Sweet Potatoes

‘Do you think children have dreams as strange as the adults? I wish I remembered the dreams I had when I was a little child’

‘Its a windy eve, even your hair are moving’

‘In my university days at Jamshoro my mates used to take me out in the lawn at night and bet on whether the wind blew my hair or not, you know how windy that place is’

‘The other night I had a strange dream; I saw that you were grazing in a field like a deer, you looked up while chewing your food and looked around carelessly like deer look just before they are shot by a hunter’

‘So I was a deer to you’

‘I’m ashamed of that dream, I saw you as an insignificant little creature who might have been at a hunter’s crosshairs!’

‘I wish I could blame you for it’

‘The tea tastes bad here, I prefer our usual spot’

‘Yeah next time. I’ve to go do some work see you later’

I left Ramesh and walked towards the mosque. Jama’at was over. I stood at the gates to let crowd of people move out.  Many faces not at all alike yet strangely not different at all. It had been happening for a while now that whenever I looked at groups of living creatures, it filled me with awe.For some unknown reasons I was astonished. It didn’t matter humans or non-humans, anything living and breathing I saw in large quantities made me think of something as unimaginable as pain or pleasure to a man who has not sensed any of significance. Like a man who cannot imagine pains of birth. If imaginations could be categorized, I’d call these astronomical imaginations . I know it as a child knows an obscure name which has only been mentioned to it once. I looked at them, poor little creatures in crosshairs of a hunter.

I remember Maugham saying in one of his books that one can only say that ‘I was happy’. To some extent I thought it true but there are moments when you are happy, where you do not remember your happiness as an event down trodden by brutal hands of the clock. For many people such moments are found in prayers. After prayers I walked back to my flat.

From a stall near a barber shop I bought boiled sweet potatoes on a piece of newspaper. Steaming hot, I devoured their sweetness. A woman with her three children was sitting on the footpath with a bowl in her hand. I could see a solitary five-rupee coin in it. Out of the biryani shop a young man came out and said something to her. She smiled. It was not a smile of gratitude but of utter joy.  I know not what he told her. She grinned showing her perfect yellow teeth, the colour of her child’s whites of the eyes. A poor and a desperate man’s smile must be added to wonders of the world. The wind blew my hair as I walked, my friends would have been happy.

An old man walked slowly with two women at his side. The daughter looked like her mother except the wrinkleless skin. The man’s face was tightly closed and curved downwards, a dying crescent. A masseur jingled bottles of oil exclaiming an almost indecipherable: ‘Maalish! Maalish!’

I entered the apartments, took the elevator to my flat. Unfortunately, I had to ride up with Sehrish whose parents (and of course she too) had rejected my proposal of marriage. I stood there noticing her not and she stood facing the other way. The elevator creaked. She dashed out of the lift at fourth floor. I went up to my room and turned on the television. Two bomb blasts in Bannu, 32 killed, dozens injured. A statement by the Interior Minister that such acts of cowardice will not deter the people of Pakistan from fighting against the terrorism.

‘Cowardice?’ I asked the walls. Is suicide cowardice? I thought it took nerves of strongest metals to cut yourself off  from this spinning blue green heart. All hearts don’t beat. There are many which just tremble. I went to the bedroom. Horrible whispers of the wind shouted from the unclosed window. I lied down for a while and gazed at the clock which sang me to sleep.

 

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s