He always wanted to kiss her on her well shaped – thick lips – that would curve into the world’s most charming smile. His friends thought he was in lust. He believed it to be love. But it never happened. She left. He remained right there where he was; hoping for her return, waiting for their reunion and writhing in pain.

She never returned. So the movies were always wrong where the man and woman finally meet. Perhaps movies were not that wrong as much as his thinking was. He failed to let her go when she had no feelings for him.

Mind is like a tin box – that holds every bit of past that one wants to forget but can’t.

‘Why is it tough to forget?’ He asked his friend.

‘It’s because we don’t let go.’

‘Why don’t we?’

‘We expect the return of good time.’

‘Why do we expect?’

‘We expect… because that’s how our mind works. We can’t help it.’

He wasn’t satisfied with his friend’s answers. His shrink had told him there was no coming back of good times. He thought to act on his advice of imprisoning his memories into a small box. He put a few strands of her hair that he had found sticking to her pillow days after she had left, in the bed of the box. Then he put the perfumed love notes sent by her and finally the hankie on which she had embroidered his name initials with red thread.

He drove to the bridge over the river, came out of his car and tossed the box, where they said were the deadliest whirlpools. He saw a tiny dot whirling and disappearing. A strange sense of satisfaction came over him as if he got rid of some obnoxious burden. That moment realism took over him. He was about to move on but… her face still seemed to hung right in front of his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and struggling to grope the smoky images pulled over his car.

He broke into an ironic laughter. He was laughing so hard that the tears began to fall. He said out loud, ‘And the therapist thought that way I’ll forget all the memories. He didn’t know the memory resides in heart and consumes my mind. Will he ask me next to lock my heart and mind in the box and throw it away in the river? Silly… old, shrink! He hissed and drove away struggling with the shadows lingering in his mind, dancing in front of his eyes.

I came back home all exhausted. Riaz baba had cooked turnips and rice. Urgh! The dying veggie of the dying season!

On seeing my expressions he started that legend of the king once again who would love to eat turnips.

“Where is papa?” I asked mama on seeing his empty chair.

“He’s gone to attend someone’s funeral.”

Brother was still at work. We two sat for lunch. I chewed. She chewed. Kaizer kept on looking at me. I often feel he is the all I have in world.

“So you are serious about going to engineering school?” She asked nibbling on the piece of cucumber.

“Yes.”

“I am glad you are taking life seriously. “ She said as I had been recently released from the rehab center.

Later on I went to the gym. Worked out. Sweated. No matter how long you run or how heavy weights you lift you can’t shake off certain things from mind. I sent her text. She isn’t talking to me. She thinks I am ditching her. Girls are silly!

“Love is blind. If I ask you to leave everything and everyone for me. Will you?” She asked once.

Her love philosophy is too twisted and complex for my understanding. I only know that she has become a habit.

After dinner I straight away went to the bedroom. Had to finish the assignment. Papa wasn’t home. I wanted his approval one more time.

I am typing and my eyes are fixed on the phone waiting for it to come to life. She won’t reply, won’t answer the call, won’t talk. She has her own ways. May be it is time to call it quits. Another painful decision… that is life!

For three years she told him every hour of every day that she loved him. Then the girl got fed up. She realized he was dominating her life and in order to bring peace she had to throw him out. She did. He yearned. She disliked him. He begged. She hated him.

He said he couldn’t live without her. She said she was unsure of their future. He started writing imaginary letters to her. He would talk for hours about their imaginary future. When imagination took control of his sense he lost touch with reality and ended in lunatic asylum.

On May 10th we arrived at our relative’s place in Peshawar. We had to leave our house in haste because the army had moved into Swat and other areas to wipe out Taliban. It had become risky to live there besides the sound of shelling and firing had become intolerable. Every time my young siblings and cousins would hear the blast they would start crying and would hide in their parents’ lap.

The first time I heard the whispers of the word – Taliban – from parents about two years ago who expressed deep concern about their growing influence. Taliban looked very different from the local people. They would wear bushy beards, black or khaki turbans, ankle length shalwaar and baggy shirts. They wouldn’t hesitate to brandish automatic weapons. Their faces with crude features would always wear a tense and frowned look as if they had never learnt to smile. One would always find them yelling, threatening and ready-to-kill.

Slowly and gradually they crept into our lives and started dictating their orders. Those defying would pay a huge price. Every week they would publish a list of wanted people and their crime was only that they had refused to follow them. They had infiltrated spies in every neighborhood who would keep an eye on people’s activities and speech; so many of our acquaintances had left their homes just because they were wanted by Taliban. They snatched girls’ right of education, bombed the schools, forbade barbers to shave beards, ordered women to wrap themselves up in burqa and be accompanied by a male member when they go out of their homes, cable channels and music were declared forbidden and evil.

Such restrictions were smothering; I was afraid of laughing out loud even. My baba brought me the Afghani style burqa when it became mandatory for women. I tried it on; it felt like a dark cage that made breathing arduous. I wondered that’s how life would seem from behind the bars. I started to cry and asked my father that I didn’t like putting it on. He felt equally helpless because he had never asked me to wear burqa; in fact, no one in my family had ever worn burqa. So when I cried and threw the burqa away, he said, “Do you want Taliban to beat you up and kill me?” I shuddered at the thought of killing. I silently folded the burqa and put it in the cupboard for it had become a permanent dress item. I never understood one thing that why I was bound to obey someone else’s command about the dress code.

When a group wants to establish its rule I think their foremost concern should be to win the hearts of the local people. But Taliban only knew to rule through terror. They terrorized and humiliated people by maiming and beating them up publically; they had zero tolerance for dissent. They believed they were right and no one could pin point their wrong policies or decisions. They instilled fear in the minds of people by beheading their victims. Decapitated bodies would often be found in the streets or could be seen hanging in the chowk. One day I saw a headless body clad in the light green clothes lying at the road side. The flies were buzzing all over and the body was giving away fetid odor. I can never forget that scene. I often see that headless body in my dreams.

After Taliban’s final ultimatum our schools were shut. Most of the school buildings were already dilapidated due to bombing. I had no clue what future had in stored for us. Insecurity and fear had marred our lives. Around that time, dominated by fear, I developed many psychological issues. I lost confidence; had become quiet; wouldn’t feel like laughing and had lost sleep and appetite too. I used to think that Taliban would come and slaughter us all with their big, silvery knives. Our yard would be littered with blood and bodies – headless bodies because they cut off the head. I don’t know what they do with heads later on. My otherwise fair complexion and rosy cheeks had turned pale. There seemed no escape from the booming sounds.

In May, when the situation got worse, my family decided to move to Peshawar. We were one of those lucky people who stayed at their relative’s place. Our generous hosts welcomed us smilingly. I had seen people living in the tents; the life over there was quite miserable and tough. We could have rented a place in Peshawar but the opportunists had raised the rents and were charging 5,000 Rs. for a single room. After a few days, we got ourselves registered for the aid. When we received ration the first time I felt both happy and sad. Happy that there were people who cared about us and sad because we used to have established businesses back home that were destroyed due to the ongoing conflict. In the matter of months we had become takers than givers. It was the dilemma of many families.

The government paid us twenty-five thousand Rs. and ration that included wheat flour, nutritious biscuits, pulses, sugar, cooking oil, blankets, utensils, tea etc. We were told that the government would provide ration to the affected people every month for the next two years. Getting ration was a cumbersome procedure. My father and uncles had to wait for hours in the queue. Some people remarked that officials who distribute ration want to discourage people otherwise they can open several booths to serve them better. Now that most families have returned to their homes they have to travel to Peshawar every month to get ration.

When we returned after almost a month everything looked so changed. The markets were destroyed by bombings. I was apprehensive that a group of men would emerge from some corner and kill us but the presence of army was reassuring. In the beginning, even the chirping birds would sound sorrowful but ever since the school started again I got over the gloomy feeling. It was nice seeing my friends and teachers. We talked about our anxieties and experiences. I still hear the gory news emerging from our troubled area. Taliban still seem to be active. The military imposes curfew in the evening and nightmares do haunt me but despite all that future looks promising because I have started school again and more importantly I have family beside me unlike many other girls of my age who lost their loved ones in that conflict.

Faheem and Ikraam were amidst the heated discussion about some important business issue when their car stopped at the red signal. In a while their discussion was interrupted by the delicate knock on the window. Faheem rolled down the window and gave five rupees to the beggar who was
dressed in tatters and his long hair and beard had many twigs and crumbs sticking in them. The beggar silently accepted the alms and went to the other side of the car and knocked on Ikraam’s window.

Ikraam wrinkled his forehead to show his annoyance on this unwanted and unpleasant intrusion. He was about to reprimand the old beggar when Faheem elbowed him and told him to give him something. Ikraam dug his hand in pocket and produced one rupee coin. The beggar accepted it and left silently.

‘It’s not good to encourage beggary.’ Ikraam was clearly upset.

‘He’s not an ordinary beggar!’

‘Oh well make his shrine and kiss his grave.’ Ikraam taunted.

‘I’m serious!’ Faheem exhorted.

‘Who’s he?’ Ikraam asked puzzled.

‘Your future!’ Faheem said stoically.

‘WHAT?’

‘The legend has it that once he was as prosperous as you and me. But he was extremely stingy. God knows how many people left empty hand from his door. Then in a series of events he lost everything, even his family that he used to own proudly. Now he roams the streets and goes from door to door and begs – a minimum of a rupee, a handful of wheat or the least a smile and gentle talk is all he asks for. I often feel as if he is God’s test in the guise of a man. He regularly comes to me and I can’t turn him away.’

Faheem finished his talk while Ikraam shook his head in disbelief. But his livid face was telling another story.

1095 days, 10 hours, 20 minutes and 30 seconds later his world came to a halt. His eyes that used to defy the twinkling stars turned into stones. She was his everything, a lover, a friend and a confidant. Life without you would be like wandering in the barren deserts, he had told her once.

Now that she was gone, he had already turned into lunatic with no sense of time and place. He could feel just one thing and that was pain. The piercing pain of that frozen moment when she eloped with someone else on their wedding day.

Note: This is my first ever 100-word fiction

The Surreal

The electricity was available yet the neighbor’s generator had been turned on for hours, making constant grueling sound, driving him insane. He buried his head between the pillows to escape but of no avail. Not just sleeplessness he was battling with a severe headache too.

A thought occurred to him awhile later. He smiled demonically and with his eyes closed his heart churned a sentence or two. He shuddered and broke into sweat. With a blasting sound the machine had been silenced forever. No harm in using a gifted power for a valid reason, he thought, and went to sleep.

She was back after a year. During that time her elderly uncle didn’t see her even once though she lived in the same neighborhood. Her language and accent both were coated with thick layers of sugar.

“Uncle jee how are you doing?” The sentence parted her lips in jubilance.

“How come you thought of paying a visit to your old uncle?”

“Uncle jee…” She stretched these two words like elastic, expressing fake disappointment.

“What brought you here?” The old man said stoically.

“Uncle jee with your blessings my younger daughter is getting engaged this Sunday. You have to grace the occasion with your presence.

“Did you invite Arshad, Azmat and Bari?” He counted his brothers’ names in a single breath.

“Well… uncle Arshad is ill so he excused himself. Uncle Azmat is visiting his son in Okara so he might not be available and uncle Bari… refused to come.”

“I might not come because…”

“Don’t say that uncle jee.” She leapt up from her chair and sat down crossed legged in front of the old man’s chair, touching his legs. “Uncle jee, please do come for the sake of the old times when you would be the guardian of my children in the absence of their father. You tutored them, loved them like your own kids. Don’t deprive them of your blessings. I implore you.”

“Did Zoravar come?”

“No, he couldn’t get leave.” She said meekly.

“I heard he was here three months back.”

“He did come from Dubai but he was down with vomiting and upset stomach or else he would have visited you. Even in severe illness he got up one day and said I have to see my uncle… but the doctors had strictly advised him the bed rest.”

Huh! The same old drama, the same old lies I haven’t seen the face of Zoravar in the past nine years. The old man thought bitterly.

“When is the function?”

“At six on Sunday.”

“Hmm…” Boredom was evident from his face.

After having confirmed that the uncle would attend the function she spent the next one hour talking sweetly as if she was the most caring and sincere person in the world.

The old man on the other hand appreciated his brothers’ cleverness on excusing them and pitied his position as a relative who was only needed at such occasions because his nephew’s wife had to save herself from the inquisitive queries of her daughter’s in-laws about the absence of masharaan. (Family elders)