 |
| Image by https://pixabay.com/users/owifanclub-15474005/ |
I probably won't publish this for real, as it's boring me just to write it.
However, this is the first time in two years, I have felt like writing. So it gets published here.
Thank you kambo and psycobilin. I took way too long and was too unreasonably scared to take you earlier.
***
Ghar
We waited patiently in the rain for the gaari. I wasn't expecting so many people to come to meet me, as I had been the one no one really cared about in my family.
But because things had drastically changed in all of our lives due to the unexpected things that had occurred, I had asked an old school friend to collect me. I wasn't sure if this was the right move, but sometimes we have very few moves to make. We make them and pray for the best.
She brought her husband and youngest son, and had convinced my mother to come with them in the same car.
My mother, Zubeida, was a cheerful old lady and she hugged me tightly when she saw me. I was taken aback, and had to calm my anxiety when that happened. She had shrunk considerably due to old age, although she wasn't as old as compared to her aunts.
Her eyes widened when she saw me. I was waiting to see what she would say, and she said it straight away. Her manner could be very direct, like the butter knife cutting through the makhan. I had battled with her energy for years: it was this piercing, hurtful energy and although she didn't really mean to hurt me, she was toxic as hell.
"Tooli, look, don't get upset with me, hain, but I brought you a lovely pacheri to wear on your head, cover your hair, your neck. Ya Allah," she whispered in my ear, "no sharam? Such a short top, such tight jeans? Come on, Tooli, this is Pakistan. All the drivers will be staring at you."
The heart began to race at excess speeds, and I began to flush in the cheeks.
YA HALEEM. YA HALEEM. The Most Forbearing One. Allah is forbearing, make me remember you at the time of great need. Loosen my tongue with Thy light, so I may say that which needs to be said, so that they can understand my words...
I took the coloured cotton cloth strip. It was a pretty colour, shades of blue tie and dye, but 30 year old Batul was not going to back down.
"Thank you, meri jaan. I won't be wearing it, but thank you for thinking of my safety in that way. Ufff, I can smell the mitti. Uff I left this too long, but there was no way I could come here in the halaat."
The car came, the driver took my bags in the dikki, and we all clambered into the car and slowly weaved our way out of Quaid e Azam airport. One of the nicer and well maintained places in Karachi.
It makes me feel alien. I never seem to fit in anywhere. Not here, not London, not Toronto. Turkey and Iraq, maybe, but they never were real options for me.
-----
What is the story theme?
Maturity and awakening by going back to childhood home
Interesting and broken characters
Beauty of Karachi
Spirituality and truth - healing in the stories
