WARNING: I haven’t proofread this chapter because I’m too tired. Read this at your own risk. Bye!
Tears and Tokens
--TWO MONTHS AFTER ALIYAAN’S DEPARTURE--
January 18th 1986
I batted my eye lashes as the sun penetrated tough the blinds and hit me. My body ached from the posture I’d molded into during my sleep. The morning felt densely light as my cells sprang back to life. Fresh beginnings, I thought, there’s nothing better and nothing more painful. Ammi was nowhere to be seen. The floors were trashed with crumpled papers, gathering myself I stood and dashed out of my room.
Ammi casually stood, half-hidden behind an isolated marble slab in our compact kitchen. She had all sorts of ingredients sprayed out in front of her. She was gently humming along as she chopped and minced the vegetables deftly.
Her voice was pristine-beautiful. She sang;
“Na Perwa Humari Zara Tum Ne Ki
Gye Chor, Achi Wafa Tum Ne Ki!
Rulati Hai Tujh Ko Juddai Meri
Nahin Uss Mein Kuch Bhi Bhalai Meri
Ye Keh Ker Vo Kuch Dair Tak Chup Raha
Diya Phir Dikha Ker Ye Kehne Laga
Samajhti Hai Tu Ho Gaya Kya Issay?
Tere Aanasuon Ne Bhujaya Issay!”
From what I recalled, she was singing Iqbal’s poetry. Today was another, usual day in Peshawar. The wintry airs lingered by and the city smelled of earth and dampness.
“Ammi,” I spoke “could you please bring my coffee in the lawn? I think I’m going to go write down for some while.”
She smiled and nodded as I walked off. Dragging a chair, I sat down and clicked open a pen and scribbled as my thoughts clouded over the rest of my senses. I felt at ease, like I was born in the right place, at the right time; like everything made sense and I belonged beneath my skin.
I sat in the chilly afternoon, under a gentle blue sky painted in golden streaks. Working a pen to color a blank canvas. The shallow droughts intoxicated my brain so I set down my weapon and buried my face in the valley of my palms.
“Here,” my mom cooed as she sat herself in a wooden chair across the table. She placed a china-clay mug on the table and squinted as she looked ahead towards the blackened shadows of baobab and oak trees peeking from a distance.
“What are you writing about?” she asked, her voice was so brittle.
“Us,” I wove through my words, “How far we’ve come. About our dreams and ambitions and hopes, I’m writing about our struggles. I’m writing about our untiring spirits. I’m writing about us, and how we’ve fought every single day to hold onto life ever since Papa left.”
“Can I read some of it?” She clutched the papers without even waiting for me to respond. Slowly, she began to read, “And that day he rested his head upon the lap of the Earth. He never once looked back at his fading family. I felt the sand and gravel move in my throat, there is no one more unkind than the dead. But the crystals fall down and pile within a glassy cage; time moves on. The woman with a golden heart brought up a fiercely passionate girl. Dependent on no one else but each other, they crawled through chaos. They loved, they laughed and they lived.”
Her eyes glistened as she struggled to find her voice.
“You’re exceptional,” she spoke, finally.
YOU ARE READING
Redemption
Teen Fiction"On Tuesdays I hate the world, I want to burn things down. I want to wipe off every single trace of human existence. Is it weird? Does it ever happen to you? Don't you ever want to track down every single person who has underestimated you and spit o...
