سکوت – Stillness


Time. Can you count it? Seconds, minutes, hours, years… yes years. They pass. Can you count them? Ofcourse you can. It’s been 2 years since we last met. It’s been two and a half years since i last layed on this bed in my room. Where time stands still, like all the toys in the huge wooden shelf standing tall against one of the walls. All my dolls, books, teady bears, trophies from school and college, photographs, diaries and my old broken computer. My whole life. My everything summed up. It all stays here, on the same spot, collecting dust and memories. Silent. Still. Nothing ever moves. My mother, who is a bit weaker now than she was two and a half years ago, she doesn’t let anything move. She pickes up things, cleans them and put them on the same spot as they were. It’s been two and a half years since i last visited my room. It’s been 20 years since i put my toys in their spots for the first time.

My room.. it reminds me of you. All those years that i spent talking to you in this room, when a second would feel like eternity. The air, it smells of you. Of us. Of what was never meant to be. Out of all the feelings bubbling up in my heart while lying in this room, your memory is the strongest. It stands still, on its spot, in my room, in the air. Like other toys in the big wooden shelf. It won’t move. Years would pass. Years have passed.

But time… it stands still. Frozen. It hasn’t passed. It can not be counted. Like years. It has made my father older, my brothers stronger and my mother weaker. But everything else is the same. As it was two and a half years ago, three and a half years ago and five years ago. I am home. I feel as if i float here, weightless and still. Burden on the shoulders feel lighter. Walls surround me, walls of unconditional love. Walls that once suffocated me. After years now, they make me feel safe.

Some things, just a few, have changed though. All those years did not pass in vain. They have filled my father’s life with some more hardships, some more pain that’s intense. My mother’s life with some more dreams and uncontentment and my brother’s lives with sime tough life experiences. Their faces look mature now, it breaks my heart. Their eyes shine with the same naughtiness that was there, years ago. One of them is still the most sensitive, one still the most angry and one still the most calm and sensible. Like they were before the years passed. When we were children. When i lived with them. Here. In this house. Where time stands still. Nothing has changed after all the years. This, is still my world. I belong here. In the world that doesn’t change with the years that pass. The world that holds the six people, who mean the world to me. Yes, including you. It’s still you. It always were you. My heart, after all those years, never opened again. Like time in my house, it stands still. On its spot. Closed. Shut. Holding my world of straws. Protecting it from years that pass. Through time.

Time. That can never be counted. Only lived.

 

— My visit to Pakistan. 10th March – 24th March 2019.

The Realistic Fiction – A Memoir

One of the other gloomiest nights wears on to a morning. She rolls her fingers over her already half-opened eyes and pulls her husband’s arm softly aside to get out of the bed. After a while, she was fastening the laces of her pink Nike trainers and ready to jog ! She knew, she’d run so hard today that her feet would feel wounded and her legs would hurt like hell. Her breath would feel irregular for hours and her heart would beat in her ears for long. And after all that, she won’t still stop. She’d jog until all the energy inside her body would be drained out. And today wasn’t different from the other days that had been creeping slowly.

Why such torture on her own self ? She had no concrete answer.

With his head filled with confusions, he turned the page. He had started reading this fiction written on a beautiful white leather covered diary but after reading only the first page, he felt some things strangely familiar. As if, he actually knows the heroine of this story…. As if….

May be, to trick her mind into thinking about her tired body rather than her ruptured heart full of fears of the future and guilt of the past. May be, to get rid of those painful anxiety attacks and depression disorders. Or maybe, just to distract herself from her own self. Sometimes, the un-satisfying reasons you give yourself are not important enough.

“I can’t have a child. I am not able enough to bring a new life into this world. For all my life I have done nothing but to hurt my loved ones. I can’t be a parent I am a total mess”

For years, these small sentences were often followed by painful cries while she’d go to sleep at nights, with needles tingling all over her body and rapid breaths getting out of control. Her husband would sit aside holding her hands and pushing her head against his chest. Sometimes, silent presence of a loved one is better that a thousand empty words. He was her doctor, her friend and her faith.

The day when their baby was born, her eyes smiled while staring at his eyes with pride. The pride of winning the battle against anxiety and depression while fighting together, the pride of loving and being loved innocently and purely — and most importantly, the pride of being a Mother !

He couldn’t find himself strong enough to read another hundred or more pages. This fiction was not a fiction, as this diary was not just a diary. 

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I am sitting in my bed today watching Mother’s day programs on Tv. He comes rushing towards me and hides himself  in my embrace, as he used to do when he was a kid.

I love you, Mama ! I won’t be able to thank you for the priceless love you have given me in all these years, and I want to tell you that you are important to me more than anyone in the whole world. Everyone loved you mama, they just didn’t express their love the way you needed. I don’t want to be like them

Saying these words, he hands me over a copy of this famous magazine. I open that half folded page in curiosity and there I see, my 25 year old story published in a neater version with my name.

I recalled, I was scared of writing diaries because the thought of getting exposed and judged frightened me. That’s why I started giving my daily anecdotes a color of fiction.

He understood my ‘fiction’ when nobody could. I wonder, how many more strange habits had he taken from his father ?

Inspired by The Daily Post.