Haunting love

“When the life is woe

and the hope is dumb.

The world says GO…     

And the grave says Come”

 “Scars have the strangest power to remind us that our past really is” ~~ Lines said by Cormac Mccarthy. That would have possibly been the hundredth time I had reread those words yet I couldn’t take in the absolute truth of it. Mechanically my eyes gazed over the scar stretched across my pale arm. It had faded over time but my memories hadn’t. It all seemed like it had happened yesterday, to me at least.

 1976 Moscow, Russia

“Alina! would you please get in here, your father has something important to discuss.” I dragged myself inside the white palace, our house. The hallway was stacked with mirrors and all I could see was an ivory skinned girl with waist length dark brown hair in soft curls and her red dress slid down till it kissed the ground and her deep blue eyes stared at me from the mirror.  It was me- Rosalina Danhov, a thirteen year old orphan girl in Moscow. I entered the living room and saw my foster parents waiting for me without a sign of impatience. I greeted them as I sat down. They informed me to pack up and be ready to leave with my foster father, Mr.Bennet. As I said it was an information and not a question for my opinion.

 1978 Kabul, Afghanistan  

Mr.Bennet was a general and chief for the Russian forces and I had come with him to Kabul. The city was exotically beautiful. I had a crazy impulse to run to the city with my arms wide stretched to embrace the city but I knew better. Yet I vowed to myself that I would walk through every street here before I leave. Few days after, after all the chaos had settled down I stole my chance to get into the town. People were very friendly and treated me like I was one of them, especially after knowing I was an orphan. I was happy I had utilized my last year learning Afghan language, it came as a plus point. Their love sparkled even in the water they served, something I had never experienced. One day me and my few friends were playing in the vacant grounds, truly speaking I was showing off my skill of archery. Unusually I was gifted with a marvelous aim and shooting skill. Everyone around me watched me with awed expressions. If their lower jaws weren’t attached to their skulls, they would have been on the floor. I smugly smiled to myself…oops! They were right one’s pride is their own pitfall. I had struck one of the house windows with my arrow. A boy who looked little older than me opened the door and his face was surprisingly warm and friendly, whereas I had expected an angry one. He winked at me and called me. I went near him unsure and confused. He smiled and gave me a candy and said “Nice shot! You are extremely talented.” Well, that was something I hadn’t expected. Now it was my turn to drop my jaw to the floor.

 1979 Kabul, Afghanistan  

That had been our first meeting. I had stopped calling myself an orphan, now that I had Huza. Huza was everything I ever dreamed of in my life. His full name was Huzayal Qazi, a kind hearted, humorous twenty years old boy who undoubtedly held my heart in his own prison. I spent all my time with him and only went to sleep in the house with Mr. Bennet. Days sped up and our bond grew stronger….and the war too grew wilder. Russian army planned an open attack on the Afghans. On the other side the Taliban forces of Afghanistan too planned their attack. I had almost hung around Kabul for one year and the Taliban seemed to know I was good at archery. They were gathering every little support they could get and so my life turned into hell. One day they came to Huzayal’s house while we were playing checkers and asked me to join the force, to fight against Russians.

What an offer! As if I would accept it with open arms to fight against my own mother country. At first I gave them a polite no and they didn’t seem compromised. Well, just the way they wanted I sent them running out of the house by shouting insults at them. Huza seemed amused by it and he laughed off the whole incident. I thought it was over… but it hadn’t ended there. The very next day I was taking a walk with Huza in the market road.  The calm road suddenly became chaotic and guns shots were heard everywhere. I grabbed Huza’s arm tight and started dragging him through the crowd. I could hardly see anything or hear anything in that case. Huza’s grip loosened around me but I held tight and suddenly a sharp jab of pain pulsed through my wrist and arm. I pulled my wretched hand to see what had happened, and unfortunately I let go of Huza’s hand. I had a deep cut running from my palm to arm. There was a throbbing pain not in my arm but in my heart. I frantically searched for Huza and he was nowhere to be found. I just decided I will go wait for him in the house and he will probably return with a candy for me. I dragged myself to his house and sat in the first room waiting for him.

The sun set, the sun rose, one day passed, two days passed. He still hadn’t returned. I waited and waited and never did I dare to lose my hope because the other possibilities were too hard to take in. Finally, he did come back… but only as a photo in the obituary section of the local newspaper. I crumpled to the ground and let the misery have me. I had no more desire to live. His loss was etched in my heart with a knife. His loss slowly spread through every vein like a venom, a venom my body had no immunity for.

2012 Kabul, Afghanistan

Still alive! That day I had been waiting for my death that never came. Mr. Bennet had died in the battle and I had thrown a fit when the remaining soldiers came to take me back to Russia. I told them to get away and stayed in Huza’s house as a tribute to him. I had decided dying was not an option because I knew he would have always wanted that. The reason I decided to stay in his house was because if I leave I might probably end up one day thinking all of it was just a dream. Here, I could still feel his presence. After his last breath I had watched Kabul change. No more friendly people around, if there were any they didn’t dare show their heads out. It was Taliban who ruled over and now the government of course. I, Rosalina Huzayal Qazi became a journalist and I still write magazines with that same hand that had the scar. And never once has the scar forgotten to remind me of the pain of him not existing that even now kills me alive.

But I still believe I will meet him one day when I die and reach the heaven and he would be waiting for me with open arms and a candy…            

                                                                                                 ~~ Nivedha Srinivasan

Based on the Russian invasion in Afghanistan. A tribute to everyone who lost their loved ones in the war. It is an unfair world where love doesn’t sustain long even if it does, the whole universe plans it’s pitfall.

Never fight just love 

Written for the competition with the base word "war"