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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Current Events
- Published: 11/16/2021
Wild Rose
Born 1963, M, from Farooqabad, Sheikhupura, PakistanAlthough the news of his death came much later, for me, he had died even earlier. The news of the death of one who never disappeared from my thoughts did not frighten me. He was dead, like the many others who lie outside, in the womb of earth, with no hope of rising again. A general shudder grips us when a person, whom you love, sinks into the grave, the person who totally and unequivocally colonizes your thinking, but I was much relaxed.
I will never forget his last meeting. It was midnight, the witching hour, as he left, he stared at me, sadly, begging for forgiveness, moaned and wailed! His thick ebony eyes were full of angst and nervous trepidation. Allied forces had entered the city. Coalition warplanes had unleashed havoc on the Taliban. The bullets were whining and whistling in the streets, making the haunted atmosphere even more terrifying.
I can still see him in front of me, in the black turban on his head, wearing a Russian jacket and Kalashnikov on the left shoulder, as he stood on the corner of the street, at dusk, when he stepped out the front gate ... and looked after me, and from my roof, I saw him go to the street corner. When he left, I did not even reach out to him. The risk was, he might change his mind, although he told he would never return.
The five years which I spent with him, and his atrocities, which were increasing over time, were all aching in my mind. He loved me too much, but fear and resentment mixed in the sweetness of this love were adding bitterness to my life. I had met him at a religious ceremony. My teacher told me he was a very kind and sincere person. I can still remember that he was dressed in a white loose dress with a halo of light flashing around his head. At the very first meeting, he offered me a bouquet of wild roses, which contained more leaves and thorns than flowers. He said, “The green leaves veil these flowers, and the thorns are there to guard them.” Then he came to my house and planted a wild rose in the yard. That plant grew, it became a much-branched, irregularly spreading shrub which climbed the walls and covered all my house. Though it’s an indigenous plant, people don't like it as it grows wild and its thorns hurt animals and humans too much. After his departure, I uprooted this ruthless bush. I cleared my house from its gnarled branches, which, though dead, injured my hands many times. Despite all my efforts, every year, this ruthless shrub always reappeared in the rainy season.
When I got the news of his death, my daughter was a vigorous girl. This time we both dug deep into it. Now, in every season my attention would go towards it, but it never sprouted after that.
Years passed and so did his memories. The love of my daughter and the joys of life erased from my mind the folly of loving a wild man.
Afghanistan is safe for women. We spend hours in the open air. Alone, we travel, with no fear, in the city and other parts of the country. Zarfshan is a very sweet girl. When the brown evening sun sets in her eyes, the color of her face spreads twilight on the horizon. Whether it's a cold winter night or a hot summer day, her beauty blooms. Free from all worries and anxieties, she wanders the streets and bazaars of this city.
Last evening, she came home happy, carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers wrapped in glistening paper. She had never come so early in the day; rarely before dusk. I was amazed, I had never seen her so cheerful. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds. Then she put the flowers in front of me, smiled and went to her room. She said nothing, but her actions were telling the whole story.
Today, again, she returned just before sunset. A young, handsome, blue-eyed boy was with her. Gleaming black hair fell in curls below the white turban. Brilliant wide eyes were full of life. He said with a slight movement of his flabby lips under his finely cropped mustache, “I love Zarfshan very much. I will keep her happy."
Dressed in white, he appears to be a celestial being. The halo of light is brightening his round face. In the noiseless streets and bazaars of the city, today, there is no haunting thunder of planes or sizzling sounds of bullets. Coalition forces have gone forever. A changed new generation of Taliban has taken over the country. The room smells of white roses lying on the table in front of me.
When I looked in the courtyard, the wild rose bushy shrub, from the burying grave, from the womb of earth, had sprouted again. The sounds of my heart, the glow of my eyes, could clearly see the essence of its thorns and gnarled branches.
Wild Rose(Syed Mohammad Zahid)
Although the news of his death came much later, for me, he had died even earlier. The news of the death of one who never disappeared from my thoughts did not frighten me. He was dead, like the many others who lie outside, in the womb of earth, with no hope of rising again. A general shudder grips us when a person, whom you love, sinks into the grave, the person who totally and unequivocally colonizes your thinking, but I was much relaxed.
I will never forget his last meeting. It was midnight, the witching hour, as he left, he stared at me, sadly, begging for forgiveness, moaned and wailed! His thick ebony eyes were full of angst and nervous trepidation. Allied forces had entered the city. Coalition warplanes had unleashed havoc on the Taliban. The bullets were whining and whistling in the streets, making the haunted atmosphere even more terrifying.
I can still see him in front of me, in the black turban on his head, wearing a Russian jacket and Kalashnikov on the left shoulder, as he stood on the corner of the street, at dusk, when he stepped out the front gate ... and looked after me, and from my roof, I saw him go to the street corner. When he left, I did not even reach out to him. The risk was, he might change his mind, although he told he would never return.
The five years which I spent with him, and his atrocities, which were increasing over time, were all aching in my mind. He loved me too much, but fear and resentment mixed in the sweetness of this love were adding bitterness to my life. I had met him at a religious ceremony. My teacher told me he was a very kind and sincere person. I can still remember that he was dressed in a white loose dress with a halo of light flashing around his head. At the very first meeting, he offered me a bouquet of wild roses, which contained more leaves and thorns than flowers. He said, “The green leaves veil these flowers, and the thorns are there to guard them.” Then he came to my house and planted a wild rose in the yard. That plant grew, it became a much-branched, irregularly spreading shrub which climbed the walls and covered all my house. Though it’s an indigenous plant, people don't like it as it grows wild and its thorns hurt animals and humans too much. After his departure, I uprooted this ruthless bush. I cleared my house from its gnarled branches, which, though dead, injured my hands many times. Despite all my efforts, every year, this ruthless shrub always reappeared in the rainy season.
When I got the news of his death, my daughter was a vigorous girl. This time we both dug deep into it. Now, in every season my attention would go towards it, but it never sprouted after that.
Years passed and so did his memories. The love of my daughter and the joys of life erased from my mind the folly of loving a wild man.
Afghanistan is safe for women. We spend hours in the open air. Alone, we travel, with no fear, in the city and other parts of the country. Zarfshan is a very sweet girl. When the brown evening sun sets in her eyes, the color of her face spreads twilight on the horizon. Whether it's a cold winter night or a hot summer day, her beauty blooms. Free from all worries and anxieties, she wanders the streets and bazaars of this city.
Last evening, she came home happy, carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers wrapped in glistening paper. She had never come so early in the day; rarely before dusk. I was amazed, I had never seen her so cheerful. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds. Then she put the flowers in front of me, smiled and went to her room. She said nothing, but her actions were telling the whole story.
Today, again, she returned just before sunset. A young, handsome, blue-eyed boy was with her. Gleaming black hair fell in curls below the white turban. Brilliant wide eyes were full of life. He said with a slight movement of his flabby lips under his finely cropped mustache, “I love Zarfshan very much. I will keep her happy."
Dressed in white, he appears to be a celestial being. The halo of light is brightening his round face. In the noiseless streets and bazaars of the city, today, there is no haunting thunder of planes or sizzling sounds of bullets. Coalition forces have gone forever. A changed new generation of Taliban has taken over the country. The room smells of white roses lying on the table in front of me.
When I looked in the courtyard, the wild rose bushy shrub, from the burying grave, from the womb of earth, had sprouted again. The sounds of my heart, the glow of my eyes, could clearly see the essence of its thorns and gnarled branches.
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