Was it the darkness
of the night or the darkness of human souls that had blurred the vision of
thousands? Who could tell? Gunshots roared in the distance as the nature
screamed for human to stop this brutality. Humans always find someone to pin
the blame on, for all the things they do. The cries echoed and the blood
spilled, flowing down the drains as if poured out of the sky. Every fallen soul
carried a story, a story that dribbled down in the form of blood as it would be
written in the future. Not every story will make it to the light of the day.
Some stories will fade away from the face of the Earth. But the heavens noticed,
the heavens scribbled each and every story.
Behind the constant
loud thumping of her pulse in her ear, was the noise sending constant chills
down her spine; gunshots. Her lungs, desperately attempting to grasp the air
and failing, it was like the air had been vacuumed out of the aura. Nausea took
over her again. The legs protested her to stop. A hand wrapped around her
belly, she fought the urge to vomit. Her eyes stung. She knew better than to
stop. So she dragged the legs along but it is so long your organs choose to
support you. The balance tripped and at the moment a hand reached for her
rescue, wrapping around her in the same manner she had hers wrapped around her
belly, for exactly the same purpose: protection.
For a moment, everything became irrelevant- the gunshots in the background, the
threat hanging over their heads. For a moment, the fading hope was restored.
She was in the safest hands. For a moment, her dream came alive again.
Everything would be fine now, everything. His gentle grip over her arm was
reassuring. It was too dark for her to see his face but she could tell it was
as handsome as the first time she had seen him.
“Come on now, we
should rest a bit.” He said keeping his voice as low as possible yet at the
same time loud enough for everyone to hear. It was a group of 8 people; 3 of
them were feebly old.
“In here,” said a
man named Mujeeb.
He had helped her
sit down, his hand still protectively shielding her from the grave horrors
surrounding them. She put her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. His grip
softened over her arm. She knew he was smiling. She imagined the dimple
deepening in his left cheek. She had always loved that.
“I am gonna go look
for some water.” The man named Jamal said.
“I’ll come with
you.” Her heartbeat rose in objection. Her grip tightened over his hand. All
the hope had faded away, making way for fear to grip her over.
“Please, don’t.”
she pled.
“It’s okay. I’ll be
back. I promise.”
“Don’t make
promises you can’t keep, son.” The old man, Habib Ullah, said.
“I am not, baba
jee.” He said in a soft voice.
“Hadi-”
“I’ll come back for
you, my queen.” He kissed her forehead.
Hadi, Mujeeb, and
Jamaluddin had left for the water hunt. The night just became heavier for her
to bear. It was a long night for her, longer than the one she had spent waiting
for her baba jan to come home, the night before she met the love of her life.
*
5 years ago, Nehal
had faced the life’s biggest tragedy. Her life had gone worse ever since till
he came into her life.
One night, almost
as dark as this one- she had sat in the room waiting for her baba jan to come
home. She was reading one of his books, constantly glancing at the clock. He
must have decided to stay in somewhere, she tried to tell herself. Her heart
knew something was wrong.
Her mother had gone
to bed but Nehal couldn’t bring herself to sleep. The world was too horrible to
let her sleep. She had prayed silently again, for his safety. It was a long
night for her. Baba jan hadn’t come home.
The next morning,
the worst of the worst happened. The thing she had dreaded the most. Baba jan
was a Scholar and an activist. He had been involved in movements of
Tehreek-e-Pakistan. That put his life in grave danger. She never understood why
he had to be involved.
In the morning when
the bell rang, she had run- barefooted, bareheaded.
“Baba jan.” She had
been repeating under her breath, her heart uneven with excitement.
Baba jan wasn’t
standing on the opposite side of the door. There was a disciple of him. He had
introduced himself, a name that at that time she was unable to hear. She just
wanted to know where her baba jan was.
He held a torn
kurta in his hands, his eyes moist with grief.
“Baba jan?” her
pleading eyes searched for a clue on his face, something that stated otherwise
than what she was thinking. She wanted him to deny, to tell her she was wrong.
He wasn’t denying. She was struck with horror. The color of her skin faded, her
throat dried up like a barren land.
She did not know
what happened next. Who came, who went, who controlled her. The only thing she
heard was screams- not knowing whose. Her baba jan was gone, just like that.
A firing incident,
they had said. Lots of homes were uprooted. She finally understood why baba jan
had to be a part of such movement. The home wasn’t the sanctuary anymore. They
had to move to a safe haven. Pakistan was the safe haven. Pakistan had to be
made.
(to be continued)
(to be continued)
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