Posted:
( Apologies in advance if this falls flat. I had to write this down to clear my head before I could sit down to study.)
***
Your smile is so bewitching and are those eyes of yours the window to your soul? (I would tiptoe to the threshold and take a look if I could, and maybe, maybe I would find me there?)
The question mark at the end of the sentences. Rhetoric much? Or is that the ghost of seventeen long years trying to prove a point-- that it cannot be dismissed, now or ever. Why do I feel this unsettled, Naz?
Naz, don't be quiet, my love. Say something. Anything. What do I do to bridge the gaps of so many years. I can't write you a song or a poem to clear away the fog, can I? I take a step forward, with some hope and faith I've managed to retain and momentarily I feel like I'll reach there- to where my wife and children are, but after sometime I'm rendered helpless when I see where I stand and when I realize my attempts are somehow futile. And sometimes, is that pity I see in your eyes?
You remember the day we got married? The excitement and nervousness was so overwhelming. I felt like motes of dust dancing around, illuminated by the rays of light- waiting to settle down on the cover of the book placed on the table by the window. I could have skipped a few heartbeats and not known myself. And the time Shaira was born and then, the experience of motherhood was equally exhilarating. And you remember how you struggled to stop her from crying? You two made such a cute picture. She was like a bundle of blanket in your arms, while you hushed her to calm down and sang twinkle twinkle little star like a three days baby would understand that and look at you in amazement!
I remember all of it, Naz- all of it. On several nights, all those years, the memories of you and children kept me sane. I couldn't sleep and most of the times, I could feel the darkness evading my soul. The thought of waking up beside you, of taking Shaira and Ayaan to their school, of applauding you for the success you've achieved--- this, I derived strength from this. But now I cannot think about it- the memories I could have made, the pictures I could have been in, the dinners, the brunches, taking my children to malls and amusement parks, managing to attend their annuals day at school once in two years or rushing to their school when one of them broke their hand- there's a lot I've missed and how do I look into their eyes and not feel guilty and how do I expect them to give me love and affection with the same fervour. We are strangers to each other. And I cannot make everything normal. That's...impossible. So much have been lost. And the past can't be cut off. What do I do, Naz? Tell me.
What do I tell you, Imaan? You still feel like a dream. First few years, I could hear you saying 'Qubool hain'and I'd be distraught (did you whisper your vows to the night air?). I would smell your clothes and clutch them to my chest and cry until the next morning. And then the idea of you never returning broke me down completely ...and..
Naz, will you read the note I'll leave for you by the side of your bed? Do you promise me that you'll read it? I'll ask Salim if he can accompany me to my favorite place where I make important decisions of my life. I'll be there.
'I have looked beneath the shadow under your eyes, within the ghost of your reflection in the bathroom mirror and beyond the traces of tears that adorn the pillow upon which you rest your head, and all the melancholy. I sneak into our room on afternoons, caress the dried tears on your pillow and shed some, so that when at night you cover your face with it, cry in pain and struggle for breaths, I'd try to catch a breath in between.
When you look at me, your eyes refuse to acknowledge me sometimes. An unfathomable grief unsettles my entire being. I feel like I do not exist.
Sometimes I imagine you smiling, your eyes emoting with the intensity they once used to and for once, I'd dare to believe that the circumstances were different and so were we, and you'd call me by my name, and we'd walk together.
I think I'll hang unto this hope for now. '
***
***
Your smile is so bewitching and are those eyes of yours the window to your soul? (I would tiptoe to the threshold and take a look if I could, and maybe, maybe I would find me there?)
The question mark at the end of the sentences. Rhetoric much? Or is that the ghost of seventeen long years trying to prove a point-- that it cannot be dismissed, now or ever. Why do I feel this unsettled, Naz?
Naz, don't be quiet, my love. Say something. Anything. What do I do to bridge the gaps of so many years. I can't write you a song or a poem to clear away the fog, can I? I take a step forward, with some hope and faith I've managed to retain and momentarily I feel like I'll reach there- to where my wife and children are, but after sometime I'm rendered helpless when I see where I stand and when I realize my attempts are somehow futile. And sometimes, is that pity I see in your eyes?
You remember the day we got married? The excitement and nervousness was so overwhelming. I felt like motes of dust dancing around, illuminated by the rays of light- waiting to settle down on the cover of the book placed on the table by the window. I could have skipped a few heartbeats and not known myself. And the time Shaira was born and then, the experience of motherhood was equally exhilarating. And you remember how you struggled to stop her from crying? You two made such a cute picture. She was like a bundle of blanket in your arms, while you hushed her to calm down and sang twinkle twinkle little star like a three days baby would understand that and look at you in amazement!
I remember all of it, Naz- all of it. On several nights, all those years, the memories of you and children kept me sane. I couldn't sleep and most of the times, I could feel the darkness evading my soul. The thought of waking up beside you, of taking Shaira and Ayaan to their school, of applauding you for the success you've achieved--- this, I derived strength from this. But now I cannot think about it- the memories I could have made, the pictures I could have been in, the dinners, the brunches, taking my children to malls and amusement parks, managing to attend their annuals day at school once in two years or rushing to their school when one of them broke their hand- there's a lot I've missed and how do I look into their eyes and not feel guilty and how do I expect them to give me love and affection with the same fervour. We are strangers to each other. And I cannot make everything normal. That's...impossible. So much have been lost. And the past can't be cut off. What do I do, Naz? Tell me.
What do I tell you, Imaan? You still feel like a dream. First few years, I could hear you saying 'Qubool hain'and I'd be distraught (did you whisper your vows to the night air?). I would smell your clothes and clutch them to my chest and cry until the next morning. And then the idea of you never returning broke me down completely ...and..
Naz, will you read the note I'll leave for you by the side of your bed? Do you promise me that you'll read it? I'll ask Salim if he can accompany me to my favorite place where I make important decisions of my life. I'll be there.
'I have looked beneath the shadow under your eyes, within the ghost of your reflection in the bathroom mirror and beyond the traces of tears that adorn the pillow upon which you rest your head, and all the melancholy. I sneak into our room on afternoons, caress the dried tears on your pillow and shed some, so that when at night you cover your face with it, cry in pain and struggle for breaths, I'd try to catch a breath in between.
When you look at me, your eyes refuse to acknowledge me sometimes. An unfathomable grief unsettles my entire being. I feel like I do not exist.
Sometimes I imagine you smiling, your eyes emoting with the intensity they once used to and for once, I'd dare to believe that the circumstances were different and so were we, and you'd call me by my name, and we'd walk together.
I think I'll hang unto this hope for now. '
***
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