To Imam Hussain,
If you have not known up to this point in your life, that Allah Almighty has gifted your father with an eccentrically ethereal token of imagination, then now you are about to, son.
Your father, as it so happens – and it so happens rather blissfully – has been an author of a handful of letters and write-ups which he has written for some ‘pearls’ that have clammed upon the transient waves along his ocean of a life. Cruel if you may want to call your father you may, as these very write-ups have made these very ‘pearls’ shed a tear or few upon reading what your father had written (words pierce, son, you see… you will see) – and it was somewhere along the lines of what you are about to read. In no particular order, these were written for Zeenat, who was a beloved friend that upturned your father’s life completely; a letter was written for Faryal, who has been a sentinel, a protector, a guarding beacon house, a close friend; another letter was written for dear Miss Fareeha, who has been one of the loveliest teacher your father has ever had (he is smiling even now as he recalls all this); plenty was written for Farayha, some Dumbo. You must have – given how deeply observant and an engrossed reader you are (like your father) – possibly found two patterns: one revealing that your father is far from a misogynist, son, but don’t consider him a pervert in any case for dedicating all wordy declarations for solely ladies in his life; secondly, you find that most of these pearls’ names follow with an ‘F-A-R’ at their start. It is a rather unusual pattern your father has spent living with, but it is what it is, son. And as it so happens, my current employer and teacher too follows the latter pattern – his name is Farooq -, and he has grown upon me too. Consider it a possibility that a letter will be written for him too whence we part ways (though, it is possible that your father might not be able to move him to tears because, you know, men are not as touchy-feely). The point of this narration is that, within your resilient father has been sizzling and broiling a pulsating desire to compose a letter for you too, Imam Hussain. Yes, yes, it is already realized that your father’s letter to you will disrupt his ‘dedication pattern’ inside out, but your father is a whimsical man. Trust this, and also that your father is one weird a man too. Very.
Maybe somewhere along the shifting saccades you might have taken note that your father sounds like an ancient man. Haha, it is not so, believe this – he is merely a quarter of a century old as of now -. He is quarter child, quarter mythical, quarter ordinary, and only quarter ancient. A 20 year old universe, who has, at this age, when you are far from existence my child, fantasized about you with you and you in his reveries, poking and probing constantly to the point that your father sometimes transits between the undulations of thrill and sentimentality. This is ecstasy son, and admittedly rather befuddling too, that you have become your father’s prayer. How glorious you are, how chivalrous, how ethereal, like a sudden epiphany, Imam Hussain.
Enough about him now, though. Your father heartily apologises for being soporific, son. Let’s start about you; your name. Is your name not sheer beauty? heavenly? You have been named Imam Hussain, as it must have been regularly discussed with your father, after Imam Hussain (RA) bin Ali (RA) ibn Abu Talib (RA), mother Fatima (RA) bint e Muhammad (SAW). One of the two glorious grandsons of Allah’s beloved, Our Holy Prophet Muhammad (SAW) – who is the reason of this universe’s existence. Imam Hussain (RA) lives inside the hearts of every true believer, son. Millenias away from where my words will end, reverent praises will begin for these Men of Allah. So expect not this from your father that he has ever done an atom’s worth of justice whenever he recalled for you, the might of Allah’s men. Just because your father’s heart pumped, and still pumps, with the love for the sacrifices laid down at Karbala – that one eternal prostration before Allah, that resilience towards honour, and that honour in standing rock-footed before fleets upon fleets of bloodhounds… for righteousness – by the family of our beloved Prophet SAW – whose earned thirst never has been curbed with more gratification compared to any other, for the goblet of Kausar was offered by Allah’s Beloved SAW to his grandson Imam Hussain (AS) and the family of Hussain (AS) in Paradise (what a sight, by Allah, would that have been) – thereby your father named you Imam Hussain. Imam Hussain, your parents take an oath that they will do their best in nurturing you in the best of light (this is both a foresight for now and a promise). And you promise that whenever you see your name, read your name, write your name, listen to your name – or do anything decent with your name given the advanced technology/ies there are available at your age and generation – you will be reminded of Imam Hussain (RA). You will be the symbol of courage, of truth, of honour, of resilience for what you rightfully stand for; of piety, of grace, or reverence. That is your father’s plan to see you as. You will be a dream come true, Imam Hussain.
No no, this is already established that there are no restricted pathways predestined for you by any mortal. This, you know, and you always should. You will not be beaten if you do not pray all five prayers, fast all 30 days; or, you know, ogle at pretty girls every once in a while. There is no indexed timeline of your life, because you will try music, you will love it; you will read all sorts of literature (even the genres which you shouldn’t), you will come to be infatuated with a lady, interpreting or misinterpreting that as love; you will tease your siblings, given that you have some (Inshallah 😉 ), you will have rowdy friends, and late night parties, and arguments with your parents; you will undergo bouts of lost temper, taste the bitterness of failure/s, have vulgar outbursts of laughter at inappropriate moments, spend lonely nights depressed under a wet blanket, heartily desire, pray, and wish that your grandmother or some of your aunt, or some other relative stops being clingy and riddling you with questions of sorts all; you will have girl friends and might have girlfriends, you will have crazy and unforeseen moments and you will end up finding yourself where you never would have imagined you will find yourself, you will obscenely scream, shrill and hoot when your favorite sports team wins or scores (a goal, a six, a basket, anything), you will cuss out loudly with friends, you will prank your teachers, you will shrug off beggars, you might catch up vices which your parents would have prayed that you must have never caught. You will be flawed, Imam Hussain, but there will be a limit to your flaws. You will gulp mistakes and lessons will stick between the walls of your throat which you will have to eject out. You will travel at the speed of life and you will observe what it is like to be a human being. You will be bad, son, but this faith is somehow engrossed within your father’s heart that your goodness will always overshadow your flaws. You will be in love with the world and then the world will break you, quite wonderfully, and you will be a singing, shining mosaic, glued together with love, that would have just become as deep a part of you as your bones and flesh. Because your father has undergone the wild side of this life too, therefore all of the above wilderness he sees you doing too some day; he promotes for you the same rowdy pattern in your life. You may go through the similar patterns in your life from Eminem, to Khaled Hosseini to Game of Thrones to Facebook/Twitter/Whatsapp, to whatever is popular in your era, it is absolutely fine. It will be amazing, trust this. But, you will never undermine or taint or let anyone else taint what is at the core of you, and that is Islam: Allah, Rasool-Allah SAW, The Holy Quran, Anbia-e-Karam AS, Sahaba of the Prophet (RA), Ahl-al-bayt, and all the followers of Haqq and of righteousness and of divinity, and love/respect for the mankind – and that includes all people, son, good and bad. This will be at the core of you, Imam Hussain, like a source code is of any computer program. You will be your parents’ Sadqa-e-Jariah.
All things said, there is no compromise on one part, son. Listen carefully here, no compromise on one part, Imam Hussain… That you will be a lion. That you will have to be a lion when it comes to you standing beside or before injustice or cruelty or falsehood. You will do what the best of the Men did. You will cut yourself off from your neighbour if they are the one standing before you in your way, with your best friend if he does so, your sibling, even your father if he goes rabid (God forbid), but you will do so. You will face them then if it comes to that, you will fight them then if they lead you to that. You will be a lion son, you will then have to recall Ibn-e-Haider then son. You will. You will recall or look up what Rasool-Allah SAW would have done, what Siddique-e-Akbar (RA) would have done, what Farooq-e-Azam (RA) would have done, what Usman-e-Ghani (RA) would have done, what Abu Turab, Asadullah (RA) himself would have done. These are the Mightiest of the mightiest, Truest of the truest, most Faithful of the most faithful, most Chivalrous of the most chivalrous, most Generous of the most generous of men, Imam Hussain. Are you listening closely, son? You must, for your supports in this life will tumble soon. Your life itself will wrap upon itself soon enough, son. Even your father right now is imagining that he merely used to be 4 a week ago, that only yesterday, he used to be among friends that he could call friends which no longer remain in his life. The point is that your options will run out, my dear mansion of stars. At that point then, you will refer to the best of men to guide you through, and you will ask of the best of and the only Lord of all kingdoms and dominions that there are; Allah. The only one who Ever was, Always will be. I know that I have inculcated this within you again and again; it is this constant reinforcement that we live upon, do we not?
Alright now, let’s lighten the mood up slightly. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR UNCLES AND AUNTS? Isn’t uncle Emad the most hilarious person that ever lived? (meh, hyperbole) and isn’t he also the single-most lamest person you have ever encountered? My God, that man is your father’s love, Imam Hussain. If your father could say that he has a soulmate, it is he, Emad. You should see him, uh, of course you have, Inshallah, but you should see him now, he is … beyond words. Your father rarely goes at a loss for words, son, trust this, but when it comes to Emad, and basically to your father’s family and faith, his prejudices run deep. That is just how your father is, weirdo-type. An absolutely bizarre-weirdo. Though, a unique one – a rare one -; a one of a kind.
You might as well grab me by the neck and shove me against the wall for all I care. I’d slam but the only protest you’d hear would be the dhuk sound from the wall. That’s it. I can’t help it when my legs would stop carrying me forward like this – when I’d be lost in some heavy daze. You’d bump and stare eerily at me. You’d nastily roar at me.
Satisfied? Took it all out? Would you now move on?
…Because my mouth won’t be freeing any hostages. No lies trembling out of these starkly painted lips. No false apology. My form says enough. Too smoky, my eyes, shielded with a lack of focus. Foreigners; all of your voices, drained out, I swear. And I’m so aware that they are.
So. Fucking. Aware.
This me would be a symbolism of disintegration, of disinterest; the contradiction of enthusiasm. I’d walk not – my legs’d take me. I’d eat not – this mechanical mouth’d tear, chew, swallow for me. There is a country-wide gap between what I’d be feeling and what I’d be expressing.
Hollowed am I. Not a gutted fish, an eviscerated fish. I wonder if fishing might just turn out to be exactly my thing? The empty hours of stretched stillness. Then the sudden jerks.
Just my thing.
In the finishing of my reports, attending of my calls, submitting of my works, there would be a robotic monotony; my voice, a distant cavity (during my day job). Still, my real one at least. And nobody makes me laugh; nobody can make me laugh.
These glorious sunsets and I would have tedious staring contests. They’d depart first, hence they’d blink first, hence they’d lose (I can sit unblinkingly for millennia. Seriously), though sometimes I’d wish they don’t…
Sometimes I’d wish the sun never goes down.
(But when it does…) And when it does… when this crossing of my life is trampled over… something is sunk behind… and something entirely else is afloat on the surface.
See, I can scan past all these morphing faces, these lifted masks, these sick realities (and this time I’m actually interested in all of them) – eyeing me as if one flashy look is enough to read me wholly. No fam no. It works the other way around.
It is at night when you wolves come flowing out, showing your true thirst; howling wildly. And oh how much I love letting you seek pleasure in the illusion of decrypting the enigmatic ‘me’. The illusion of you using ‘me’. You’re the one above, no? No. Way down below in reality. Look at your eyes. I spot a hundred grammatical errors in them…
Whatever your nightly hedonistic labels would be for me, your mornings would have more or less the same. To put it in one word; “Meretricious”. Aww, poor you. You thought you’d have the last laugh, no? See how the filth of your forms is now moving into your tongues? your vocabulary, growing trashier like a sewer. Is this the part where you throw me out of your house? No? Uh oh, I’m laughing now. A desolate, sardonic, broken laugh because you’re a joke (what? I never said nothing can make me laugh).
Aha! So this is the part where you throw me out of your house…
“… And then it began to settle in me, you know, the solemnity of the situation…
“I mean I’m there, right in front of her while she has another of her… attack, and it’s… it’s crushing to see. I feel like… like I’m being gutted like an animal.
“She’s there, right in front of me, roaring and screaming with glittery eyes and a… a body personifying agony like she’s… she’s s.. seizing and… sh… shivering so hard, with her hands flailing vviolently and all – an utterly beautiful disastrous mess, really… Imagine looking… imagine the one you’re madly in love with going through that… Imagine…”
He sniffs and carries on.
“I’m right in front of her… and my heart falls into a pit when I ssee her like that; my throat squeezes shut and I cannot gulp down this this… stupid lump that has formed in it. My legs go weak and I’m… ffeeling like a wreck who’d fall to the floor any second now. Breathing gets hard… I can’t breathe but then it hits me you know. That I have to be strong here, that… I CAN’T fall apart as well when she’s like that.
“So I manage to breathe in deep and I, with my slightly trembling hands hold her. I hold both of her shoulders and I say, “shh shhh… It’s all okay now,” and I’m surprised that my voice doesn’t shudder. She still screams and tears are gushing down her face and she’s sobbing and pushing me away and I want to hug her so bad but she’s just not… she wouldn’t let me then, I knew.
“So with the same illusory calm voice I ask her to look up into my eyes, and after a couple of times of asking, she does, and I don’t know what she sees but she just stills, stills you know. Her Her features soften slightly and then I’m parting strands of her hair off her face. At the same time I ask her, “look at me and tell me if you think I’ll abandon you, ever?” and she doesn’t say anything but her eyes glare into mine and I think she’s lost… but she’s actually there. I feel a ghost of a nod and I’m, so I’m cupping my palm against her cheek and I rub it softly. She, you know she… hah, she actually leans into my touch and she starts to sob; she becomes demure like a little infant and she… sobs and I’m watching her.
“Next she opens up her eyes and they’re filling up with tears again and I sense her opening her lips to say something irrational again, but before she does that, I grab her face gently, pull it up and her face rises upto mine like smoke from a flame and then we kiss. And there we are… I don’t know, floating over skies… It goes so deep and so sensual and for so long that she’s quivering and I taste her tears in my mouth and you know, then nothing like that. Then it just, stops being a kiss. It’s something more. It’s it’s like I’m pulling out the… all the vile things from inside her – I’m exorcising her – and giving her back her real loving spirit.
“So when we pull back, her eyes are still closed and I can see that she’s tipsy and still reeling from all the sensations and it takes a good part of a minute for her to finally open her eyes and she says, you know what she says? She says, “how do you do that?” and I freaking smile. She’s smiling too and I’m like, God yes! this is my treasure – the best possible kind. And after that you know, I feel that it was all worth it. The pain, the… the the torture of watching her fall apart in shreds. It’s just…”
“It’s ineffable… It’s all just worth it. Being with her, being the reason for her repair, makes all the pain worth it – no, it makes it nonexistent. As if it wasn’t there. Just… worth it.”
A few second’s pause follows. Then his friend replies, “By God, man. That’s just what it really is. That’s love right there…” then he continues,”well, what happens after that? After the er… heavenly kiss?”
“After that…?” The man sighs, averts his gaze and his friend sees a vague blush creep up his cheeks. He bites his lip and closes his eyes and then turns to him, opens his eyes and the next thing he says, he says in a different, more breathy voice,
“It’s all actually more than worth it, man…”
It’s when he winks that his friend gets it.
The dutiful scribbling of my pen would loyally fail to betray the sea of thoughts in my head. His thoughts. An urge, like bile rises in me to glance back towards him, which I swallow back. Look up on the blackboard instead, Shireen.
Neglecting now the slicing cold, I ran.
I sighed and suddenly felt my chest and throat on fire, as if replaced with the breast of a dragon. My lungs too were inflamed. I bent, rested my palms on my knees and tried to catch my breath, still looking at the nimbus of light above the opened-up skull of the sports stadium. Ignis fatuus, I thought, and chuckled with a shudder.
You would always find her eyes uncovered; rarely blinking. Those otherworldly orbs, on display for the world to see. Sheer blackness in them, in contrast to all the colors that actually formed her. You should be, and maybe you unknowingly would be grateful that her gaze flutters everywhere but to your eyes. No blitz of thunder at your heart to strike.
Sometimes you would find her on the streets, walking hand in hand one day in one’s company, another day in another’s. A realm of angelic grace she would be. Calmly, easily, vigilantly would she take her steps, as if time itself sought refuge under her unseen kingdom – and who knew, maybe it did… You would also find bewitched strangers, hustling and making way for her to pass on as if she were royalty. A feathery thank you would roll out on her tongue and she would walk on, hand in hand, turning a blind eye to everyone… Unaware as to how baffled had she left those faces behind.
Some miracle was she. This girl, Safa – innocent, demure. Extracting joy in even the most mundane of tasks. Like all of a sudden she would stand on her feet, would raise both her arms up, hoping to accidentally touch the ceiling, without even realizing that she had become an immediate cynosure in the room. Then would giggle shyly lowering her vision as her cheeks heated up – when would be informed that everybody was watching her. Some descended fairy Safa was.
You would find her to be the breaker of worldly trends. Not only everyone but everything loved Safa. The sky especially. On some days, in her mind, skies would turn lilac with yellow stars; the shy sun would first hesitate, then refuse to come out altogether, hence the mornings would be dominated by the crispy moon. She would picture the sky bursting in mulberry gradients at other times – though unaware what the shade mulberry actually looked like – and festooned with juicy clouds that hovered heavily. Despite Safa’s absurd imaginations, the sky would never, could never curse her, nor release showers over her. She would somehow always get a predilection for rain. Always.
The way she smiled, ah! That was real – those curves and stretches of her lips that resembled smiles of a migrated traveller returning home decades later. And Safa’s would make the winds gallop, tripping over themselves for a fleeting sight of her. The whole world and everything in it pampered her…
And yet at times, unbelievably, she would turn into a human too…
… So naturally that you wouldn’t believe your eyes. One second she would be sitting over there – waiting – staring with glazed eyes at a wall, then gradually would fall under the spell of sleep; her celestial disguise slipping, like the evanescence of a dream. Her head would be leaning against the rest, her dark mane a messy nest, her mouth ajar; a string of drool leaking from its corner. How mundane, how ordinary would Safa seem.
There would similarly be days when Safa would be found ransacking her knapsack, feeling her hands around for something she cannot find. Frustated then, she would cuss indecently under her breath. If you would be lucky enough to hear that, you would find her so earthly in that moment; so mortal. An angel fallen from grace.
… You would also realize that only she could make those words sound cute. But that acknowledgement would come second – for obvious reasons.
Lights illumined with dignity, would ballet in Safa’s vicinity. If you really possessed eyes, you could watch the lights in the room desperately writhe and burn, performing arabesques and whatnot. All of that, just to grasp her attention, and yet they would fail. She had not, eyes for the ordinary. What Safa saw, others did not; could not…
And nor could she see the things others did see. Yet she would seem so accustomed to the revolving world, navigating with such ease that you would never learn at first glance, of her destitution of sight… Her blindness Safa carried not as a burden, not as a source of pity, but as a debt of this universe to her. Its wondrous compensations she accepted heartily; blissfully.
… But that never meant she wouldn’t give anything within a blink of an eye to watch the sky just one more time.
Continued from part one…
The next three weeks saw Anzala’s fantasies of her escapes frequent all the more. This had fuelled her rebelliousness. She no longer felt fascinated by the cheap thrills around. Untaken roads, undiscovered strangers, unsolved puzzles; these aroused thrill.
No one could have predicted but this passage of time was what had been the roots for future ailments to come…
When Anzala’s interest for the mundane chores too evaporated, all the workload fell onto Anahlia’s shoulders.
“You’re getting married in no time, better get used to it.” Anahlia’s parents told her, and yet she complied, swallowing down complains. She convinced herself of the belief that no matter the strains of those days, Zahran would treat her like a queen. She deserved it, did she not? After all the poems and verses of love she had etched down in her diary and after all the sketches in her sketchbook for him, she did deserve it. Any cognitive man would have fallen for her after all those dedications.
What kind of a man Zahran was, she knew not.
Oblivious to the creeping dawn outside, Harun had been sprawled out on his bed. Eyes half awake and tinged with red. The pounding of his heart rung in his ears, accentuated by the photograph in his hands. It was of Anzala.
His heavy kohl-rimmed eyes couldn’t help but repeatedly travel the length of her unmoving yet pulsing beauty. She had him mesmerized since first sight. With intoxication seeping into his features, Harun admired her. Worshipped her rather – each night as the world around lay unconscious. Anzala and her pictures were the perpetrators of Harun’s sleepless nights and he used to complain not one bit. But her recent disinterest in Harun made him restless. He felt ominous.
“You still are all mine,” Harun thought and laughed shyly, deliriously. His laugh resembled a donkey’s bray he realized, and recalling Anzala call him donkey made him laugh even more.
Harun tossed and turned, explicitly being tickled by amalgamated thoughts for Anzala; of both growing panic and insatiable desires. He extended his arms, her photo still in his hands, “your devil eyes, your angel face. Mine Anzala… Mine.”
Ogling at her picture desperately then, terrific thoughts reached his mind. His eyes glazed over. He stared into nothingness, and blinkingly then, got his focus returned.
“If you won’t be mine, you would be no one’s, Anzala.” Harun whispered in a deranged manner.
He dropped her photograph on the floor then. Like a hovering leaf in the wind it swayed as it fell, finally resting over the sea of other photographs of Anzala. Hundreds of them.
The rising sun burning in his face made Harun draw the drapes and lay to sleep.
That afternoon, the sun blazed. Amidst the thin crowd of people stood Harun, wearing his skull backpack, nervously waiting outside the girl’s college for Anzala. Her sight, that would quench his spiritual thirst. Bodily one was barely any concern at that moment.
Half an hour swept and yet there was no sign of Anzala. Harun deduced that she probably took a day off, and wiping the sweat off his brows, he sighed and walked back to his car.
Taking the long way back, like Anzala always did was distressing for him, but regardless of that he did. Trying once again to understand her perspective of this world, he attempted looking at things through her eyes. The trees only seemed like trees, not freaks that shakingly laugh like old men as they stealthily monitor human activity. Decaying buildings were no ruins of future, but a mess to look at. Wild alley cats were dirty beings instead of savvy supernatural savages, and the wailing beggars were a disdainful sight rather than heavenly.
Just then, he stopped abruptly in his tracks, his backpack lightly slamming against his back. Earlier look of scorn wiped off his face when he found an ancient-looking beggar leaning against an alley wall, accompanied by the mesmeric form of… Anzala.
He stood there shocked, watching her from a distance. She sat in her uniform, both unwary and uncaring of all the eyes that were on her. She was feeding the ragged, heavily-bearded man from her lunchbox, and making him drink from her water bottle. As he swigged the drink, the decrepit man’s eyes, like pools of whiskey, rippled; and tears flowed in the shape of gratitude for Anzala. But Anzala, oh she just smilingly stared at the man – at his wrinkles as if they were paths on a treasure map.
This made Harun cringe. He reached up and called out to Anzala, making the old man squirm. Anzala looked up at him without a waver on her smiling lips. Just the softness of her eyes turned piercing, forcing Harun to avert his gaze. “Get up, and come over here,” said he.
As she prepared to rise, the beggar gripped her hand tightly, staring hysterically at Harun and then looking back at Anzala, furiously nodding sideways. “It’s okay, baba. He’s with me, I’ll be fine.”
Her reassurances were of no use as the mute beggar whimpered for her to not go with him, and Anzala had to be forced up by Harun’s grip on her hand. Away from everyone’s eyes, they went deeper into the alley. Anzala freed herself of his grip and exclaimed with a contained fury under her cutting voice, “do not touch me again, donkey.”
Harun’s eyes hovered over her angry face and yet he found her ravishing. He found himself spellbound first, and then soften. No photograph of hers in this state did he possess.
“I waited outside your college… You weren’t there.” With his shyness returning, he spoke softly.
“I bunked college to stroll the streets.” She shrugged swiftly.
“Bunked college?” Harun cried out in surprise. At her intimidating gaze then, he shook his face. “What has happened to you, my dear Anzala? You used to… be interested in me,” whispered he.
Her mocking glare pierced through his eyes and he blinked sharply. Realization sunk within him. “But… I love you so much, Anzala.”
Anzala sighed heavily, throwing her hands in the air.
“Look Harun, you do not love me. You love this pretty face of mine. This face, that is not even me! My dumb ignorant friend, how do I tell you? I am not these contours, these edges. I am not this skin and smudges. I… I look at myself in the mirror and can’t stand to watch the same features that used to amaze me back then. This face, this body, doesn’t feel like it’s me, Harun. These unmerited burdens came to me; I didn’t traverse any mountain to earn them. No, this is an illusion, for I am something deep. These few weeks, I feel as if I have changed and developed. I grew up. In this tiny stay, I feel like I can last a forever. Something unseen, something soulful has always been calling me, and I have a chance to grasp it. These whispers of the breeze, rustling of the trees, floating of the clouds, they are calling me, and I… I am lured towards their arcane voices. I know you don’t get this, but maybe, maybe you someday will… That I have a pulsating soul within that needs its food, friend.
“You search for God at the end of a prayer mat and that is absolutely right. I am not faithless, I believe in all that, trust me. But you, all of you seem so oblivious of the fact that He is elsewhere too! I have… I saw a reflection of God in the face of that beggar, Harun. It’s crazy, but I see it in nature too. These mysteries, even I don’t get fully, but they overwhelm me. I want this side of world to swallow me – I want to lose myself. Trade my face for anyone’s, I don’t care. You’ll have to fall for another pretty face, Harun – you can’t have me. As long as the flare within me burns, as long as my dreams do not shatter, I don’t think anyone can.”
Harun stood in awe, staring agape at her as if a jinn had possessed her. Anzala seemed to be too much engrossed in her own speech to notice him. She was transcended into fantasies with the daggers of her eyes, blunt for once; unfocused.
“I… Did think that you might not accept me, but I didn’t imagine you would become this… ungrateful sinner. You are so beautiful on the outside, by God, but something vile and ugly has gotten inside you.”
Anzala smiled sadly, expectantly, at Harun’s flabbergasted comments, but she did not mind. She just pursed her plain yet striking lips. For the first time had she voiced her fantasies like this and she felt ecstatic. Her words were no longer going along with her spirit – they were becoming her spirit.
Harun clenched his jaw, and he, for the first time stared at whole of her Venus fair face unyieldingly; unrelentingly. For a near minute, his sight on her face lingered in absorption, as if he was memorizing her features.
… And he was, for since that day, along with the lustre in those burnt honey eyes, the flare of her soul too had been snuffed out, like a melted candle that would never light again.
“I have a parting gift for you,” Harun whispered softly.
… Procured the acid bottle from his bag then swiftly…
Before Anzala could even blink to reality…
He emptied it on her face, achingly.
While the acid ate away her skin, Anzala felt fiery pain. And yet it was not as much as that of the evanescence of her dreams.
To be continued…