.

When it used to rain in Jehlum, a great number of tiny lady birds used to creep out of nowhere occupying the washed shrubs and grass, like little red beads scattered over dark green silk. Fluttering their colorful wings, would come the butterflies. Playing their mischievous games, flying from flower to flower, welcoming monsoon exactly in a manner like it deserves.
When it used to rain, I used to hear Ammi miss those early days when she was young and beautiful, and the priceless time she had spent in India. She used to tell us how gorgeous their gardens they had back in Naitor (one of the districts of India) used to look whenever it would rain; and I would always ask, “Even more gorgeous than our garden?” And she’d proudly reply, “Yes, even more gorgeous than this garden.” Naana Abba used to order the maids to install swings at the back garden for his daughters – “I have a question, Naano! Your Naana Abba? Or your mother’s Naana Abba?”
–“Ari larki! Hamaray Naana Abba. (Oh you silly girl! My grandfather). As Naana Abba would order the maids to install the swings for Ammi and my other Khala’s, he would also strictly instruct all the male servants to not enter the back garden. Where Ammi and Khaala’s would play around with the butterflies and fly high on the swings, Naani Amma would set about cooking the typical monsoon delights. Pakoray, Gulgulay, and Jalebi. Back then, there was no trend of getting food from the market. Almost everything was prepared at home, and the taste? It used to be unmatchable. Deliciously delicious. The kind seldom found today. –‘’Naah, you do have it in your hands, Naano! I love everything that you cook, even those vegetables!”  – (laughing) “Achhaa, larki! Naani ko itnaa makkhan nah lagaya karo. (Fine, young girl. Don’t you flatter your grandmother).
As Naani Amma would go about frying Pakoray and Gulgulay, the aroma would stir in the air spreading through the entire neighborhood. Maamu Saahab’s friends, as Ammi used to explain, were like family. No later would the whiff of the aromatic food reach them, they’d gather up at the mansion. The servants would then arrange for chairs and table at the front garden for them to sit, and together they’d sit and devour the appetizing cuisine, followed by a round of hookah.
Apiyaa Khaala, Ammi’s eldest sister, had a friend who lived blocks away from their mansion. Their father had a business of dying yarn and cotton. Here the clouds would gather up all ready to pour down, and there they would set about for the procedure of tie and dye at their backyard. Apiyaa Khaala would plead, as Ammi used to humorously recount, Maamu Saahab to escort them to her friend’s place. The request would eventually be fulfilled only after Apiyaa Khaala would make Maamu Saahab a cup of pink tea. Making pink tea for Maamu Saahab meant making pink tea for the entire family, including Maamu Saahab’s friends.

Naani Amma used to pack pakoray and gulgulay and jalebi for Apiyaa Khala’s friend’s family, considering that it is against etiquettes to go at somebody’s place empty handed.—“One question, Naano? Why would your mother and aunts be so desperate to be there? What was so special about it? I didn’t get it.” –“Tahammul rakho, baysabri. Hum woh hee batanay arahay thaay.” (Have patience, you impatient girl. I was just coming to that). Ammi would always reveal the reason of that desperation to be there at the tie and dye enthusiastically; because there they used to get to play with ‘rung’, lots and lots of rung. There used to be a whole lot of big copper dishes with powder rung mounted at them; all shades of blue and green and pink and red and orange and yellow. ”We would go at the front garden of their house, Baano would bring the rung in smaller dishes, and then the running would begin.” Ammi used to have that forlorn look at her face when telling the story and I could always pick that she missed her time. And so when it would rain, I would insist Abba to get us rung too, to which he’d say, “Rung se khelna hindu’aana rasam hai.” (Playing with colors is a practice of hindu culture/tradition). At this remark, Ammi would always take offense and there they’d both go in an argument that was but a gesture of their love for each other…

The forlorn look that Naano used to notice at her mother’s face, I would notice the same at her’s when she’d be too engrossed in telling the tales. Seeing her narrate,  I used to wonder; now that she has grown old, she tells us stories of her past. Perhaps, I’d be doing the same someday…

Euphoria

Dressed in a red rich material satin gown, she walked hastily towards the only dream she had ever dreamt. The clinking of her metal anklet as she walked created a fascinating melody that weaved in the air a symphony which will ring through the story as it would go. Her face displayed various hues of doubt, fear, anxiety, enthusiasm, uncertainty. She was about to face the grand door of euphoria which was to lead her to a dream that was everything she had ever wanted, or so she thought.

All those years when she was growing up, she had a dream; a dream so fragile, she would only whisper it. When she was just a girl, she would lie underneath the dark summer sky; she would follow those lanterns going up with her gaze, staring them long without blinking, fearful that they might disappear… She heard people tell stories of the great door of euphoria, the ritual of setting a flying lantern free up in the air as a gesture of celebration every time a person would cross the door, every time a wish would come true. On hearing the cheerful noise from the distance, seeing the lights go up, she’d run wildly to the meadow at the border, and holding her breath she’d make a wish. The same wish every time; the wish of being to the other side, to the grand entrance, where people come to never return. She dreamt of crossing the lines of the door, that takes people to a world where there is no despair; where the shackles of past loosen, the chains of doubt disappear. Where the lost love is found, the broken heart is mended. Walking home from the meadow, she’d imagine how the door would actually look and what the world behind it is like… Golden dancing fields of mustard? Glittering streams of cool heavenly water? Banks of soft clouds occupying the pink skies? Perhaps she’d get to see the talking trees, or might witness the queen moon walk freely on the silver soil surrounded by its starry maids. In her bed she’d lie and think that perhaps that’s where she’ll find love; a love as pure as that of Sassi Punno and as divine as that of Raam Seeta. Probably that was where she’d get to experience life. Her imagination would go wild thinking of all the beautiful possibilities, and she’d eventually fall asleep…

Years passed, and the time soon came. There she was, before the huge ancient green wooden door. It was a two-door entrance, the green paint was falling out and the wood had rotten; it had however effectively maintained its charm. A mahogany minaret shaped casing was carved and plastered around the door, like a protective outline. An unusual pattern embossed on it. There were two double door windows at either sides of the door having the same carved outline around with a similar pattern embossed on them; like an inscription bearing some spell, each revealing a story from Euphoria, that of faith and trust, that of love and devotion.

The door was but nowhere close to the kind she had imagined. She had thought of a huge metal bronze door, with keepers dressed in white and red embroidered garbs guarding it. She had anticipated a queue of starry fays dressed in gold waiting for her to be taken to the throne that awaits her. At her arrival, she assumed a group of men blowing heavy golden trumpets, with a huge crowd looking forward to her appearance, holding lanterns in their hands, and with every progressive step that she’d make, they’d cheer for her. She had expected to see every single person who she had loved and lived with to be there to wish her farewell. But none was found…

Before the three stair blocks leading to the grand door was a vast pond. Clusters of fungus had formed at its walls, pink and white lilies were floating sluggishly in the mild green water; the borders of the pond were neatly decorated with jade and orange rung having miniature swastikas designed with red at the bricks. She made a careful disheartened step forward and came to sit by the pond side, with her back at the grand door, tracing slowly with her finger the pattern of the swastika… Pain pricked her heart; a tear went down rolling, spreading the kohl around her eyes. She lifted her red henna painted hands to wipe them off. Staring vaguely through the intricate design painted on her palms, she began doubting, what if this is not everything she wants? What if the world behind that door is after all not as how she had imagined all those years growing up? What if the love that she is so eagerly looking forward to doesn't lie ahead? What possible consequences could this decision have? Over the course she will have ample occasions to think how it could have been, hen she would wander back to this particular moment here.

She looked straight towards the lanes she had come crossing; all that she was, all that she is and all that she’d ever be… She felt low, and eerily empty, and shallow… Scrap by scrap, the hope was unbinding itself. Struggling with the shadows in her head, her eyes accidentally fell at her own reflection on the pond. Small eyes highlighted by kohl, broad eyebrows, high cheek bones, a straight nose, narrow lips, pointed chin... Her lips abruptly twitched, curling up into a smile. She smiled at her own ordinary features, her own fashion of being unspecial. She tucked the lock of her curly hair behind her ear; her silk glass bangles clattered producing a pleasant music. And right from the heavens, came down a realization; how would she know unless she wouldn’t try? How would she get it when she wouldn’t just walk up and grab it? If she wouldn’t leave, how would she reach?

And so, she knew it was time. She knew that the time has come, the time was now. She roused, with her eyes at the grand door that awaited her. For the last time she turned to bid adieu to the world she has lived in, to bid farewell to the old memories she was giving away for new experiences; for the final time she looked back at the portrait of her childhood that was soon to wear off. For one last time, she glanced back to see the shadow of the love lost; and with that, making her way through the phantoms of uncertainty, she made her final steps…

Read Euphoria II here