Blooming Amid Chaos

We were young. Had only seen the world for a little over 10 years. Our simple minds only understood what could be added to our toy collection. It wasn’t exactly as fancy as one would imagine, but more enjoyable than the expensive stuff that we can find today. It included a huge wooden wheel from the stable, a plank of wood that we frequently used for making swings that could be hung on trees, a dirty doll that we refused to throw away for its emotional value, a rough chest that still bore the rough edges of wood that was cut to give it shape and some more stuff that we found on regular basis to add to the stock. Our favourite game was to become parents of our only doll and pamper her, take care of her when she was sick and gather leaves that mimicked money in exchange for the doll to go to school. Even at that young age, I remember, I only lived to see her smile. If she didn’t laugh at one joke, I took it as a challenge to come up with something that was worth her smile. My best days were when she laughed out loud at some lucky freaking joke. Her eyes were the most fascinating colour I had seen in my life. A secret ratio of sea-green and brown, making the most exquisite background for that silver twinkle that I could exchange my soul for. Her long lashes were cleverly gifted by God to protect those pearl eyes from the undeserving elements that could wish to explore them. The spots on her cheeks that she often complained about, were there to break one’s haze about her beauty, but only ended up adding to her ethereal charm. Her hair was short and streaked in a colour that I wish to call village blonde, giving her a unique appearance, which was as raw as it was celestial. How could I not have fallen for her?

Those 10 years had been so blissful that we had no idea how rough the world could be. In fact, we were almost thrilled at the sound of the first bomb because we could only imagine someone celebrating life through fireworks. It was in that moment when my mother came running towards me with that look that I can’t manage to forget, I grew up. I saw her parents take hold of her and run in the direction opposite to me. My parents put together a bag full of documents and cash before we ran away to never return. That was the last time I saw her, being merry at the sound of the bomb. I realized later how subjective happiness can be. We couldn’t believe during those ten peaceful years that our house would fall in the conflicted area. And I still fail to understand, who benefits from a piece of forcefully secured land.

As I grew up, I realized, I was looking for her in every girl. All my relationships ended because the girl, who I had initially chosen for her similarity with her, would eventually go off the graph, bringing me back to reality and breaking my heart. And in all my relationships, as soon as I realized she wasn’t her, I failed to sustain it emotionally. It was as if I had always been committed to her. I had hung on this one hope that she also felt the same way about me. If only there was a way to confirm.

Today, as I reached the place, that once was our humble abode, I found except for a few scrapes that bombs had brought about to the place, everything was still intact. The giant wooden wheel lay there at the ground, surrounded by grass patches that grew in places and lacked consistency. One of the walls of the stable had almost been halved, exposing the bricks and wood that had stood in unison for all these years to provide shelter to the horses. Our swing was lopsided, one rope losing the tension from one end. There were some dark patches on the walls, blatantly declaring the atrocities brought about by the bombs. The foot-way that was created as a result of people treading the same path frequently, was only faintly visible. The soil in this area had never been very fertile otherwise the path would have completely gone long ago. I took the foot-way to reach the other side of the stable. There were some abandoned houses on this side. I remember one particular house. A lady always sat in the front porch of the house with a cup in her hand. And instantly I was reminded of the silver twinkle in her eyes when we saw that lady. In a world where we aspire to be leaders and corporates, she wanted to live the life of that lady. On some lucky occasions, she shared her dreams with me. She wanted to have a family, be a mother and have a peaceful life. She wanted the leaders and corporates to work for her while she enjoyed the life that they worked so hard to create. Someone should enjoy! She would always say.

The land was still under conflict. So much for sacrificing so many of one’s soldiers and ruining so many innocent lives. What can a piece of land mean, after all? But there are forces, far superior than an individual’s might, that we just have to accept. My anger could not bring our life back even if I can’t say that I had even lived after that. I sat in the grass, with my back supported by the stable wall, reminiscing the times that were reduced to mere dreams before I made my way back.

The lanes were still too narrow to fit a single car. The mud houses had no drainage to support their sewer disposal, so they had built their own drains around, apart from the sewage tank that each house had to dig separately for their needs. This was because there was no economic development in the area. The irony is that no government wanted to spend on the piece of land that they so direly desired. People here are always ready to move if situation arose. I stopped my car suddenly as a herd of sheep decided to cross the street at the same time when I wanted to move ahead. All but one sheep found it exhilarating to stand in front of my car, doing absolutely nothing. I honked and trusted it understood what that means, only to no effect. A little girl from the house right in front of my side window, came out to see a real car in the neighbourhood. I looked at her one glance and smiled. She did not smile back. I started working on moving the sheep again but stopped to look at the girl again. The colour of her eyes, and a silver twinkle. The twinkle did not have that spark though, but a grim reality reflected back. The spark could have been enough, yet I saw a familiar dirty doll in her arms, her half-torn head hanging lose. She looked at me blankly, without a smile, just staring right into my soul through her hazel eyes. And then she appeared from behind her, to know what attracted her daughter’s attention, signalling her to go inside. And as she turned, I could not see her other arm.

It came back to me all at once. As my mother was pulling me away from the stable, my eyes were on her and her on mine, till we could no longer see each other. That was right before I heard another explosion which drowned her mother’s screams for some time till the sound of explosion faded and only her mother’s screams remained. Today, when she looked at me, I could hear her speak. She was happy. The eyes sparkled, as they always did. Even without an arm, she was living her dream. Someone should enjoy! Was ringing in my ears and the belief, that happiness is weirdly subjective, was never as clear to me as it was today.