Here's an old one to get the ball rolling...
One Day
It rained the
day Sara fell in love. She woke up to a clear morning, cool, crisp and sunny,
and she knew. Just as sure as night is dark and the sea wet, she knew she was
going to fall in love that day. It was all around her. She could smell it in
the mint of her toothpaste; she could taste it in her morning tea, feel it in
the gentle breeze, see it in the bright yellow of the day old sunflowers on her
dresser and even hear it in the sharp ticking of the clock. The time was coming
near when she would have found her love. The second half of her soul, which
long ago had been ripped into two, would finally complete her.
At first she did
not know what it was that she knew, or was feeling. She just opened her eyes that
Thursday morning and felt a gentle glow creep up. It started from her feet in a
tickle and then a golden hue encompassed her till she was smiling. And though
she did not know why it was that she was smiling, she kept on smiling her big
joyous smile, from ear to ear, showing all of her twenty-nine even teeth.
As she was
finishing one of the heartiest meals she had had in a while (she usually was
not a morning person and hardly got up in time for breakfast) the phone rang
with a shrill, sharp ring that would have startled, and annoyed, anyone else in
that quiet peaceful morning. Sara, however, though startled and spilling some
of her tea, just gave a happy giggle, made a mental note of wiping the tea off
the table and jumped off to say a chirpy hello to whomever it maybe.
It was her
mother. And as much as the phone suddenly ringing had not irritated Sara, her
daughter’s bubbly, sing-song “hello” unsettled her mother. She repeated, at
least four times, who it was that was speaking, incase Sara thought it was a
friend; fixed the imagined loosening of her telephone receiver’s cord and spoke
at least three times as loud as she needed to; sure that her daughter could not
hear her correctly. Until finally, Mrs. Saeed heard Sara speak. Not too loudly
but clearly.
“Hello
mama, how are you this morning?”
That is when it
hit her. Her only daughter, a piece of her heart, her darling baby she had
barely survived a separation of a two hour drive with (when she moved away to
her university) was on drugs. The ground moved from beneath her feet, she
almost heard her heart break, or at least she knew the exact moment she felt
the pain; she was sad beyond expression. But bless the poor soul, she tried.
And if some poor chap had been listening into the conversation, he would have
reported of a code language never heard of before. For one, it was spoken so
hurriedly and at such an amplitude and frequency that only those used to it, or
dogs, could have made any sense of it. The expression of her disappointment,
heartbreak, grief and, not to mention, anger continued for a full four minutes
and thirty-six seconds, like frazzled bees out of a fallen beehive, before Sara
could get a word in.
“Mama.
Mama! I’m perfectly ok, I’m not on drugs; I’m just…”
and Mrs. Saeed,
who was, by now, in tears (that had really been the only reason her capacity
for long and dramatic speech had been impaired long enough for Sara to be able
to get a word in) had taken a deep breath and was able to speak like herself
again.
“Just
what my child? Tell mama, what is it?”
And that is when Sara first thought about why
it was that she was so sunny that morning. Why the air smelled nicer, chores
seemed worth doing and her small one bedroom apartment cozy and warm.
“I
don’t know; I’m just in a good mood today. I have to run to class now, just
relax, I’m fine.”
More in control of herself now, but as
convinced and determined as ever of Sara being up to something and finding out
what it was respectively, Mrs. Saeed hung-up after a last warning of never
eating anything someone else gave her.
With this final
advice from her mother, which if followed would certainly have led to her early
demise, given her cooking skills, Sara started out on her fifteen minute walk
to her university. And she looked around her. All that she at first glance on
this wonderful, WONDERFUL, morning had seemed so perfect was no such thing, not
even the morning. The weather was hot and sticky, like it usually is in Lahore in the summers,
though some clouds could be seen to the far east of the horizon; the air
smelled of automobile smoke, there was litter on the sides of the road, and she
was glad for the walk because of the uncharacteristic breakfast she had had. So
the logical conclusion could only be that it was not everything, it was her.
She felt
different. She felt elated; like if she started to run instead of her
respectable walk, she would eventually take-off like a plane and sore high into
the sky like a bird. Like a colorful, bright, mildly-attractive-young-girl
shaped smiling kite. And once she opened the can of worms, started thinking
about what was going on and what she was feeling and why, it did not take more
than a heartbeat for her to realize it. She was going to fall in love. Nay, she
was in love. She just did not know with whom yet, and today she would meet him.
She would meet the love of her life, and feel complete. If this morning was any
indication of what it would be like, how she would feel, she could not
wait.
She thought
about the suddenness of it as she walked the rest of the way. But then again,
these things always happened suddenly did not they? There really could not be
another way. There had to be a moment, one single moment, whether recognized or
let slip into oblivion, when a person in love realizes that he or she is, in
fact, in love. Love itself might creep up to you, but the realization of it
must always comes as a shock. Deciding there was nothing abnormal with her
realization of love, and not finding, what would be her first love, lacking in
any other regard, besides the absence, as yet, of a beloved, she happily trod
on. After all, the birds were singing, the flowers dancing, the gentle wind,
which she might just have imagined, carrying her on her wings; it all fit in
perfectly with what love was supposed to be like.
By the time she
reached her university and seated herself in her first class, she had begun to
try and imagine what he would be like. The name, yes, first of all the name.
The name had to be special. Only a person, who was unique and special, thus
having a unique name, could be part of a love that was this strong even before
the lovers had met. No matter how many stories she had read or how many sagas
she had heard, none had had this element of premonition. No, this was hers and
hers alone. No Ali or Ahmed or Bilal could be the subject of such love. Not
even a Danial, Haider, Shahid or Zain. No. It had to be a name that was music
in itself. A name that embodied the gentle yet masculine characteristics of the
perfect lover. It might not even be a name she had ever heard. Taken from some
beautiful, soulful foreign language. A name it would take her a while to
pronounce correctly. A name it would be a treat to speak, eventually. A name
her mouth would fall in love with saying.
In the end, not
being able to think of a suitable name, very understandably since the foreign,
exotic, soulful, languages she had little or no knowledge about were numerous,
she settled for a temporary one she had created herself: Zarib. She decided it
meant pure.
She had only
just finalized the name, having covered page after page of her notebook, first
with all the names of boys she could think of and cutting them off one by one,
and then in her attempts at creating one; when the lecture came to an end. With
a polite hello here and a distracted nod there, she threaded her way through
her herd like class fellows and reached the hallway outside to habitually wait
for her two close friends. The question now was whether she should include them
in her little secret. The decision was taken out, more or less, off her
irresolute hands when comments on her being dressed differently, having a fresh
glow about her unusually smiling cheerful, yet distracted person were hurled at
her. To their credit, they did not laugh. They expressed disbelief and doubt;
but ridicule, they did not. Taking this as encouragement, Sara, whose initial
declaration had been nervous and self-conscious, gained confidence and
explained, in minute detail all that had been going through her mind.
Once in
possession of all the facts, from the sunny mood to the decision of the name,
they were forced to agree. There was no other explanation. They congratulated
her, screamed and fawned, declared their envy; they were all any friends could
be hoped to be. Having conferred amongst themselves, the two friends decided
that some time to herself, with her thoughts and so that they would not be unwanted
obstacles in the path of love when the prince did, as he was sure to soon,
arrive, would be best for Sara given her delicate, happy and oh so desirable
situation. As they flittered away in smiles and giggles, Sara found a cozy
corner in the library. She opened her books, settled in and picked up where she
had left off.
The name. Yes,
Zarib was perfect. Next must surely be his physical description. She knew he
would not just be some random, ordinary, off-the-shelf good looking man, but a
good looking, handsome young man perfectly suited for her. She was a practical
rational young woman; she knew not to expect a Greek god. She would settle for
less. Lets see now, she was not tall, actually being one of the girls often
described as petite, hardly five feet two inches in height. In order to have
any semblance of decency he must be at least four inches taller than her and no
more than eight; that was easy enough she thought: he was five feet nine inches
tall. He would have intelligent, expressive brown eyes; she did not like
colored eyes in men of a wheatish complexion, which of course, he had to be. Not
too dark or too fair, she had never liked either extreme in men. His hair had
to be cut short but curly, she did not know why, but for some reason she just
imagined him that way. Sara knew she was not beautiful, no, no one, even on her
best day, had ever called her that, so she very justly and rationally did not
expect her man to be the most handsome of men either. She was pretty, sweet,
attractive; so in a manner of speaking, since she was trying to be as just,
rational and fair, it was her right to expect a man who was at least her match,
maybe rugged and mysterious instead of pretty and sweet, but defiantly
attractive, even if without being handsome. And since she was on the skinny
side, he was, obviously, also going to be slender; it would not look just right
otherwise, and if fate was going through all this trouble, what was a couple of
pounds of flesh here and there?
She only
realized she had been staring straight ahead, seemingly at anyone who walked
by, when one of them, whom she was slightly acquainted with, jokingly snapped
his fingers in front of her face. Embarrassed, she finally turned her attention
to her book and started reading the chapter she should have finished by now;
only to drift back into her day dream, before one could say Zarib thrice.
By the time she
walked out of the library it was already noon ,
time for lunch. Instead of the scorching midday
sun and humidity she had expected, the weather seemed rather nice. There was a
gentle cool breeze. The grey mass of clouds, far off that morning, was now
blocking the sun’s blazing glare, casting a heavenly shadow over everyone and
everything. Finally, the rest of the world was catching up with her.
Sara herself was
like a ray of sunshine in a cold winter day. Something seemed to have lit-up
inside of her. She was smiling, chattering, laughing at everything, laughing at
nothing. Singing with joy at the prospect of the impending rain that would
deliver them of their, so far, hot and humid summer. And so natural, charming
and pretty did she look that had she but paid attention to any of the boys she
already knew, she could have won any but the stoniest of hearts with the
flutter of an eyelid. After all, what better sight than a young woman satisfied
with her life and work so far (she had already decided on Zarib‘s main
personality traits and a rough family background), one who was so eager to live
life that she could hardly wait for the next second, and one, more over, in the
first blush of love.
They would meet
soon now. Strangers who would bump into each other, or wait, maybe their eyes
would meet across a crowded room. Maybe this very cafeteria, maybe the parking
lot, or a class room. She must keep an eye out for any new people around her.
She wondered what it would feel like. The noise around them would be drowned
out by the sheer, blinding, silver intensity of that first look. They would
transcend, over and above this material, unreal world, and into a reality of
their own. There would be silence, a serene beautiful silence. No words would
be required. They would both understand and know each other without the
inadequate, often hampering tool of language. They would not need to communicate
in any other way but with their minds, in their thoughts. They would have a
spiritual connection stronger than anyone had ever experienced. This would be
no ordinary meeting. It would be a meeting the stars and the skies had long
waited for. The seven skies would be lit with stars shining with all their
might, as never before, near bursting with joy. The universe would be like a
vast navy spread with a billion torches burning white. Fairies would dance;
angels would sing and play golden harps. It was fate. It was destiny.
Just the thought
of it made her cheek flame-up. Her pulse was pounding like mad ravenous dogs
chasing their prey in a lush English hunting field. It was like a rush of blood
to the head. She felt faint and energized at the same time. Would he know, as
she, surely, would know in the second her eyes rested upon him? Was he, maybe,
some where going through the same wonderful experience she was? He must be.
Not for a minute
did she even consider the possibility of it being someone she already knew, or
had met. It was going to be a stranger. An addition to her previously mundane
and ordinary life. She was on the look out for anyone new. A student, a teacher
or a visitor; anyone. For the first couple of minutes of every lecture she
attended that day she, sitting right at the back of the class, she looked
around for him. Going from left to right in each row, starting from the front
of the class and working her way through to the last one she was occupying;
once, twice, thrice. Making sure she did not miss anyone. For the rest of the
lecture, other than looking up and checking every time the door was opened, she
receded into her own little world and planned her soon to be perfect life.
She waits for
him at tea. She looks for him in every room she enters, or ducks into and
checks while passing by. She spends an hour she has free in roaming around
campus. Doubling back and checking each place a number of times, afraid he
might have entered a minute too late and she left a moment too soon. Obviously
fate was not very apt or experienced at this kind of a thing or they would have
met hours ago; but she guessed that was the price of having a love no one else
had ever had. After all, fate had had no practice.
As five o’clock draws near, time for her
to head back home, Sara is at her wits end. Fidgety, nervous, afraid, with her
heart in her mouth she sits outside, in the open grounds waiting, praying for
him to appear. The weather is beautiful by now. A lovely cool wind was blowing
the early autumn leaves around, the clouds above her head seem ready to burst
any second, and it was dark as night though sunset is not for another hour and
a half. But she is oblivious to all. Every shadow is him. Every tiny movement
in the corner of her eye is him approaching. Every distant voice carried by the
wind is his. Where could he be? What could have kept him? He was not the sort
to keep a lady waiting. He was not careless, or ill-mannered or inconsiderate
enough to ever do such a thing. Something must have happened. She hoped he as
okay. She hoped no ill, no accident had befallen him. She could wait, she would
wait, after all what was time in the test of love, as long as he would,
eventually come.
Yes, that was
it. She had been waiting in the wrong place far too long. How incredibly dim
witted of her. But as the seconds passed, gloom seemed to descend upon her. Had
he wearied of her? Had he stopped loving? Maybe she had done something wrong,
something to offend him. She wondered what could have offended him. What if it
had been her telling her friends about them? Yes, that could be it, she had
even then thought of not doing so, but stupid, stupid Sara had refused to
listen to her intellect and gone ahead and told them of a secret that was not
entirely hers to tell. All men were like that, uncomfortable, almost shy about
their personal lives. She had ruined it. Nipping the bud before it had even
shown its head. He had probably needed his privacy, his space, and she had
refused him both. Thinking about him all day, keeping him busy in her thoughts.
How could she have not seen it coming? She would never forgive herself. Never.
Maybe there was a way to fix it, she must think. She needed to think.
It was no use.
He was smart, intelligent, funny, and attractive, and she had driven him away
before he had even had a chance of falling properly in love with her. He
probably had not even loved her as much as she did him. How could she have been
that stupid? As much as she still wanted, hoped, prayed and wished all her
dreams would come true, how could she have thought a person like him could fall
in love with her? He probably had not loved her at all.
All men were
like that. Scum. They pretended to love you. They gave you hope, they led you
on, even after they said they no longer loved you, they claimed to have before.
How was that possible anyway? To fall in and out of love that easily? No woman
could do it, Sara was sure. Women loved with their hearts, their souls; totally
and completely. Men were animals. They had no soul, no heart. After all she had
done for him, all the sacrifices, compromises, love, comfort, support; it took
him as long as a rain drop takes to fall from the sky and onto the earth below
to forget her.
She had thought
about the rain drop, because she had seen one. She stopped. She was soaked to
the skin. It had been raining for she did not know how long. She did not know
where she was; she had obviously overshot her apartment building. Lost,
confused and heartbroken she sat down. Her mind could just not comprehend it.
No, it was not possible. She understood the words, she heard herself say them
out loud. He does not exist; he is not coming. But they did not mean anything.
Like a sonic boom to a deaf person would be nothing to register. You can talk;
slowly or loudly, pause between each overly pronounced word, or even syllable,
but a person who does not understand your language is only going to hear you, but
not listen.
No, NO; she
screamed at herself in her head. You can not start believing he is not coming.
You can not doubt him. It will be a betrayal of him, of their love. Wrapping
her arms around and clutching her knees she rocked to and fro like a child in a
tantrum. He would come. He was on his way, he had just been held up. He would
come. She chanted these few, sometimes incomplete, phrases in an inaudible
voice. As much as she wanted to forget
this thought had ever occurred to her, a deep calm voice, some where from the
back of the grey, misty room head was, kept asking her to wake up. Wakeup Sara.
It is a dream. A dream you have knit for yourself, a dream you must break out
of. Wakeup to reality. And she rocked, swinging her body on her hip, faster and
faster, the sound of her own voice chanting getting louder and louder inside
her head, till she could no longer hear herself think or chant, or even hear
the blood now pounding in her head. It was all a blur, rhythmic, fast,
torturous blur that seemed to be stretching each and every nerve in her head.
She felt her head ready to explode into a million tiny pieces like a melon with
a firecracker in it. She almost wished it would, if it would give her peace,
when one final, clear, crisp and loud voice finally made through. Wakeup.
And then there
was nothing. Not a sound, no room, no mist, no color; nothing. Her mind was
blank. She stopped moving. She could not feel anything, outside or inside her
body. For a second she thought she was dead. And then a single tear rolled down
her already wet left cheek. One tear became a string and like a snow ball, soon
there was no stopping it. She cried her heart out. She cried with deep
soul-wrenching sobs that shock her tiny structure like a straw hut in a hale
storm. She cared not where she was, or who saw her. Her life had ended. It was
a blank sheet of grey paper with nothing to show for anything. Segregated from
the rest of the world, who had taken refuge from the heavy rain indoors, and
her tears camouflaged by the rain for the few who did venture outside, she was
in her own world.
Having indulged
in the fit of hysterics, the importance and calming power of which no man would
ever understand; she finally took a deep breath and started thinking about her
life. Her hands on her joint knees and her chin resting on top, she stared into
the rain, looking like a drowned mouse; dark hair stick to the sides of her
face, eyes swollen and seemingly ready to pop out; the picture of despair. The
shock and hurt of there being no truth or future to the hopes she had cherished
for so long. She thought clearly for what seemed like the first time that day.
How could she have believed such a story, how could she have come up with it in
the first place? She was no naive teenage greenhorn. She had actually believed something like this
could happen outside of a fairy tale. She had believed it when some
high-on-sugar part of her brain had concocted the idea of a preordained love.
How vulnerable
we all are. You ask a person today and rational, liberal, intelligent citizen
soft the world will say of course there is no such thing as fate, or destiny or
luck, or love at first sight, or alien abductions. But one win at a slot
machine after you pit in you hands and rub them, one stranger who passes by and
you exchange an intimate, almost familiar look with, one very well played
Halloween prank and for a second, whether we admit it or not, we believe. Sara
had always thought of herself as a very level headed, practical young woman of
the modern world. No giddy romantic like many of the girls she had grown up
with. She had a firm belief in rational thought and confidence in her
intellect. All the worse for me to swallow this insult I have leveled at
myself, she thought.
She was so
embarrassed, so upset. How would she face her friends the next day? She could
not believe not only had she convinced herself, she had included others in it.
What kind of a sadistic, cosmic joke was this? To deprive a normal, sedate,
sensible human being of the capability of rational thought. To get some poor innocent
girl, like herself, and make her believe in magic, fate, destiny and pure
happiness. Make her fall in love, deeply, with an image she was then made to
create herself. And then get her to experience all the pain, the anguish and
self doubt of a love lost. She would never forgive herself, for being that weak.
She would never forgive whatever cosmic force that had amused itself at her
expense.
And just as she
was thinking all these hateful, unforgiving, vengeful thoughts, she caught
sight of a puddle of water. Under the shade of the over hanging roof of the
house she was sitting at the steps of, the surface was smooth and undisturbed.
There was something about it, about the natural deep, deep blue color of the
water, or the hint of a shimmer, now here and now gone. Almost like a little
peace of the ocean in a calm, peaceful night, with the moonlight playing tricks
on the observer. She could not help herself. She moved to get a better look at
it. After all, no matter what it was sheltered by, with it raining like a
couple of children on the roof with an infinite number of ice cold buckets of
water, it just did not seem right for the water to be that still.
She got up and
started walking the ten feet or so between her and the puddle, and as she drew
nearer, it seemed to expand. She walked like in a trance, with her eyes fixed
on the centre of the round body of water. It seemed to take her an eternity to
get there, and by the time she did, the tiny body of water had seemed to slowly
expand into a real ocean. There was water as far left, and as far right and as
far off as she could see. Her feet still seemed to be on solid ground but she
could turn her head to look. Her gaze was transfixed. Her body was no longer
hers to command. And finally, she could concentrate enough to make out a shape
in the water.
Lit by a moon
that she knew was no where around, hid behind the curtain of clouds still
somewhere soaking Lahore .
She looked at the face and it seemed eerily familiar, yet something the likes
of which she had never seen before. She looked straight and hard at the face.
The face stared right back. It was a woman. Young. Short straight dark hair.
Small, thin nose, small thin lips, permanently arched eye brows. Nice looking,
but not a beauty by far; in her features at least. No, it was not her features,
it was the expression. In her eyes, on her face. It was calm; rested, content,
satisfied. She seemed at peace, with herself, with everything. In need of
nothing and no one.
Forgetting
everything else, her life, her person, her day, her current, very unnatural
situation; Sara could not help but be fascinated. She stared; blatantly and
unashamedly. She longed to know her secret. She longed to have that confidence,
that calm; that peace of mind. And as she silently asked the woman in the water
for answers, the woman only smiled, as if waiting for Sara to do something
more. She stood there for a million days; not knowing the answer or the right
questions. She looked at the woman’s face. And as she stared, she forgot what
the woman’s face looked like as a whole. She looked at the eyes, the beautiful
curve of the lid, the vibrant, warm brown of the pupils, the shadow of the
lashes. She looked at the mouth, so sensitive, so sweet and so gentle. The
strong character, the will dictated by the line of her cheek bone and jaw. The
wit and intelligence of the expression. The stubbornness in the line of her
nose. And finally she knew. This was her love. This was her completion. This
was her destiny. And finally, the familiarity of the woman dawned upon her. The
same hair, the nose, the lips, the cheeks, the eyes. How she could not have
recognized herself she did not know, but given her day, she no longer tried to
rationalize.
In a moment she
was back. Back in some unknown street of Lahore
she had been in for moments or days she did not know; bent over a puddle of
water rain was still splashing into. She straightened herself, looked around to
see if someone was around, and made her way back to her step. She felt weird.
Like something inside her had changed. She could not put her finger on it, but
she could think, clearly. Her mind was no longer a crazed, unsure mess. Her
feeling and emotions no longer in turmoil. Her world, no matter what happened,
dependent on her and not on the arrival of a figment of her imagination. Her
head seemed like the space underneath her bed after spring cleaning; clean,
clear and organized. She sat there and enjoyed what seemed like the first
moment of peace in her entire life. She started walking in what she deemed the
direction of her home and as she reached her street she smiled. The street was
not beautiful or clean, but it was home. The weather was wet and cold, but
cleansing. The sound of rain crashing on a near by parked car was no music; it
was harsh and loud yet exhilarating.
She stepped into
her building and for the first time since leaving her university that evening
checked her watch. It had been two hours. She would have been surprised, but
somehow she knew hardly anything could surprise her anymore. With a bounce in
her firm step, a confident satisfied smile on her face, and eyes jumping with
life, she climbed the stairs to her second floor apartment. Taking off her wet shoes outside to protect
her carpet, she stepped inside and locked the door behind her. Throwing her wet
things on the floor she went for a shower, changed into dry clothes and came
back into the living room/kitchen.
While warning
some food from the fridge in her microwave, she walked up to the telephone to
check her messages. Just her mother, thrice. Once calling very innocently to
ask how she was doing, once to check if she could come home that weekend or if
she would mind if she came over to check on her and finally to just repeat her
hysterics from that morning. Going to have to deal with and assure mama, she
thought, as the last of the message ended just as she was removing her food
from the microwave. With an exasperated sigh at her mother’s antics and a muted
curse at the heads of all over protective parents, she turned on the TV and
settled in to enjoy her meal.
Someone knocked
on the door. She opened the door to a young man with the most striking blue
eyes.
“Sara?”
“Yes,
may I help you?
“I’m
sorry to disturb, but my mother’s a friend of your mother’s, I live in this
part of town and she called to ask if
someone could come check on you, she seemed upset.”
Rolling her eyes Sara said,
“Oh
its ok, I’m fine, she just gets that way, please come in.”
And as she was
following him in the door she added,
“Sorry
I didn’t catch you name…”
“Zarib…”
She stopped
midway in the locking of the door.
“That’s…
an unusual name.”
He snickered.
“Yeah,
my mother named me. Said someday a woman would fall in love with me for it.”
“She
did now did she?”
She
turned her back to him. Locked the door, smiled to herself and decided her
mother was due a thank you visit.
