The Wilted Rose

"The bus is here, we need to leave Zamina", my elder sister's panicked voice echoed downstairs.

"Coming in a minute", I replied hurriedly.

It was 4 am in the morning, and we were packing to leave India.

The informant from ministry had banged his way through the huge oak doors just 30mins ago and in hushed tones explained Abba the situation. We needed to leave. The recent massacre by Muslims had enraged the Hindus, who had in turn killed hundreds of muslins in India.

At first, Abba was assured that ancestry and lineage would protect us, but the public anger of Hindus living in the opposite side of the city wall, had increased fourfold after the recent events.

Slowly, our neighboring houses started vacating. But Abba was optimistic that people would realize the stupidity and soon revert back to the brotherhood that existed before the partition of India and Pakistan.

"Zamina, what are you doing? The bus will leave you behind! Why be a source of pain to your Abba!!” Ammi said shaking with anger.

She took my hand and started pulling me away. Just near the door, I remembered something. Something which I had seen when I had accidentally opened the book.

A rose. Pressed in the middle of the book.

I was struck by panic. I couldn’t leave it behind. It was the only memory I had of him, without which it would be difficult to believe that he existed.

I pulled back my hand from Ammi's restricting hold on my arm.

"I'll be back, please just 1 minute", and without listening her stopping me, I ran way.

Ran away to my room where I had hidden the rose, his one and only gesture...which made me believe that he loved me. That even in the darkest of times, love could illuminate your life.

Panting for breath, I reached to the wooden almirah and frantically started opening the books.

There, the leather bound book rested. Rested because I seldom opened it. Only when the pain became unbearable, when all I could think and feel was his absence. Often I thought, and prayed to Allah, 5 times a day, why was he so cruel?

What bad had we done? What bad had he done to receive his wrath? Love couldn’t be the answer, could it,  when Allah himself preached about it in Koran?

I could hear the muted cry of the crowd that had gathered in front of the oak doors of our home. I tugged the rose, delicately, in the pocket of my shirt I wore under the woolen coat.

I ran back towards the garden block, the rear exit if the house.

"Where were you, we were just leaving" Abba's concerned voice moved something in me. Fear. Without thinking any further, I hopped in the small bus where my family was seated: Abba, Ammi, Shoib, my brother and Hasina, my sister.

It was a 24 hour ride from Punjab to Pakistan. As the bus picked up speed, I realized what I was leaving behind.

My mother land, the place where my father was born, where I had spent my childhood, where I had met the love of my life, and lost him.

Lost him to war, the brutality which had made home in the hearts of people.

I still remembered the first time we saw each other. It was in the public library and I was searching for the English book that our teacher had asked us to read. Aisle after aisle I searched, but in vain. And then I found the aisle, dedicated to English literature.

I pulled the book out and saw myself looking at a young man. He was tall, and handsome. Very handsome. His hair was neatly slicked to one side, and was dressed in a simple woolen sweater and pleated pants. I knew he realized I was looking for him, and for once my cheeks bushed a deep red, but realized he was doing the same.

"Sorry, I was just looking for this book, you now hold in your hand" he said and smiled.

Shifting under his gaze and addressing the floor I said "You can have it if u want".

"No, u read it first, and then give it to me later, okay?"

Too embarrassed to look into his eyes, I mumbled an okay and started to turn away, when I heard him talking to me.

"Could you tell me your name and directions for your house? So I can collect the book", he added hastily.

The silence in the library was broken by hush voices, and turned to find the library assistant looking at us, talking to a lady. It was still considered inappropriate for a young boy and girl to talk.

"I will meet you after 1 week, here and this time".

Without waiting for his reply, I left, feeling the blush on my cheeks again.
The entire week I was apprehensive. Thinking again and again what I had said, what he had said. I hoped that he would come to meet me. But what if he did not? I would end up feeling  stupid.
After 7 excruciating days, I met him. He was there all right, smiling.
“So is the book good?”, he asked.
And so, we met every week, same day, and same time in the library. At first we used to discuss literature and politics, but gradually ascended to other topics.
Then one fine day, he professed his love to me, with a rose. The same rose that was now tugged in my pocket.
Everybody who’s in love would agree that love makes you overly optimistic. And that was the case with us. He was a Hindu, and I was Muslim. Before partition it was still possible, but before we could talk to our parents, the summer of 1947 came. The partition. Two countries, two people but one heart. What happens when after centuries of brotherhood, people start killing each other?
History does not know who started the killings, but somebody did. For some time we were immune to these killings, thought it would pass by time. But then we received a horrible news, his family in Pakistan was among the Hindus killed by Muslims.
His Hindu friends provoked him to join in the killings of Muslims. But how could he when he himself loved a Muslim girl?

He was killed. By his own men. They came to know about us and considered it to be treason.
I can never forget that day when I got a letter from one of his friends. We were not meeting anymore in the library, due to the curfew.
I could not believe what he had written. It was as if I was sitting in a charcoal box, so filled with hatred for his killers. And the next moment I could feel the chill, of his absence. I wasn’t able to see him even for one last time. That night I cried holding that rose.
That was 3 months ago.

I still do that sometimes. I miss him terribly. I feel as if a part of me was killed that day along with him. Sometimes I imagine him close, close to me. As if he is just around, making me feel his presence. I still remember the black of his eyes, the little scar on his left eyebrow, and his saffron tikka on Tuesdays and Saturdays, his hands which had held mine numerous times. Now all that was left were memories, memories of the rose. The wilted rose.

The rose had slowly wilted, its petals leaving its centre one by one, falling…falling…separated from each other, losing their red color, till all that was left was the brown, withered centre.


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Note: Honestly, I got bored from Wordpress, where I earlier had my blog. So, I changed addresses, and because of lack of any good things coming to my mind these days, I have no other option but to post them back. Don't make a face. So what? This blog is new! And besides, blogger has better themes:P:P