The world is nothing but a hue of red, a riot of shades to rival any gardeners paradise.
Red is the sign of life. The colour in my veins, and the beats in my pulse. Red is every drop of blood that dripped from an innocent, the blood we can't afford to lose. Red were the streams that out fathers bled so that we could breath. Red, the colour of sacrifice, the ground we stand on, the margins that separate us, the danger that lingers in choice.
Red is the colour of pain. You tell me I am addicted to feeling despair. I paint my canvas with shades of red, but what do you know of the corpses those families shoved inside the coffines of silence.
Red is the colour of desire, the colour of love. Red were the flowers my Nana plucked from his garden and tucked them in my Nani's bun every Eid. Red was the chadar of roses we spread on his grave. Red is the spark that spreads the wildfire of love, the colour of kisses you planted on my cheeks.
Red is the colour of act and pretendence that all is well. The colour of pills my baby brother swallows every night. The colour of pain in his eyes after crying himself to sleep every night. Red was the colour of blade, Diya, used to slit her wrist in the final year of bachelors. The colour of her graduation, the colour of goodbye she bid us.
Red, the colour of pride and prejudice. The fire of lust burning inside every human. Red is the news telecasted on TV everyday, of r*pe and abuse. Red, is horror, the colour of fire you set me on, on my husband's funeral, the colour of shock, when I heard what a teen did to a kitten. Red is the sea of flames in which humanity is drowning.
Red is the colour of justice in my city. Red were the swollen arms of my lawyer who favoured the innocent and proved the guilty. Red was the dress the girl wore on her wedding. Red was the henna on her hands and the colour on her lips. Red were eyes of the man, old enough to be her father, who came at dawn, drunk. Red were the slaps he gifted her, red was the colour of welcome, her welcome.
Red is the colour of sindur my maid wears, the kind of red that over powers the blue bruises on her body. Red was the face of my neighbour, when god blessed him with a daughter after 10 years. Red is the colour of gender equality.
Red is the colour of passion and dream. Some trade them for bigger pay checks some dissolve like molecules in it. Red is the colour of canvas in which Sadequain painted the last revelation, when needles pierced him, but he bled only through his art work.
Red is the colour of ink in which Manto sahib wrote what couldn't be put into words. The veil of humour behind which Anwar Maqsood hides the bitterness of the reality, the colour of junoon in Salman Ahmed, the reflection of a mother in Biquis Edhi and the youth that will continue to shine in Arfa Kareem. Red is the colour of my homeland, Pakistan.
Red is the colour of my heart and soul that aches when I see people who want slim figure, but aren't ready to share food with the hungry, people who want attractive lips but aren't ready to speak words of kindness. When I see people idealizing white skin, but now white character. Red is the embarrassment I face on the airport, just because my passport isn't red.
I will continue to bleed on the paper until red are only the roses that bloom in the gardens, until red becomes the colour of the sun that blazes humanity in everyone, until red turns the colour of happiness, freedom and love, until red is the dawn of change that glides across the morning sky and eats away the darkness in minds and hearts.
Until then, I will continue to bleed.
-Hibah Abid
