Twenty-five, beautiful, intelligent…she had always been everything that a girl like me would want to be. I followed her upstairs to help with her packing—she was going back the next day. Before going back down, she went into the bedroom where nobody had slept since that day…I followed, thinking she might need some help. But she opened the closet, and buried her face in her late father’s clothes. Inhaling, she broke into silent sobs…I turned and ran.
I found an old school register in my clothes closet yesterday…the last pages were full to bursting with at least twenty different poems…when did all that stop? There was a time when the instinct used to be plentiful and spontaneous…
A sort of old, obscure song drifts past…
‘I never felt so lonely, never felt so out of placeI never wanted something more than this’
Two thoughts at the same time…one was to dwell in the words (always loved these lines, don’t know why)…and the others to classify them as half or near rhymes…what’s happening to me?
The TA came down from the back of the room to recite “Dile Nadaan Tujhay Hua Kya Hai”— that rapturous verse from Ghalib. He didn’t recite very well, but it seemed like he felt everything; his face convulsed with pleasure as he got to the most powerful line. It was a moment where so much could be seen…that childish face twisted with the pain of the lines at his finger…such a childish face under that mass of premature gray hair…
Finally, I turned around and told my TA that his articles rocked, that he was a brilliant writer and should go to many heights, and that I’ve been a constant reader for many months…turned out he loved the idea of a fan following. I came out of the TA room with his whole present personal life at my fingertips… he left two jobs in Karachi to get the double TA-ship that was being offered to him here. Oh yeah, and he’s going to be jobless after this quarter.
I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep…twenty centuries of stony sleep has rocked my cradle too; and there are no alarms to wake me up…but insomnia has taken over.
I have no idea how to end these things…
Ullas said
“But she opened the closet, and buried her face in her late father’s clothes. Inhaling, she broke into silent sobs…I turned and ran.”
I would have done the same…that moment is hers…in our part of the world, grief, just as much as revelry, turns into a community event. In the ensuing chaos of manufactured tears, the people who are really affected see themselves robbed of their personal moments.