An Ode to You

Because you are not there, nothing is the same. The old trees do not bow the way they used to. The summer monsoons do not give off the same smell of yore on dry parched driveways and the afternoon shadows do not linger on with that old sense of romance that defined them. Because you are not there, the house is not longer a home. Without you the memories of nightly conversation do not hold that same depth that only 'nonsense' inspires. With you gone, the houses silence shouts your absence. A litter of socks and shoes do not mark your passage, and no one bounces noise off the walls. Without you this house is not a home and knowing this truth they gave it away...again. I don't know what hurts me more today. The fact that you are no longer there or that that place we called home is no longer there. While the urge to cry is so tempting, I try not to succumb to it. I know you know what I mean. I am haunted by so many images, and her bravery....and his bravery...gives my bastard tears all the more confidence to break loose. But those bastards can wait. No one must know, you said. I was listening. I cant write more. I have to go. We'll meet tomorrow and pretend nothing was said. We'll be ourselves again and this treachery will be forgotten.

Comments

Azam said…
rulla diya na.
9:33 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sheep in wolves clothing

Lahore: the city that never sleep. My city of saints, my city of sinners. I am back. For that annual homecoming rite that is a two-week passage of both chaos and excitement, of exaggerated expectations and serendipitous surprises, familiar exhaustion of too much, and too little family. Of paradoxes and mixed emotions. I am home. Every trip the potholes seem deeper, the traffic wilder, the energy crisis more critical...the corruption unconquerable. And yet, no where in the world do the crows crow like they do here. Or the trees on the canal, play with the winter sunlight. No where do oranges and mandarins grow the same earthy smell like a second skin... and no where are the electricity cuts with candles as romantic as here. Throw in a thunderstorm and this place is my version of heaven. If I was an eloquent Pakistani expatriate, I would write a poem worthy of this place; of my convoluted devotion, adoration and obsession juxtaposed with hatred, despair and apathy for here. But I am just...
Read more

La Vie En Rose (Seeing Life through Rose Coloured Glasses)~

Bruce Springsteen always united Ami and me. First there was Dancing in the Dark and then this. Today I stuck a tape in the CD player, which in itself is a visit down memory lane in this digital-infested world, and hearing the song felt the strongest urge to fall in a puddle and get a hearty weeping. How did she do it? That gentle swaying between the feet like a footballer getting the blood flowing to those knotty nerves, while she clicked away on the fingers, head rolled down at an angle and eyes closed. I recall that she always tried to pull me in tango style into the dance but I was too self conscious to let my self go. And then she would grin, goofy style (my mother, she would grin goofy style) and sing the lyrics out of tune and often wrong. And today as the song blared at an obscenely high volume and I looked out the curtain-less window onto an unusually darkened, somewhat melancholy back yard, was reminded of all the missed times when I didn’t dance. Some bugger sang it right: “I...
Read more

Cheers for my Sunny Disposition

We had to go into the depths of purgatory but we retrieved it. The hint of a smile, that damned sunny disposition. Into the clout we rode, deep. Via Stygian we strived, hard against a tide that threatened with every wave to drown us all the way to the deep and murky depths of the Underworld. Covered in black, bruised, we buried deeper into a place where there was no light no hope.......all to retrieve her smile. Like treasure hunters that know not their treasure but continue in the name of a glory, we continued. All around tired souls lured us with their melancholic tunes, their tear-glistening attractive faces. But no! We must not look. Purgatory held its charm. The inferno with its ferocious fire that burned the heart. And then we stumbled upon it. A faint light in the depths of the abyss. A golden hue that lone sparkled, weak like a month trapped in a bell jar. And she fell upon. Stumbled rather, on account of a faint heart and weak legs. It grew--the light--shining harder, stronger...
Read more