My Childhood Home

Alone in the shadows © Lalarukh
Alone beneath the shadows © Lalarukh

 

With her back leaning against the wall, she sits down on the ground. It feels cold to her palms. Despite the fact that it is really hot out there, with sun at its peak in the noon, and with almost forty five degrees temperature, there is a row of trees behind this wall that keeps the passage way where she sits a bit cool with their shadows. And she has her history with deep shadows and darkness.

It’s ironic. Right in front of her, with the opposite wall she used to make a home with long sheets and pillows in her childhood. She’d make a kitchen with small plastic utensils and some snacks and then invite her little brothers to have tea. And she had this pink box with small clippings of extra cloth drops and pieces of laces and threads and a needle and she’d sew these things together to make random designs and what not. And she’d sit there all day busy in her little chores. It felt amazing.

The pink box is gone along with her childhood. Her brothers are grown up and living far away places. Those tiny plastic utensils, her mother safely placed at the shelf in her room along side other useless items she used to play with. Her mother dusts these daily but never ever thinks of throwing or giving away. Mothers. They have their own ways.

A bird chirps from the trees above. Their is a mud pot placed right beside her, filled with water for the birds to drink. It is really hot out there. This house, it used to be filled with laughter and shouting and excitement where a strange kind of silence and sadness resides now. Her mother and father, they have grown old. They look tired when they smile.

Tear, a tear rolls down her cheek and falls on the ground, cold enough in the presence of summer’s bright sun. May be its the tree’s. It’s their way of grieving. Over beautiful lost memories and a cheerless future. Or may be it’s the coldness from inside of her heart. It’s dead, after putting up with so much pain and faking happiness for so long, it’s finally dead. She is scared, this home with all it’s memories and charm, what if it wakes up her heart again? But then dead can’t be woken up, can they?

She thinks of her room. It feels haunted to her. She remembers when she was little, she had an art wall in her room. She would make drawings,paintings,scribbles and art and then stick those to the wall. Her drawings and art work improved as she grew up and it was all there at the wall which she was proud of. And then once while the house had to get painted, she had to remove her art from the wall with her own hands. She was sad. She was a teenager at that time. A long cupboard with lots of shelves was then placed alongside her wall. That cupboard now contains fragments of her childhood and they get dusted daily by her mother.

Those albums with her baby photos, school functions and their family day outs, that car which saw her and her siblings grow up from children to teenagers and then adults, that same TV they used to watch cartoons on, the fans the ceilings the walls, nothing’s changed, everything haunts her. The memories are beautiful. It’s the fact that nothing like this can happen in future that wrings the heart and wrinkles the soul.

She weeps. Head in her lap, hands wrapped around the knees she weeps. Her shadowed self, this mud pot, all these trees and those countless memories that crowded in her mind and flowed through her veins while sitting here, this scene, it would freeze in her eyes and would be a valuable treasure for the rest of her life to come, away from her home.

That day, she buried herself right there, in the passage way, beneath the shadows and under the weight of good old childhood memories to live inside them forever.

 

 

 

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An Open Letter From a Dead Child To His Mother On His Death Anniversary

294715-pakistan-attack-reuters
A mother crying on the death of her child- Peshawar School Attack 16 December 2014, Pakistan.

Ma!

It’s 16 December. The day you saw my blood stained dead body. The day you died along with me. It’s our first death anniversary Ma.

I can see your red swollen eyes today, you didn’t sleep Ma, I know it. I can see your hands tremble while you make tea for Baba. I can hear that painful unspoken conversation between you and Baba. When you look at each other and say nothing, your silence tells me all. The wails of your heart and the cries of Baba’s eyes, they pierce my heart. It’s been a whole year since that happened, but you still live in the moment I died. The days after that, they didn’t pass for you.

I know you can see the wound of bullet on my head bleeding again today. The very place where you used to kiss me before sending me off to school. My white shirt which you used to wash with such pure love, It’s blood stained forever in your heart. You clean my books, my toys, my chair where I’d sit to eat and my plate everyday, with your scarf. Today when you clean, I know you can hear these weep with you.

Remember Ma, the day when they entered our school with big guns and started shooting at the children. There were cries everywhere. I was scared. I called your name. You were not there. You were running in the street towards my school without shoes.

My friends with whom I’d play everyday, they were crying and falling down while bullets hit them. I saw a pile of small bodies on the ground beside me Ma. I was standing in a pool of blood when a bullet hit my arm Ma, It was so painful. I fell on the ground. Your little kid Ma, your baby. I remember how you wept when I once had my arm broken while playing. I had a bullet in it now, I knew you’d come to save me.

They fired up my teacher who tried to save us, she burned to death alive and we saw it. It was all so scary. I wanted to hug you and hide in your shawl. I called you Ma. I tried getting up and run to you but I couldn’t. One of them saw me. He came towards me and put his gun on my forehead. It hurt so much Ma, so much. I looked him in the eyes. I wasn’t afraid of him, he was a coward. I did called you and baba for the last time before he fired the bullet.

I saw you from up there, when between blood stained books and misplaced shoes you searched for me. When in the hospital Baba showed you my little cold body. When you touched my face, brushed my hair and fell down. Hysterical, crying, unconscious. The eyes that you saw shining in the morning, they were dark. The tongue you heard speaking, singing poems while having breakfast, it was silent forever. I felt your pain Ma. I felt the pain of 132 Mothers that day.

Please don’t cry Ma. Do you know, with every tear that sheds from your eyes, a beautiful flower blossoms here in our garden. Oh did I forget to tell you? We are here Ma in this magical garden with green grass and so many beautiful flowers. They smell of you Ma. We play here and laugh. We have Allah here with us, who love us like you do. He takes care of us and He tells us that you and Baba will be here one day and then we’ll live together in peace. No bad people can enter here with their guns.

I want you to be strong Ma. We’ll meet one day. You can kiss me on the forehead then and wrap me up inside you.

Till then, With Love.

Your Brave Son.

 

2420B91F00000578-2877148-image-a-36_1418862011512
From this….
beautiful-flowers-garden-3
To this…

 

 

 

 

Black Heavy Boots

Scared little asian girl

With sewed lips and glued eyes she’d put her first quivering step on the stairs of cellar. Before climbing down, she’d leave her mortified ‘self’ on a shelf beside the cellar door. Her exhausted 10 years old corpse would soon drag itself down to the cold ground where sinful darkness would cloak her.

A pair of black heavy boots would instantly follow her down. The sound of their hammering knocks matches the rhythm of her thumping heart. As it reaches more close, her frightened heart rips apart her chest and falls right in the middle of his feet. The bleeding that follows would be far less than the one that happens just before he leaves her there.

His hands reach for her clothes. Her body turns to a rock. Her heart would squirm like a fish out of water, lying right beside her as the water in her stone eyes dry out. Her teeth would bite hard into the flesh of her rosy lips.

A tough blow from one of his boots makes her alive again.

She draws a long burning breath in, in a desperate hope of it to be the last one. Hope laughs. She falls into the arms of despair yet once again.

On the way back, she never forgets to take back her ‘self’ from the shelf beside the cellar door…

————————————————————-

She helps her mother cook food for her father. It is time for her mother to go to her teaching job. She want to beg her not to go but she can’t.

As she serves food to her father, she could feel a burning sensation on her skin where he stares. She looks down on his feet.

His black heavy boots are covered in blood…

—————————————————————

Almost 90,000 cases of child sexual abuse are reported each year. Out of which, 96% are known to their victims and 20% are fathers. (Advocates for Youth, 1995)

 

 

Of The Being….

The unbearable lightness of being (1998)
The unbearable lightness of being (1998)

Seeds were sown, in the infertile lands

an immortal being was born

pain do it yield, tears make it torn

as it, eats up self of its own

Story be told today

Of the bouquet of

yellow faded leaves that this being is

Of the sore cramps all over it’s soul that

blisters gather up to tingle

Water in the blisters be like

in the inquisitive

eyes of a sad Mother

whose children sob in the nights and

sleep beaten arms can’t comfort them

Their pain, they don’t tell

sympathies don’t make them well

Of the stinking fragrance of it

fragrance like of the flowers in the eyes

of a beautiful damsel

flowers that bloom on the plants of

abandoned gardens and die there

Of the angelic body

as of the body of a married lady

which is, tired of embellishing

loveless deceitful fancy beds

Story of the being that bathes

in the moonlit nights under

flaring silver skies of it’s darkest desires

that burn in their own sweat

Story of the being that, with all it’s imperfections

is dunk in the divine sanction of Him

as it suffuses beyond time and space.

Dedicated to all the readers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Story Of A 2064’s Grand-Ma !

1990's -When people used to think 'real ideas'
1990’s -When people used to think ‘real ideas’

1990’s :

Mom and Daughter:

Mom: Where are you going my darling?

Daughter: To play with my friends Mommy, we have invented a new game and the idea was mine !

Mom: Wow ! That’s good. Your brainwaves are so innovative. Go play but don’t go too far.

Daughter: Okay, Mommy.

Brother And Sister:

Brother: I have discovered a new library and they have the best books collection.

Sister: Oh wow, Please give me its address.

Brother: No, you first tell me the story of book you just read.

Sister: Okay.

Grand Daughter And Grand Ma:

Grand Daughter: Please tell me the stories of your past Grand-Ma !

Grand Ma: Okay sweetheart, Come here sit in my lap and I will tell you many stories.

Grand Daughter: Yay ! Thanks Grand-Ma.

xx_____________________xx

typing-dog
2013 – When Ideas went online !

2013 :

Mom and Daughter:

Mom: Where are you going sweetheart ?

Daughter: In my room Mommy ! I am working on a new website. The idea was mine.

Mom: Wow ! That’s good. Your brainwaves are so innovative. Go but please come out for lunch.

Daughter: Okay, Mommy !

Brother And Sister:

Brother: I have discovered the fastest torrent website online.

Sister: Please give me it’s address, I have to download a movie.

Brother: No, First remove that weird photo of me with our family you have posted on your face book.

Sister: Okay.

Grand Daughter and Grand Ma:

Grand Ma: Have you checked my new post on my blog ?

Grand Daughter: Sorry Grand-Ma I didn’t get time.

Grand Ma: Okay I am un-friend-ing you on Face book !!

xx_____________________xx

1934 - When we'd be the weirdest Grand Parents !
2064 – When we’d be the weirdest Grand Parents !

2064:

Mom and Daughter:

Daughter : Mommy ! My friend told me today that long ago there were people who don’t used to have sharp brains like us but they were energetic and used to think of bright ideas about life.

Mommy: No sweetheart don’t think about that. Save your brainwaves. Go recharge your brain.

Grand Ma standing besides them, Smiles !

Grand Daughter and Grand Ma:

Grand Ma: Come sweetheart we are playing the latest version of Grand Theft Auto ! It is amazing.

Grand Daughter: No, Grand Ma ! You play. I have to go with my Android friends.

Grand Ma smiles again !

xx_____________________xx

This weird post is written in response to Daily Prompt: Brainwave.

Credits:

First photo : SHADY.

Second and Third: Google.

 

An Excruciating Spasm Of Guilt

newborn-mother-hand-pa

Lies inside her silvered heart

A golden memory wrapped in layers of mist

And a guilt torn apart

Tiny finger wrapped in warmth

Of embrace of her graceful Mother’s hands

As she teaches her to walk forth

Having lunch on the first day

At school, feeling touch of her mother’s hand on bread

Smiles the shine in her eyes grey

While kids play with toys, she pour

Her innocent wishes to her Mother’s mind -laying in her lap

As her Mother teaches her to endure

Having a single meal that day

She Glances at her Mother sleeping peacefully- and recall

She had nothing but water today

As grains of sand slip through hand

Time flew by, fading her childhood in mystic wraps

Now she was a girl strong enough to stand

Cherished was the ethereal time

Befallen under shadows of her Mother’s Love Divine

Problems dimmed by the wind chimes

With a flash her world shattered

Broken was her Mother’s heart, by her words angry and harsh

-She left with tears flooded

And came back on a stretcher

Wounded-Lifeless her Mother’s lies on blood filled white sheet

With a brand new shawl there

Woman who walked with her mother;told

She bought this shawl for her beloved daughter

To make her anger cold

Mind paralyzed and confused

She looked at her Mother’s feet- and Remembered she had

No money to buy shoes.

A post written in response to The Daily Prompt.