Fiction
Miscellaneous . . .
Sketch: Syed Badrul Ahsan
Athena picked up the crumpled paper, smoothed it gently with her hands, and stared at the two words: Ajnabi and Ashna. She threw it back in the full basket. For her, the right thoughts were there but the right words had paused. She was having trouble in constructing a full sentence. A first conclusive thought framed in words that would take her to a harmonious beginning. A completion and a genesis. Today it was not to be. The rain hammered against the window pane. For her, the intensity of nature was hauntingly beautiful. Something about such days, it never failed to fascinate her. Here and now all she could do was to push the window open slightly to hear the sound of outside. She lay on the bed, tilted her head to look out the window. The rain drops hit the glass, dripped down to the edge of the sill forming a string of water pearls. She chose one drop and followed its run to the limit: that is mine. But then others joined in quickly and it started the scattered drip, drip, drip. She smiled remembering Rumi, "Day and night I guarded the pearl of my soul. Now in this ocean of curling currents, I've lost track of which one was mine!" In the recess of her mind a still reflection of Zoe carried the words, 'The pearl of your soul is poetry I recite all the time, even as the rains pelt the window with their insistence.' And then slowly the reflection dissolved into fragments. Athena restlessly searched for that bohemian oracle. She got up, pushed open the storm-window that led to the porch andpulled a patiochair under the awning. Sitting inside on a recliner she put her feet up on the chair outside. Ah…now she couldsit for hours to feel the gusts of moist air and listen to the fury of a dark sky! Just as she was getting comfortable the phone rang. Reluctantly she reached out and chimed a drowsy hello. Zoe said, listen to this… Humne dekhi hai un ankhon ki mehekti khushbuHath se chu ke ise rishton ka ilzaam na do
Sirf ehsas hai ye rooh se mehsoos karo
Pyar ko pyar hi rehne do koi naam na do Lovely, indeed lovely, she responded knowing fully well what was coming. Now translate it for me, Zoe insisted. One can only rejoice in the preciseness of such lyrics; if you listen with intent it will carry you through the cloudland and wrap you in sunshine and moonlight, she replied. The subconscious mind yearns for acceptance! That is what Zoe wanted to hear. Yes darling I know was her answer. She was a friend of her heart, a woman who was on the edge of real and un-real. Athena chose to receive calls from her day and night, anytime. Once while Athena was visiting Zoe she had recited: Cruelty of a mistake/ A disruptive note
Final door closes
A fist stops midway/ Enough
Then began another tale/ Of confession and change
Vengeance wild/ The arrogance transparent
Speech became indifferent/ Consciousness rumbled
Is the art of life/ In love or in hate?
Can the silvery moon speak of dreams?
So many echoes strung together Why such introspection? Carefully Athena asked. And then she caught a glimpse of that singular hurt which dominated her life. Zoe reliving an event said it was the good spirit that loosened the speech of a young couple and her husband. As a new person in this game she was awed by their control. Sometimes in the stillness of pitch dark night she felt an uninvited touch. Embarrassed she moved away. And still later that night as Zoe faced her host during an uneventful predicament, her husband decided to interrupt; a posture of fierce anger. Brushing him aside he headed straight for her, and then she felt the intense burn on her face that made her reel as she hit the edge of a chair almost crushing her ribs. He pulled her up, and then came another strike, wild and furious. She stood up hardly breathing, her dry eyes questioning why? For several weeks the why angrily persisted on the left side of her face -swollen eyelids, cut lip, finger marks, and the painful bruise on her waist; but more so the why extended beyond, into her living. Then there was another instance which she wanted to forget but remember she would. An instance when she had said enough. Something in her snapped and compelled her to retaliate. Never did she imagine she could contain such even motive, and the question pursued her relentlessly: how am I different from him? In each one of us layers of stories make the 'self' complete, but if the self gets displaced we begin to lose the stories. And so, gradually Zoe lost her place in her own tale. In her passion for life she opted to become the woman who forgets to remember. The pendant of opposing impulse of dying led her to become one who loved to paint with bright colors, never searching for meaning. The paintings are always complete, always wholesome. To live life she immersed herself in music, found beauty in that which was innocent, read poetry with conviction that this genre is seriously disobedient and believed poets interfered the arrangements of meaning. Such was the adjustment of alternatives for her to live life. Yet she could hardly recall her past in its coherence, only flashes of bits and pieces. Often she asks who am I? An absolutely beautiful person whom I love very dearly, Athena always replies. Yes, she has fallen in love with this woman, the kind of love others do not understand. She says to Zoe, you and I are free, in each other's company. Our souls have become interchangeable; and we have meshed into a whole, in a wholesome new world. Could this be the story of Athena's ajnabi! She heard Zoe say on the phone, let us face this furiously beautiful day together, I am coming over. Yes, my love, I will be waiting. And wait Athena will, as Zoe can never come. Without caring to wipe her wet feet she went to the kitchen. The clink of ice made her look at the empty glass, and after filling and refilling it several times Athena sarcastically said out loud, now dear glass, you surely are my ashna. I silently cherish this moment
Listening to the crescendo of ensemble
The distant rhythm of your life
My eyes contemplate/ See all
Breaching infinity Gives my mind
Language of interpretation
To perceive, to understand
To live, be alive Two simple words, two simple concepts: ajnabi (stranger) and ashna (friend). Contradiction? No, the configuration of her life has simply changed. Both reside in her, both threaten to destroy! And it continued to storm within her, as well outside…
Ainon N. writes poetry, fiction and critiques books.
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