A tale of veracity or good mendacity. The thick salty winds of the monsoon season screamed at the mansion that still stood in all its glory. The pale beige walls wrinkled from age were shadowed by the lustrous trees that protected it from the scorching sun in the summer.
Warm, moist and humid as it was, the serenity of the abandon place was daunting. There was something peculiar about the place, listen quietly and one could hear the walls whispering to one another. The wide white front gate had money plants snaking through the spirals like a grapevine in a vineyard. The cracks and creaks in the convoluted Damascus pillars in the arched courtyard suggested the ancient beauty it was. The mansion was every young maiden's dream, but if only one could hear the torments these walls have cushioned and hidden from the civilization these monsters hid in disguise.
Walk with her and she will apprise. There stood a tomb of an innocent soul of a day old, shaded by a lemon tree near the cattle hut at the back. As she followed through the howls of the wind, she glared on the marks on the long varnished mahogany table that stood underneath the coils of a spider-webbed chandelier. The desperate calls of the agonized and innocent maid being dragged out would play on like a broken record, the demon in a shape of human had won.
The converted chamber in the northern wing, heard the promiscuous moans and infidelious acts of pleasure. The bed, the window and the walls all bore witnesses to broken chastity and vicious threats. Like the Shakespeare's saying "Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate." Tears like dew, crystal-clear but invisible, stained her very pale face.
Laughter and joy, these walls knew them too, the polished marble case that led to a haven of springtime rapture, birds chirping, flowers blooming in every shade of happy and women dancing to the tune of love had now been replaced with shades of Grey and damp moulds dressed in their best.
There still laid that blue scarf on the side of the armchair where she felt it being knitted for her. Blurry memories reverted the time to 15-years ago, the sky was angry with sudden clasps of thunder deep into the night, as everyone was fast asleep except the patriarch. He whispered viciously to her mother's ears, "Better be my heir or I will abandon you", as those words registered in her newly developed ears she struggled to understand the concept that was foreign, was she what they not wanted if not, can she be reborn to quench their desires? The blood in her mother's pulse escalated, as she struggled to catch her breath, a shadow fell on her mother, the eyes of a Ludicrous jinn and before she could speak he thrust towards.
She was taken to the hospital, embarrassed and shocked, where she was hurried to the delivery room, 7-months pregnant the chances were slim. Before her mother lost her conscious, she whispered angrily to the doctor, "If I bear a daughter, refrain me from showing me her face".
Her mother woke up after three-days, the crib next to her was vacant, covered in a white blanket. No one wanted her.
Broken a heart too young, yet she persevered she drew a line between the reality and hers. She let the light drown her into her eternity, imperturbable tranquility away from the waves of chaos that had filled her outside, the shame and disgrace she had brought, was the backdrop to her new peace now.
As her mother slept in peace, she was the speculated as an object disposing. Saving a premature girl was unimportant, she was an insignificant asset who bore the risks of loss.
So now she laid on same grounds, ascending from and out of her truth. She was not leaving, she will never, her memories faint but strong. She is the tree that cannot be uprooted, she now sings and dances to the wails of disparity. It rains again, the muddy breath of holy nature now shines a ray of light calling her home. But she stays. She knows her place.
