Rhea (When the desert met the sky)

W.a.s.h A.w.a.y

           Muffled sobs and cries echoed through the red sandstone as Amma and I entered our home. My two-storey house in Hardo Rattan had the facade of a 'picture perfect' Indian household like the ones you've seen in those daily Indian soaps. Red sandstone walls with intimatidating high pillars. A large rectangular royal blue mat with the words 'Khush Aamdeed'  embroided like a second skin. Night lights on either of the front door, it's small filament emanting it's pale orange-white light like headlights.

         It was picturesque.

         The smell of Javadh and jasmine wafted through the tense air as my Amma put me down from her vice-like hold. My Amma adjusted her faded black pashmina, wound around the circumference of her oval yet asymmetrical head. Her placid face which looks too young to be a mother of three, looked solemn as she stared at the bed-ridden figure. Her eyes, looking like a blank slate, were moving in directions in lightning-speed. Shaking with pure dread, she dragged herself to the lithe bundle of bones and muscles laying in that rusty old olive green iron cot.

    In that bed laid my Nani, holding on to a thin string of hope and oxygen as her bundle of muscles in her chest got destructed and resurrected periodically. Dramatically, Amma's feet skedaddled towards the edge of the bed. She clutched onto Nani's fragile digits as unhushed tears poured through her onyx of her eyes.

   My Amma, Kara Maria Thurman, looked ironically beautiful. Midnight black waves, always plaited but when let free would reach to the tip of her spine, resembling an abrupt rainfall with it's split ends and curls; eyes black as her kajal adorning the corner of her eyes. Mahogany skin and pimples with her ear and her black pashmina (a wedding gift from Appa) made her look...her.

  She was beautiful..in her own way.

  Her voice screeched dryly as she whispered in Urdu, "Don't leave me Amma". She sniffled.

  Tired of running all day, I limped my way to Appa whose stance being stoic as stone as ever. Jet black hair in its'usual military cut with few baby hairs on the nape of his neck. His squarish face smudged around the edges by a light five o' clock shadow. Eyes brown as the rich mud caressing the Earth. Wrinkles strewn across his face like a mask. I don't think he ever changed at all. Off all the static things in my life, my Appa stands on top of the list.

  "He used to sing. Like Rafi." ,my Amma used to say. He used to play in a local band. Said that he used to tour around the city with his friends at night. Ditching college and all that stuff. He even got a chance to sing in the movies.

  But like my Appa's dreams, nothing gold lasts forever.

   I remember asking Amma what happened to his singer-persona and her chapped lips let out a breathless sigh "Life happened Ammu."

 I heard that my Dada (grandfather) burnt his beloved harmonica right in front of his eyes. To make him forget his dreams and finish college. Nani said that night a part also got lost along with those flames.

 Flailing and leaping, I silently gained his attention.

 "Appa..."

 He shushed me. "Not now, pyaari.", his hands gently yet steadil led me to my Api(sister) who was standing beside my Bhai(brother). Api's expressive eyes were brimming with longing and helplessness as she watched Amma poured her heart out through her eyes.