Part of my beautiful sky, the only thing that keeps me sane these days.

I want to cry like the heavier clouds that fell on the terrace last night. They brought memories of monsoon packed in stroking heat. My ears remember the valiant lullaby of the thunderstorm, it felt like a mother’s wail from a far off land. A land where children disappear into the forest and appear at the graveyards. Only few are fortunate to be seen. Their bodies spread on the Earth like a red silk scarf with a lace of primroses. Their emotions are as tiny as these flowers, often invisible to the eyes. I want to go beyond and write about a misery I share with the dead but I fear God. So I speak a quote from the Qura’an sharif and let it go, like hope.

It’s been two months in this lockdown, an event I used to celebrate earlier. The skies have been turning violent but I do not fear them. Anger is a secondary emotion, it must be sad. Sadness, it takes birth inside my heart and lives through my lungs. Dying at the tip of my tongue, it chokes at the vision of the world and instead of slipping from my lips, it accumulates inside my mouth. I still do not wish to fall, only cry if I can. I wish for monsoons, I am never satisfied with what I have. It is a toxic trait and I am a traitor. I disapprove of sufferings and yet I suffer.

We choose our sufferings I have been told not once but thrice by you. I choose you and love doesn’t rain anymore. Our hearts are empty of confessions we have thrown and accepted for love is all about flaws unless they start to ooze out like a sap from the bark of the tree. It comes out and freezes. A worker collects it in a basket and sells in a packet. Packets and advice are the same, they look good while buying, at home we have a hard time dealing with our choices.
It brings me to a forlorn memory of learning. He told me sufferings are trials and we aren’t given more than we can suffer. Is this the limit? Is this the end where I will give up? I shared the misery of the dead and I still fear God.

I want to cry for endless abandonments and pursuits. I want to end up being lonely on another planet. I wish to start again later. I speak in sighs Mir and I took your name again. Will God forgive me? He told me you do not name the people you love. Naming conventions limit their belongingness and we belong only to Him. You are not mine even if I cry but I wish you were able to look and see that I exist only with you.

The sky is clear now. Through the banana leaves, a blurry vision turns into a home we couldn’t build.

And here I am speaking of the death, for to Him we belong and to Him we will return. If so, then where do I go and share my misery?

Mir, the world is full of endless possibilities of love and I still choose your probability concept. We fought twice and we made up thrice. On the fraction of 3/2, where do we stand today?

©Sameera Mansuri 2020.