In the Quiet of Her Yearning

Tiny in its appearance, dark legs, a long tail with several black bands till the rounded tip but an entirely white plumage with wings streaked red having mysterious dark bars underneath. Always sitting at the far end of the branch, away from the rest; thus being a subject of speculation. Forlorn, staring through space into an unknown abyss, enthused by nothing; the world registered its distance in words that had but mocked her sorrow. But humans, species driven by their bizarre enthusiasm, were of least concern. Lost in the silence of her longing, the bird couldn’t care less. To the world she was known as an object of marvel, ‘a bird leading a life of loneliness’, but of her story, they knew nothing…

*.*.*

Flying meadow to meadow, ocean to ocean, in search of that which she could call home. So swift in her moves and euphoric in her flight, she was a thing incapable and unintelligent of sorrow.  She fluttered from the mayhem of the waves to the quiet of the fields, driven by her need to belong, she searched and searched but could not find that which she could call her own. The wonders of Earth revealed themselves, awed by the profundity of each, she would ruminate for hours wallowing in the peaceful river of ravishing sights and simple little moments she has collected over the course of her journey. To see, she was complete. But to learn, she wasn’t. The incompleteness has always been there, only she didn’t know; for strange is the poetics of life, you are oblivious of what’s missing from you until the moment someone brings it to you. And so alike all ignorance, hers as well was bound to end; with a revelation which was beautiful, but only in the beginning…

To look back it is difficult to recollect where did he come from. She feels like he has always been there; a part of her life since the beginning, always her companion to every flight. That’s the thing about intimates we love, so overwhelmed by their charming intrusion we forget how our lives were before they had come. It was a rainy evening, tired by her day’s exciting flight, she landed on the highest branch of Alpines that stood broad and strong, just like a love which was about to bloom. Unaware of his presence and distracted by the sheeting rain, she held on to the branch from keeping herself fall but so wild was the tempest, it was sure she wouldn’t hold on long. Alarmed by something move from behind the dripping lush leaves, she halted her struggle and concentrated. Her velvet feathers were adorned with little droplets of rain strung together like ornaments across her neck and forehead, he, who had been watching her struggle since quite a while, was dazzled by the sight of her ethereal beauty. He inched closer and spread out his wings for her to hold on. It is seldom that life without being asked offers us things too good to be true; and when it happens, we tend to know not how to keep it, for just because it came our way too easy. And yet, she instinctively moved closer and he protectively held her in his broad, gentle wings. Her young heart swayed by his warm presence, with as much as a care in the world, she fell for the bird who showed up at the most unlikely time in the most unlikely place; and like a weightless leaf, she flew with the wind which brought her where she desired. She was in love. She never saw it coming. It just happened. She had, finally, found a home.

Sitting abandoned by the same branches seasons later with him in her mind always meandering about, he was more real than everything else. Little was their time, but extremely thorough. There was romance, just not the kind necessary to make a story. It was a simple connection transcending all expressions; for interestingly never a word passed between the two yet the love was confessed and revered in its full glory. She had conquered every blessing. She was infinite in every moment that passed. In every moment that passed she was more alive than she’s ever been and ever will be.

She went back in the rain to find him. She took high flights to go beyond the skies and bring his soul back from the realms above. But what more than a tiny fragile creature was she? What more was she than a broken winged thing which saw her bird dying before her eyes?

Because as per the rule, it was not tolerable for nature to allow a union. And so it happened, that which is inevitable, that which none could fight. Her heart was pierced with thorns of death that ruthlessly took away her home. It happened quick. The bullet left the rifle, it was a numbing sensation, the two hearts stopped as the sound of death boomed through the woods, but when it was over, only one continued to beat…

Such is the tenet of life; you are brought things you don’t even know you need, yet once they become almost like an inseparable part of you, they are taken away, without even having you bid a final adieu. And how strange is the way of the world, one moment you are so sure of which way you are heading, but the paths suddenly change, and it is no longer the place you used to know. What do you do then? Where do you go? Your home is gone. You think hardly little can go wrong at one point, unaware that the wrong which awaits is going to alter your world.

For in all its reality, there aren’t many sure things in life.

And thus remained a dream unlived, and emptiness echoed in their nest crafted from bark and jasmine leaves knit together with spider’s silk, their fancy house attached to the highest tree branch near the river facing the mountains, so the first ray of sun could reach at them and the morning breeze would caress them from their sweet slumber to wakefulness. That uncertain future she was so looking forward to became a past, and she didn’t even realize it.

She mourned the loss of him once, and the memory of him forever. The sound of death touched her once, but will echo in her senses forever. She absorbed all his love in her red wings and she pours it at herself every once in a while; and deeply engraved on her underwings is his memory. It is in her that he lives, and in him she has preserved herself. He might have flown off to a distant land, and though she could no longer see him inching closer in the rain, or be aware of his touch holding them together in the storm; she could however still always sense his fragrance lingering in the air that surrounds her. She could always sense him looking at her. The heavens would pour and despite him sleeping miles away somewhere amidst the heap of withered leaves, he was always wide awake in her memory. He wasn’t there, yet in so many ways he still was. His absence itself was like a palpable presence. 

So say what the world may, knowing of a race for its trait of ignorance, it mattered not what it said. They clicked her pictures for her peculiar appearance and even peculiar lifestyle, but she? She would register none. She wallows in the quiet of her yearning where she finds the solace she's robbed of. And stares straight across time and space fighting the phantoms, focusing with all her might to escape the anguished chaos of that night which has her helplessly trapped, and walks into the trails of eternal silence, because only silence can guide her back home.

The world may not have seen their union,
The heavens will.

Once Upon A 14th August

Having been away and unable to write since for over eight months, I finally found something which intrigued me to sit and write. Or at least try.

Two things confirm for me that it’s August; one, the absolutely ravishing cloudy weather of Karachi, and two, the streets occupied with flag stalls and badge vendors reflecting shades of green. I however would still have let it go had I not witnessed a scene which triggered a memory and hence the post.

A couple of days ago travelling back home on an overcast day, feeling like heaven will pour but being a Karachiite completely sure that it wouldn’t, I spotted a girl on a motorbike, dressed in white with a green scarf loosely tied around her neck. The wind was blowing against her and I couldn’t help but notice how her hand would repeatedly go back on her chest to make sure that little Pakistan flag’s badge is there in place. She would touch it at intervals assured every time that it is there, her most prized possession. The picture was simple but it represented a very precious part of my childhood that’s long over...

Growing up, I was told my dreams, my destiny all belong with Pakistan. I grew up listening to the stories of struggle and determination that won us this land we call home. I fell deeply in love with every single figure I read and heard of who played an essential role in earning us independence. Back then things were simple. In the innocence of time when I could count my age on fingers, I grew up proudly announcing love for my homeland, never really knowing what it means. The stories and accounts sketched pictures in my head and I realized that Pakistan had not come easy. The realization instilled an unconditional reverence and respect for Pakistan and everything that came about it. Just like Ramzan and Eid, 14^th August too was one of the most awaited festivals. August wouldn’t even properly begin and we would start rehearsing for the grand celebration at school. From short plays to speeches to dance performances on national songs, I remember taking part in every curriculum. Although it’s been years, yet still whenever I listen to Ay Jawan by Awaaz the Band or Dil Dil Pakistan by Junaid Jamshed or Yaaro Yeh Hee Dosti Hai by Junoon, some very fond memories resurface and I still feel like a girl from class 3 jumping with enthusiasm to get on stage and do her best and look her best in her newly stitched white dress and green dupatta and silk bangles and matching ear cuffs and a prominent Pakistan badge pinned on her shoulder because hey, it’s independence day performance, you have to be at your best! Going by the silly but innocent notion of “whoever sings the loudest loves Pakistan the most”, I would sing Hai Koi Hum Jaisa by Strings and Jazba Junoon by Junoon and other golden songs like Jeevay Jeevay Pakistan,Hum Hain Pakistani,Mera Paigham Pakistan, Khayaal Rakhna,Iss Parcham Ke Saaye Talay despite not knowing correct lyrics with vigor and zeal. I would feel the shivers when together we would stand to recite National Anthem and chant “Pakistan Zindabad” afterwards.

The ritual of decorating the house with miniature flags was too solemnly followed. From bedrooms to corridors, from walls to windows, from the rooftop to the garage, the house by the 14^th of August was fully and proudly clad with green paper flags.

I find it very strange how we learn to love and admire events we never experienced and people we have never met just by listening to their stories? We (almost naturally) learned to hold the Pakistan Movement and the period of partition in immense respect and awe. We almost naturally feel emotionally attached to a man we never knew or even saw; yet we take offense if anyone ever says a word against Quaid-e-Azam. We criticize Pakistan bitterly yet fall in love with it at even its smallest achievement. The modes of expression have changed but the feeling despite everything is still alive. The traditions have certainly transformed over the course from putting a badge on your shoulder to changing your display picture to green on the internet, from singing patriotic songs in school and college to posting sound clips and videos on Facebook, but it is there.

I believe of the few things we inherit from our elders, stories are one of them. Those are the tales that define for who we are, where we are from. We have inherited the accounts of how Pakistan came into being from our elders. We inherited the dreams our ancestors dreamt; the dream Pakistan, a land of freedom and peace.

For what Pakistan has become today, it often puts a question mark to the patriotism and loyalty I grew up with towards it. In the country which was created in the name of equality, I face discrimination on ethnic grounds. The country which was meant to set an example of peace and harmony, has become a place where I am oppressed because of my religious beliefs. A land which was to be a symbol of freedom, glorifies clerics who label me an infidel. A state which was supposed to be a safe haven, remains silent when people I identify with are dragged out of buses and butchered. When school children are slaughtered, when Imam Bargahs and processions are bombed, it certainly becomes hard to believe in this country anymore. And those who give up thus ask, ‘what did this place give us? It took away from us more than it gave’. Certainly. I have lost relatives to terror attacks and sectarian incidents. I have lost friends to state backed genocide and its policies. Yes. It has taken away a lot from me.

But those who thus question, don’t know.

Back in school I never truly understood the reason when I would notice few of the older teachers shed a tear at songs like Chand Meri Zameen Phool Mera Watan and Hum Laaye Hain Toofaan Se Kashti Nikaal Ke, because I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know the struggle. Now I do. And so I deem it unfair to disregard the sacrifices of those who gave away all they had so we could be free. I find it offensive when people try to place the blame of what Pakistan has become today at the doorstep of a man who died within a year after he created it. Those who therefore question don’t know that I love, not the corruption and bloodshed that Pakistan is, but the struggle and sacrifice that Pakistan was. I idealize not the dupes of an overnight revolution but the unwavering freedom movement that earned us a separate homeland. I love, not the ‘strategic asset’ that Pakistan nurses, but the peace that Pakistan harbored. Growing up nostalgic for a past that I never lived yet experienced through the tales of independence I heard and read of, it is not the Pakistan today that I romanticize and revere, but the dream that it was. The dream which although was realized 68 years ago, but is yet to be fulfilled. I honor those who gave away everything they possessed just so we could have a free land we could call our own. Do you realize what a blessing it is to call something truly your own?

Coming a long way from childhood days of innocence, I no longer decorate the house or sing national songs on the top of my lungs. I don’t even change my display picture to green or share audio clips on my Facebook timeline, but despite everything, as clichéd as it may sound, I love this country. And I feel no shame when I get tears listening to emotionally overwhelming national songs. I still wear white and green on the 14th of August. I feel my heart swelling when I listen to Ay Raah'e Haq Ke Shaheedo'n and of course Ay Watan Ke Sajeelay Jawaano'n in Madam Noor Jahan's mesmerizing voice. My heart still skips a beat when I see the flag flying high in the air; the green and white reflective of the tears and blood spilled in the realization of a powerful dream, Pakistan. I still feel shivers when I hear the National Anthem and I am proud of it, for in that symphony rings the memory of will and determination. In it echoes the tales of sacrifice and devotion. I truly and unconditionally love the dream Pakistan I inherited from my elders. It is a dream I identify with, it is a dream to which I belong.