At this hour only one or two autorickshaws can be heard in the distance. All other traffic is still sleeping, waiting for the crack of dawn to start buzzing like a bee or a young lover desperate to suck the nectar before it falls prey to some other, before fading in the summer heat, amidst cows, stray dogs, hawkers, beggars, road-side Romeos, shoppers, buses, trucks, cars, more rickshaws and anything and everything that can stir and crawl.

It is at this hour that she stands with her back against the about two and a half feet high balcony handrail. To say that her back was resting against the banister would make no sense, since she was far from it, even though she was touching it. Though, she might have felt at peace having made up her mind on how to escape.

She pushes herself up to sit on the still-wet railing, not even wondering if she would fall in the process. If it would all end before it all began.

Droplets of fear race down to her swollen lips which she licks without blinking hoping they would quench her thirst. This was not the time to give in to the urge, run to sip that last sip. Let fear cripple, society hold back, and love to vanish. They had given some, taken some, and now was the time to exchange some more. It was to be now or never.

He had said, “I love you.” They had said, “Never.”

Having got this far, she does not look down, her mind does not waver, even though her body quivers. Chickening out, pulling back, giving up, running away had never been her style. Instead, she lowers herself down holding on to the vertical balcony rails. By now she’s dangling. In spite of herself, she wants to cry out for help, but does not. She does not want to wake anyone up. Already her arms have begun to ache. She tries to pull herself up, but cannot. By now she’s convinced that climbing back up would be impossible, besides even if her parents did show up, they wouldn’t be able to help her up. Any attempt to do so would result in the inevitable. So she lets go first of her right hand and then her left hand.

Before time could travel, she had done so and landed on her back in the lap of mother earth, to whom it did not matter if is she had worshipped Lord Shiva or fasted during Ramadan.

Her name was Pooja Ramnani and she was eighteen when she decided to escape.

She had not stepped out of her room the night before to have dinner or to apologize to them. Instead she lay curled in a tight ball, in her bed, crying until she had no more tears left, biting her tender lips until she had tasted blood.

She had heard their muffled sounds, whispering about a couple of matrimonial prospects the matchmaker had told them. Her father, Ishwar, had wondered if she had been hungry since he was having his dinner and wanted her to join him.

“I think she’s asleep,” her mother, Parvati, had said.

“How could he have done that?” She had thought. Humiliate her in college, in front of them all. What was worse that even her mother had not helped her. And this was after she had grown up hearing over and over her mother say,

“We are all one. God is one. Hindus and Muslims are alike. We are all human beings, made from the same clay; must learn to love and understand. Here, dear Khala, take some flowers for me to the Darga; say a prayer for our good health and so that Pooja may find a good boy.”

Understandably Pooja had not wanted to speak with either of them that evening or later that night. But she knew that she could not tell them this. If they had found out that she was awake she would have to talk to them, because that’s how it was. Parents were to be respected. If they wanted to speak with you, you couldn’t say,

“Later, not up to being with you folks right now, or, leave me alone; this is my life.”

What could she do, but pretend to have fallen asleep, while all along hearing random words like “suitable boy, Muslim, Hindu, shame, name, game, dowry, marriage within a few days, or else too late.”

A couple of hours later when Ishwar had stood at his youngest child Pooja’s bedroom entrance he had not switched the light on, since there had been enough coming in from the kitchen and the sitting room to see if she was still sleeping. They had suspected about him, all along. But what in the God’s name could they have done? They could not allow it. They had left their home in Karachi to run away from people like him. And now, how they now allow her to marry him? What would the people say? He must be using her they had thought, like they all do in movies.

But now that he had caught them red-handed, they had done something about it  taught her a lesson.

When Ishwar had seen that Pooja had not stirred even though he was in her room, he knew that this time she was really asleep. Before he quietly stepped out, he covered her with the bed sheet since it was a cool night.

As soon as Pooja had seen the kitchen light go off, she had thrown off the cover even though it had been a little cool. She had done this because she had not wanted to be tricked by the mistress of sleep. As she saw it, the only option she had was to climb down from her bedroom balcony. That way she could escape from her parents and marriage to a complete and absolute stranger.

A sensible option would have been to pretend to go along with the marriage. And then just as she and the chosen by the parents stranger, to whom she was to be handed over so that their name would not be completely tarnished, were about to make the sacred rounds around the fire, she could have untied the knot and walked away. Just like that.

But this had not occurred to her. This could have made it clear to the general public that this in fact had been a forced arranged marriage, one to which she had never consented.

She had ruled out setting herself on fire, because her intention had never been to hurt herself or destroy her parents home. She knew how hard her father had worked his entire life to provide for them.

The bottom line was that she wanted to escape, but without harming anyone, or financially ruining her family. So she had decided to stick with her balcony plan.

Having thought that if she could get herself down from her balcony, she would walk fast or even run down the dark, quite, narrow streets of her neighborhood to get to Mustafa’s apartment, which was no more than a couple of miles away. She had been aware that the possibility of her getting a fractured limb or two existed, but she was willing to bear the pain, as long as she could escape. With her new-found tolerance for pain, she would be able to make her way through to Mustafa’s.

By now he seemed to be her only hope. She had reasoned that if she walked close to the edges of the narrow street, where it was bound to be darker, perhaps no one would notice a pretty young girl out alone in the middle of the early hours of the morning. The planned time to escape was around three in the morning, because by that time there would be minimal traffic, and hence less people would notice her. Even the homeless would be asleep a little after three.

Having decided her route of escape, she had concentrated on details.

Moon was sleeping behind the clouds and the stars were on a leave that night. A solitary breeze was strolling through the lonesome streets. It was half past twelve when Elisa got on the bus. She was late; very late. At the last minute, her manager showed up with a pile of work; a project proposal that was to be submitted the very next day. She had to sit late.

“I might get a raise if I pull this all right”, she fed herself with a hope and got back to work. By the time she completed that proposal, the sun had gone home. She looked out the window; a thousand stars were vividly ornamented in the casement of the modern pyramids of the downtown. “May be they need a raise too”, she murmured and then picked up her bag to leave office.

When she reached the bus stop, the last bus she used to take, had left. So she had to take another one that dropped her a block away from her apartment building. She got off the bus and started walking with the soundless breeze. It wasn’t as quiet as she could hear. A faint__ to a certain extent, oppressed___ whistle of the breeze, the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement, a can dancing its way across the street and a car passing by on a distant road; she had some company.

She turned into a street which was lit by an old, pale street-light. The street was too long for that pale light to have veiled it completely. More she walked towards the other end of the street; more the darkness swallowed her shadow. She had reached half way down when she heard a footstep that wasn’t hers.

Without stopping, she looked back but couldn’t see any feet making that sound. She made her feet race each other a little faster. After a few yards she turned right into another street. The moment she turned, a shadow wavered in front of her eyes and a rough-edged hand was posted firmly on her nose and lips. A very thin space between those rugged fingers showed the way out to her torn breath. A loud scream started off from her lungs, into her throat and then went straight into her head instead of coming out of her mouth. Her brain reverberated with that scream and she felt as it would burst into pieces.

She clutched that arm to remove it from her face but it was cemented there. His other arm was searching through her skirt. With very little exit space for her swollen breath, she was losing sight. The light in the street was withering away when a sparkling reflection of street-light flickered in her eyes. She didn’t realize it was a knife until she felt it on the pumping veins of her neck.

Holding his arm with her right hand, she tried to take her bag off of her shoulder. Her intentions tried to bargain with that solid shadow, trying to offer him the money earned during the week, to save the self respect earned during life time. This offer was refused with a wild swing of his left arm that threw the bag away.

Knowing what to expect, she started scratching those pieces of darkness from his body only to find an evil skin underneath. His hands started displacing her clothes and then pushed her down on the pavement. Stuck between two solid rocks, she fluttered as much as the strength of her flesh allowed her.

Having her clothes torn apart, she then felt that gleaming and colorful fabric of her soul being ripped off. Another scream started off from her lungs, through her throat and came out of her eyes in tears. Her eyes were spreading those warm, salty cries but there was no one listening. That stinking breath kept falling on her face and stirring silence into her already fading screams.

For a few moments, that she didn’t want to count, that she didn’t want to remember, her body was invaded with cruelty and lust. And then she was left there; soundless and motionless. She looked at that silent, non-existing world around her through that red glass in her eyes and saw that ugly shadow starting to disappear in the dark.

Her head fell on to her left and there she saw another shadow; standing still in utter silence. There was something so easy and calm in the posture of that shadow that she knew whoever that was, had been standing there since the beginning; watching. She closed her eyes but that horror started rolling in them like a film. She opened her eyes, stood up, gathering her broken pieces into one broken piece and started walking.

Reaching at the end of the street, turning into another, she looked back. That silent shadow was still there. While her eyes were moving away from him and turning into the other street, she saw that shadow move and disappear.

All shadows disappear in the dark.

Ethan had lived in this neighborhood all his life. It was a calm and quiet place in general but in the night, bizarre things would happen once in a while. He had always heard of those weird things but had actually never seen them. That night, for some reasons, sleep kept avoiding him. Tired of fighting the night, he went out to get face to face with it.

He was wandering in an eternally ill street when he saw a tall shadow standing at a cursed corner. Ethan knew there was something to happen; something that he had always only heard of. While he was standing there watching that shadow, he saw a young girl appearing from the curve. It was a prolonged moment of utmost heat in his brain veins when he saw that shadow move quickly and wrapping his arms around that girl. The girl tried as much as she could but that guy was too big and too strong. Ethan never expected this to happen. He didn’t know what to do. He just stood there, struck in that dreadful occurrence of the unexpected.

While that shadow had finished spreading its darkness on her, it left. Ethan watched him go and then looked at her. She was looking towards him; at him. His feet froze in the melting sand of time and he couldn’t move. He could feel her complaining, “Why didn’t you do anything?” Ethan had no answer. He just stood there wrapped in fear and shame. She walked away and then turned into another street. Ethan went back home.

Some moments never leave you alone.

Elisa entered her apartment and fell on her bed as if she was throwing herself into the abyss of forgetfulness. But it wasn’t so. She couldn’t sleep. It was too painful a night to have carried anything with it as consoling as sleep. She didn’t want to think of what happened while there was nothing else she could possibly think of. All night long, she kept thinking of nothing.

For all the twenty four years of her life, she kept herself intact in a land far away in her head. She stayed away from all the waywardness the unscrupulous colors of life had to offer. She completed her business studies and moved to the Big Apple to become the master of her destiny. She found a decent job and was busy making herself worth the life she was given.

Love did breeze through her heart once when she was in college. But it didn’t sail smooth since her boyfriend was more interested in short and sharp fists of passion than in long lived emotions. She would only give herself to a person who would sail through the troubled waters of life with her. That breeze of loving whispers turned into a sandstorm of arguments and she had to leave it behind her.

She was lying on the bed face down and all the fallen days were swirling through her head. She wanted everything to be perfect. A good job, a house, true love, family and satisfaction of living her life to the full. But it all looked so bleak now because of an ill-defined shadow in a dark street __ that wasn’t even on her way home. Someone took that first time away from her; pealed it off of her body, piece by piece; dream by dream. It all seemed over. Night was spreading across her eyes and sleep was stepping down from her eyelids.

Next morning, she called up at the office and asked for a leave for next two days. Given the work she had finished successfully the night before, she was granted leave. Now she had a long weekend to scratch that painful memory off from her heart and to fight back through her life.

Life was fighting back.

Ethan opened his eyes and felt a moment fallen from time, stuck in his sight. He could still feel those eyes hitting him on his chest. A bitter taste of yesterday was pasted on his tongue. He felt terrible. He stood up and got ready to go to work. He knew it was going to be a slow sunset today.

The day went away somehow. He was clueless as to what happened during the day. All he could see was two eyes shining in the dark, complaining. He knew he had to find those eyes; he had to listen to them. He took the next day off and rode the bus home.

He got off the bus and walked towards the street where his sleeplessness had come from. He stood there at the place where some dreams turned into nightmares. He could see small pieces of cries, a melancholic stain and a dirty red glass. He could hear the shattering of a life, tearing of a soul and that silent death of light. He then looked at the place where he was standing last night. He looked at that place with complains in his eyes.

The world around him looked dusty. He didn’t want to go home so he took off towards the city. He was strolling through the busy streets trying to keep his mind superficially busy in the artificial details of unvarying life around him, when he found those eyes. He saw her sitting on the steps of the museum. He knew it was her, he could recognize those eyes even in the broad daylight. That pain was still fluttering in her eyes. He stood there for a while, looking at her. He knew this time he had to do something. He started walking towards her.

Heavy feet carry the burden of the mind.

Elisa was feeling suffocated in her apartment. Somehow the walls had shrunk and the air was lessening. She went out to the city to make her mind wander on the busy roads of the downtown than in the dark street of her neighborhood. After roaming through a few hundred random thoughts, her mind got tired and she sat on the steps of the museum.

A soft rumble of countless footsteps had surrounded her stationary feet as people moved in and out of the building. She was staring at her soundless feet when another pair of feet appeared and joined them in silence. She looked up and heard, “Hi”.

There was a young man standing there blocking her sun. He was about 28, dark hair, dark eyes and a very fresh skin. She looked at him with no emotion in her eyes and meaninglessly uttered, “Hi”.

“You mind if I sit here?” Ethan asked with a polite tone.

Tired of listening to that deafening silence, she nodded in affirmation.

He sat down on the steps and for a few moments joined her silence.

“Too quiet today, isn’t it?” he threw some meaningless words in to the pond of no words.

“Yeah” Elisa hardly uttered.

“Silence always hides painful words”, he intended to get her to talk about something.

“Not always”, she paused for a moment looking deep into something in the air that only she could see. “Sometimes it merely reveals the absence of words.”

“Yeah. And what makes the words dry out?” he asked.

“I don’t know”, was the answer.

“Pain?” he asked again fearing he might be getting too personal.

Silence appeared again as she fell deep into her thoughts.

“May be” she said without any intention of saying anything.

“A silent pain is more painful than a screaming one” Ethan wanted her to say something more.

She looked at him with a thousand expressions on her face. Fearing that she might suspect him for someone he isn’t, he tried to change the subject, “Ethan, my name is Ethan.”

With her eyes looking towards him but not at him, she said, “Elisa!”

They sat there for a while and then he took her to a nearby restaurant where they talked some more.

Elisa found a temporary refuge in Ethan. He was keeping her at a fair distance from last night and with every word he said, the distance kept growing. There was just one thing that disturbed her, that made her feel distressingly uncomfortable; his eyes. There was something about them; something related to her. She shrugged those thoughts away as she didn’t want to tell herself that it was love.

Love makes you feel lonely.

Later in the night she entered her apartment and felt alone again. She was safe here, she was free. But she had this fear in her heart that a detailed memory of the night gone by will visit her again and will pollute every night that is to come.

She didn’t want to switch on the darkness and didn’t like the thought of losing her sleeplessness. Tired of listening to her cracking thoughts; she picked up the phone and dialed Ethan’s number, that was painted on her palm by Ethan himself. Her heartbeat kept ringing on the other side and before she would give up on her heart, Ethan picked up the phone.

“Somehow I knew you would call now” he said in a firm voice.

“Yeah? How?”

“I don’t know. I just___ I just wanted you to.”

“Ok, I have called now.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t know what to say and she didn’t know what she would hear. Silence was about to fill the distance between them, but before it would freeze, he broke it into pieces, and “Can we meet again?”

“Yeah” she wanted to hear that.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“11:30?”

“Yeah.”

“Same place?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

She shut the window to let sleep in.

The night gave way to morning sun and she woke up with light falling on her face. It was a quiet morning. She stayed in bed; just lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of so many things that she couldn’t focus on any one of them. She never wanted a day like this in her life___ or a night like that. It was all so imperfect__ it so didn’t match her plans. But whose plan was it? Of that dark shadow? Of God? Of her fate? Whatever the reason and whoever the culprit, she was the victim___ and for what sin?

“What would___ or ‘should’ if fate allows me___ I do now? What is this morning so silent and unbearably perfect? Where will this day go when its finished? Where will I store it? In my head___ along with that night? Who is Ethan? Why doesn’t he fit into my life so perfectly?”

Questions remained her sole company till the sun rose above the window. It was about time. She took a shower, got dressed and left her apartment.

Dreams travel the distance we avoid.

Sitting in the bus, Ethan was looking outside aimlessly while his mind roamed through the brightest corners of the day gone by. She so perfectly fit into that day, the whole memory of it.

The bus stopped and he came out of his yesterday for a while. A rolled up paper bag was place in his lap. Looking at it and holding it tight in his hands, he let the day before yesterday enter his head again. That night when a few inactive moments took him on a journey promising a melancholically beautiful dream and abandoned him in the land of insomnia forever.

“Why didn’t I do anything? Why didn’t I move; why didn’t I call for help? Why didn’t I help? Why didn’t I fight that dark shadow?”
In the junkyard of so many useless questions___ for it was over now and the fact remained that he didn’t do anything___ he didn’t find one purposeful answer.

The bus stopped again. It was his stop. He got off and walked towards the restaurant.

Heart feels like an ocean when you feel so many things swimming through it at the same time.

Elisa saw him entering the restaurant. He moved like a warm morning breeze through the wintry beaches of her eyes. There was something so calm about him, in his eyes, on his face, in his gate; that it scared her. Perfect things are stagnant things, they don’t grow, they don’t change, they don’t improve. She didn’t want things to be perfect between them. She left that fear roaming in her veins. Those salty beaches were now hidden in mist.

She laughed__ didn’t know after how many days__ but she laughed. He made her laugh. He dived into the deep seas of her heart and fished out the happy days. When he surfaced, he came out with laughter in his pockets which he merrily gave to her and she decorated them on her lips.

Things were about to divulge into perfection when she looked deep into his eyes. There was something so silently calm about them that she knew there were secrets to be told. She wasn’t wrong.

After all that was done, what was planned, he put that paper bag on the table.

“What is this?” she asked without saying a word.

He unrolled the bag, took out a shiny, stainless knife and put it on the table in front of her.

“What is this?” she repeated her question, this time in words.

“I found it.”

Something in his tone told her that things were about to fall apart.

“I found it ___ on 23rd street ___ in the corner ___ on the sidewalk___”

She kept looking at him.

“___ On the night before last night.”

Her heart shook and stopped for a while. Silence fell on her ears, her eyes, her heart___ her life. He kept talking, explaining to her the illogical reasons why he didn’t move, why he didn’t do something, why he just stood there. She wasn’t sure if she listened to him or not. The cynosure of her heart was that sparkling knife ___ the emblem of her fear ___ lying in front of her. It kept wavering in her eyes, casting a dark shadow on her memory.

“All this time I have hated myself, cursed myself for being such a dormant coward. I didn’t know you, but that night when you looked at me, I thought that’s what I was born to do, to protect you, and that’s what I didn’t do. I wasted my whole existence there; I denied the justification of my being alive. Now I know you ___ and I regret it even more…”

She picked up the knife and silence stuck in his mouth. She just gazed at that sharp-edged object of arrogance and ignorance. He wanted her to say something; he wanted to listen to her but she didn’t say a word. There was nothing to be heard, not even a sigh.

And then she looked at him ___ with no complains, no resent, no regret; nothing. She just looked at him; to say goodbye and it was too hard to say in words that she chose to say it with her eyes. Not sure whether he understood that or not, se put the knife in her bag, stood up and walked away. Ethan just sat there with an empty brain.

You waste life all life, then one day life wastes you.

All day long, Elisa kept wandering all over the city. She went to places she had never visited before because she didn’t have time. Today she had all the time on her wrist, she was free; free of any boundaries of time, any relationship, any obligation___ any passion. She wasn’t obliged to think of anything; not her past, not her future, not even today. Why should she bother herself to think of things so unreal; so much unreal that they don’t exist.

By the time night fell from the sky, she was all tired. She approached the bus station and sat there with a motionless body and a thoughtless mind and kept watching her bus leave every 10 minutes.

It was late in the night when the announcement for the last bus of the day was made. She stood up and walked towards the bus, holding her bag tightly in her hands as this was one possession that could salvage her painful heart.

She got off the bus a block away from her apartment building. For a moment she stood there silently and then moved towards twenty third street.

The wind held its breath when it saw her again there. A can trying to dance its way over to this end of the street; stopped half way. Her shoes hit the pavement but didn’t leave the company of silence. The street had eaten up her shadow. She turned right and felt a black shadow creeping on her neck. Before the shadow could touch her, she took her hand out of her bag while turning around, swung that shiny piece of metal with every piece of energy in her raging mind and stuck it in his neck. The knife entered that rotten skin all the way and stopped. Silence broke into a surprise-struck painful scream. The shadow flickered for a while and then fell down. She stood there watching it until it went motionless. A red piece of glass melted and rolled on the concrete. In that thick fluid, she saw her memory dieing away.

She stood there for a while with her eyes shut; and then she felt two eyes looking at her. She turned around opening her eyes and looked at that dark spot across the street. He had been standing there all the time; watching. A wave of tears went through her eyes but she didn’t let it spread out on her face. She replaced it with a wave of arrogant smile and a successful march of shining stars on her eyelids. Life came back; a raise, a house, a family, love and above all her worth.

She turned around and started walking towards her apartment building.

The first hues of the rising sun fell on the landscape. For this small village stationed beside a turbulent stream flowing down the sloping valley, the golden red rays of the sun were greeted by the children’s loud prayers. Their teacher recited along with them as their collective voices drowned in the cradle of the valley and seemed to unite with the rising tides of the mighty river. As the sun gradually stretched its rays and moved further west, the marketplace bustled with activity. Silence was a rarity here.

But everything was hopelessly different this morning. While the sun showered its earliest rays, the greenish tinge of the shrubs and plantations that greeted one on the entrance of the orphanage could not be perceived. The two storied building that stood facing the sun had disappeared completely. As the golden rays fell brightly, the scene was heartbreaking. Grayness had descended all around and the only perceivable objects were huge boulders and piles of debris. Stillness seemed to have choked the valley and before the social workers arrived, the only thing audible was the resonance of the river water flowing ferociously.

A strong earthquake the previous night had shattered the village and reduced all its edifices and structures to bits and pieces. Life seemed to have breathed its last here.

Safia couldn’t open her eyelids. Her eyes viewed the surrounding in monochromes. Her body refused to respond to the reflexes and for a moment she felt that her limbs had lost all sensation. First, she desperately tried to cling on to the little scraps of cloth that remained of her tattered skirt. It exposed her feet but she could do little to cover up. Most of it was gone and what remained was blood spattered. She still held on to the clothing and attempted to sit. She failed. Blood oozed out of her cheeks but she felt no pain. Numbed by the amount of loss and disaster that she witnessed before her eyes, tears trickled down silently.

But Safia wanted to celebrate. She was free. Free from the caged and scheduled life in the orphanage that forced her to deny her simple pleasures. She resented every bit of this confined existence. She hated the daily chores, the math’s book petrified her and she trembled with horror as she remembered the countless nights she had spent dreaming and chanting those algebraic equations and geometric theorems. For this young 15year old, life breathed little in this restrained existence dictated by the teacher. The only desire she had was to be free, and here was the golden chance.

For a moment she paused, thinking of her only friend Nelly. Countless body parts were strewn here and there and she instantly poured her bruised face within her palms, her fragile fingers shivering in shock. “She hasn’t survived for sure!” mumbled Safia as rubbed her eyes and fought off the tears that would follow. She remembered the instant when Nelly had cried out one last time and stretched out her hand to hold on to her. Within seconds, Safia had seen her vanish as the garden wall collapsed following the massive jerk of the earthquake. Then she lost her consciousness.

Nelly was the only person she had ever cared for in her entire life and now that she was probably no more, Safia felt a violent urge to flee the place.

The blue sky glimpsed behind the arched gateway that served as the entrance to the village. It was blue, peacefully blue and cloudless, as if oblivious to the amount of misery and terror the area had witnessed the previous night. The gateway had been partially demolished and only a part of it remained erect, though there was too much devastation around to notice its survival. Safia managed to sit up and turned around. Scores of people were running around at a distance. Stretchers carried some lucky ones who survived the tremors to makeshift medical centers set up on the central part of the village, where cultural programs were held every weekend organized by the children of the orphanage. Safia seemed to feel the rhythmic beats of the music as the children danced in colorful attires, the villagers surrounding the temporary stage. Visions of young children in reds and greens, yellows and pinks, purples and magentas flooded her vision.

“Hello…hello there…..can you hear me?? Turn to your left. This way, this way girl.” A voice seemed to echo from a distance.

Safia failed to turn around. A terrible pain shot up and shook her entire being the moment she attempted to move again. With much effort, she singled out her right hand and waved it upwards. Then she collapsed.

(2)

It was around eight every evening that the teacher set out in the courtyard to sound the dinner bell. However, the sound of his footsteps alerted the children who gathered in the dining hall even before the sound of the gong sent quivers through the heart of the village. It also symbolized the end of socialization for the villagers who till late evening sat on the village square and discussed their mundane activities. The children ate in pin drop silence under the strict supervision of the teacher. Nelly and Safia were the elder girls and they ate last.

Nelly was particularly attached to one young boy Feroz. An attractive kid with striking blue eyes, Nelly always mothered him affectionately.

“Feroz, here is your shirt. Now where are you going…stop running around…you will hit the table…what if the vase falls? You won’t be getting any food then…”

Feroz was one of the naughtiest kids around, but with Nelly he was unusually obedient. He adored her, followed her almost everywhere and refused to wake up without Nelly. He held on to her, beat her when she refused to give in to his unnecessary demands. When the initial tremors shook the valley that fateful night, Nelly had just put Feroz to sleep and along with Safia she was preparing her own bed. Safia had just stepped out in the courtyard to collect the mat when suddenly everything started moving about her and within a fraction of seconds the house began crumbling down in front of her eyes. Safia ran out of the courtyard in the middle of the street and then everything around was reduced to nothingness.

“It is his shirt….Feroz…it is his hands…pull him out…pull him out…”

She opened her eyes with much effort. The eyelids were heavy, her nose and cheeks were bruised and she couldn’t move her lips. A deep cut run by her left cheek cutting through by the side of her lips. She tried to lift her hand and remove the disheveled hair strands that fell upon her forehead but the attempt proved fruitless. Rafiq, the fruit seller lay on the opposite bed, his entire body seemed to be wrapped in white strips of bandages. Safia mumbled an exclamatory note.

“No dear. Do not move. You have a fractured limb my dear.” Somebody answered from behind. A pleasant looking woman turned around and held her. “You should not move much. You need a lot of rest. Don’t worry things are just going to be fine.” She turned again and poured some water in a narrow metal glass. “Have this…wait let me help you.”

Safia had never seen her mother. The mother who symbolized compassion, peace, protection and joy was unknown to her. She felt a sudden urge to take refuge within the arms of this social worker as she embraced Safia in her bid to help her drink the water. A beautiful odor filled her senses and Safia looked up into the hazel eyes that stared down at her.

“You need not worry. I am here with you. By the way, I am Sarah and you are?” she took a stool and sat down beside Safia’s bed and continued to gaze at her.

Safia mumbled “I am Safia. I stayed in the orphanage and….”

“Fine…fine that’s it. Don’t try to speak if it hurts. We will talk later.”

Sarah helped her lie down and pulled over the blanket. “You are on a lot of medicines. You need sleep. Don’t worry am around. Just try and sleep…okay?” Sarah grinned at her and the moment her lips extended to form a smile, a glint appeared in those hazel eyes. Safia once again curbed an irresistible desire that drew her towards Sarah.

“Sarah I want to be free. Will you help me? Will you give me a new life?” the words gradually evaporated unheard as Safia drooled into the arms of sleep.

(3)

The gentle breeze blew through the tent and a small unruly piece of cloth flew over from Sarah’s desk and landed over Safia’s face. It has been over ten days and now she could move her hands though in a careful and slow motion. Her limbs still pained and she couldn’t walk properly because of a twisted ankle, but nevertheless she was living. She emerged from the bed. A few steps forward, Safia noticed a broken frame lying on the floor.

She stared at the wounded frame and the picture. There were innumerable scratch marks all over the photograph but it was difficult to ignore the broad eyebrows that concealed Father Harris’s bright eyes. Her fragile fingers ran over the photograph pushing aside broken pieces of glass as her mind hovered through old memories. Moments of solitude when she and Nelly stood holding hands before this photo, hanging from the drawing room wall and promised to fulfill dreams galore that Father Harris might have envisioned before dying an untimely death. He was Nelly’s father and for Safia he was the only man she ever worshipped. He was her guardian angel.

“You will hurt yourself if you run your fingers through those sharp pieces of glass. Come on. Give it to me.” The frame slipped from her hands. A gentleman in baggy trousers and a worn-out shirt looked at her. For a moment Safia felt numb with fear. He had blood shot eyes, scary and terrifying. He reminded her of Karim, the cobbler in their village who too had frightening eyes.

“I …I was only trying to…” Safia whispered.

“Get back to bed.” He ordered and left.

(4)

Safia walked past the riverside among heaps of boulders of varying shapes and sizes. She looked at the bright green magnificence displayed by the natural surroundings. The dense evergreen trees on the adjacent mountains stood static, mirroring themselves in the spontaneous flow of the coarse stream. She soon found a desolate corner and placed herself comfortably on a huge boulder. Her feet immersed in the flowing water, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She smiled. It’s been long since she had smiled a full hearted smile but her happiness knew no bounds. She was overjoyed. Her long awaited freedom was near. She turned around and looked at the dusty roads that lead out of the village through the arched gateway and directed to the city. She poured some river water within her palms and splashed it across her face. The cold water soothed her skin as she reclined on a pile of boulders that lay behind her. Her eyes closed automatically and glimpses of the past shaped before her eyes.

On one occasion, Nelly and Safia had accompanied the teacher for a stroll by the riverside. Exotic wild flowers, white and red grew by the side of the turbulent river.

These beautiful white flowers had fascinated the young girls and caught their fancy.

“These are so wonderful Safia. Just like you, they are so pure.” Nelly whispered.

“Are they? Wonder what they are called?” Safia replied with a smile. Nelly responded in the negative.

Nelly had then plucked one of the flowers and put them within Safia’s outstretched palm.
“This is for you. The symbol of our friendship. The symbol of our bond.” Safia had kept the flower secured within the pages of her literature book. Now the flower was gone forever. Tears streamed down her eyes as she remembered Nelly’s heart warming smile and for a moment she had an instant desire to scream. She didn’t.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains and dusk set in. innumerable stars burst together in the evening sky and they all seemed to celebrate her joy. Safia gazed at the galaxy of stars that twinkled in the darkness that expanded above her and closed her eyes. Peace and tranquility engulfed her as she breathed in the familiar air one last time. Tomorrow she would be gone, embracing a new life, the life that she had cherished and dreamt for long.

A sudden sensation surprised her. She looked around. Nothing was apparently visible. There was darkness all around and sounds could be heard at a distance. Safia descended from the boulder. “It’s late. I must go back. Sarah will be worried.”

Someone grabbed her from behind. Stunned she turned back but she was hit across her face. Her lips tasted blood and she tried to raise herself from the ground. But she couldn’t. A strong force exerted in full capacity over her and for a moment she shuddered as she saw the familiar blood shot eyes. Then her cries fell silent against the deafening sound produced by the turbulent river current.

(5)

The crimson gleams of the rising sun slowly showered on the river valley. The river water displayed exotic shades of blues and greens but in muted tones. A gentle breeze blew serenading an elegy to the dense foliage around. By the side of the stream, the white waves brushed against a palette of scarlet color. The pallid petals of the wild flowers were stained and drooped motionless. The mourning song of nature submerged the entire valley.

* Safia means ‘chaste’

She has much more inside than you can ever imagine. She carries a baggage of painful secrets behind those beautiful, button-eyes. She waits for you to say something after she pours her heart out to you without saying a word, but you turn your back towards her and sleep. She knows you never hear her. If only you look long enough, you will see a glimpse of that baggage but don’t you have that game – played by men who go back to those beautiful eyes after pilfering you from yours – on tonight which signifies nothing? Mind you, this insignificant game will still go on. It will still go on when you are on your death bed, looking into those beautiful eyes, showing more than just a glimpse of that baggage, while you will silently wish you had noticed them sooner, swam in them earlier when they weren’t this deep, when they were still inviting you in.

Oh, little one, she sees the world in you. She fed you without knowing you. She gave you home beneath her skin. When you were ready she let you out and revealed you to the world but from her soul… never. She has passed all her unfulfilled dreams on to you. Those dreams are the ones she gave up for the sake of yours. So, won’t you give her that loving look after you come home a learned man? Won’t you just come back and smile at her as she anxiously waits for you to return to your well-protected shell she has built but you just swing away in artificial jubilation which signifies nothing? She will be there when you hold the hand of your perceived replica of her, praying for you with every lonely breath she breathes. She will watch you take all the steps you think will make you reach your happiness. But won’t you even ask her to disappear along with you when you do?

Oh, but she’s a believer. She believes it’s there. It is somewhere. In the morning, she still surrenders her soul to divinity. But now she holds her breath till the birds chirp. She keeps her eyes on the empty road. She wishes, she waits, she hopes… She moves her lips in a way that makes you believe she’s happy. She has watched all of you for far too long to know what will make you believe. She still hums but a different tune today. It is difficult for her to keep her eyes open, for they are too heavy now. She wants to come clean, she wants you to take a moment out of the life she gave up hers for and just dive into her button-eyes, or just say that you want to, and she wants you to listen today. She always hears your cries and responds. Today, she wants to vomit all the secrets, the words, the tears, the suppressed emotions, all of it, out. Just ask her to. Why didn’t any of you ever ask her to? But she won’t. She can’t.

She’s a woman. She has to endure all… in silence.

When I think back about 3 or 4 years ago, I remember a colleague of mine that used to work with me at the time. She was quite a character. I remember how we used to indulge in many various topics of discussion while at work that included Islamic discussions and what we should do or should not do in accordance with the Qur’aan and Sunnah. Now because she was very opinionated, it was never so easy to converse with her or easy to convince her. We would often end up in an argument or disagreement and at times just laugh if off and move forward.
It was often that she used to complain about how her husband was a taxi driver and he would have to work all sorts of crazy hours in the day and in the night to make ends meet and how things were getting very complicated for her to continue to work especially when there was no one to watch over her little children. I used to tell her to quit and spend more and more time at home with the kids so that they could get the undivided attention that they always longed for and deserved. I always told her that it was her fault for neglecting them and being selfish especially if this second income of hers was not necessary to be made at this point. I was sure that one day she would realize what she was doing and just quit her job for the time being, just until the kids got enrolled in school full-time and then to reconsider the working industry if it was absolutely necessary at the time.

I recall one day she came to work and was practically in tears while speaking to me and I couldn’t help but ask what had happened. She said that her husband had been ignoring her for the past few months and last night he started raising his voice with her for no apparent reason saying that she was irresponsible, disrespectful and unorganized. He also continued to tell her that even the secretary at his workplace was looking so professional and sharp with her makeup and all. Today, she was wearing a nice jacket and skirt outfit with long black heels and on the other hand just look at what I had to come home to after such a long, tiring day. Why did you have to wear the same outfit with dried up baby cereal stuck to it the entire day. You didn’t even change your clothes, shower or put any makeup on your face. That is such a turn off for me “, he explained.

Then we talked about this entire situation and I had been completely honest with her and told her that even in Islam it was imperative that we took care of ourselves and our health on a daily basis. I even told her that in Islam, we were obligated to look decent and presentable to our husbands even if she wore hijab it still did not matter. I explained to her as well that if she continued this way, the arguments and disputes would not come to a halt and she and her husband would always be at each others’ throats for no real reasons at all. So one day I had advised her once and for all that she should start applying some makeup, brush up her hair and wear some nice looking clothes before he would come back home at the end of the day, everyday.

At first it did not seem that she liked what I was telling her, however when I did explain the reasons why she needed to do all this for him, she finally realized. I did also forewarn her that if she did not change anytime soon then he would lose interest in her and would sidetrack very easily. Finally she decided to take my advice seriously. I started to see a pleasant change in her day by day and it was rather nice. Her face began to glow and she even admitted that she needed to spend more time at home with her family now and that work was just getting in the way and causing too much stress for her and her loved ones.

Then, after about 2 weeks had lapsed, she approached me in the office with this big smile on her face and while looking straight at me she said ” Rafia, I want to thank you so much for all the advice that you had given me a few weeks ago regarding my overall appearance. I went home and realized that you were right and I had to change and had to change fast otherwise I may have lost my husband for good”. She said that everything you said really worked and I feel so good not only on the outside but on the inside just as well. At this moment I was extremely overjoyed and thanked God for allowing me the opportunity to help someone out for the better. This feeling was truly rewarding and it certainly made my day.

So just a message for all of you out there and that is no matter what the circumstances may be, try your best to always look your best. It doesn’t have to be that one has to dress well or wear make-up only when leaving your home. You can still dress well and look sharp for yourself and or your family at home. I assure you that by doing this regularly you will begin to feel very confident and good about yourself and it will show.
And last but not least, always wear a big, bright smile on your face as those are contagious.

Over the last hundred years, Western societies have seen a change in attitude, with emancipation and empowerment of women bringing about a major revolution in their status. Unfortunately, Eastern societies by and large still remain mired in centuries-old traditions strongly emphasizing stereotyping of gender roles. However, despite widespread gender-bias in these societies, women are surprisingly resilient and competitive. Four major Eastern nations, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Indonesia and Turkey, comprising at least half the world’s Muslim population, have had women Prime Ministers. Pakistan has also recently elected a woman as Speaker of the National Assembly.

Conversely, when we look at the wider picture, the status of women presents a dismal picture. They are encouraged to be submissive, dependent and subordinate with the majority having little or no control over any kind of economic or political decision-making, as well as in everyday issues like marriage, number of children, dress code, access to basic health facilities and career aspirations. Men, on the other hand, enjoy a privileged existence. A male child has priority over his female sibling in access to food, education and health. Not surprisingly, the percentage of males outnumbers that of females in Pakistan as is evident in a report of The Demographic and Health Survey of Pakistan – a trend opposed to that prevalent in the rest of the world. One of the important causes of this discrepancy is high mortality rate in childbearing young women. This mortality rate for women is estimated to be twice as much as that of men of the same age-group.

A major obstacle in the way to empowerment of women is gender bias leading to economic dependence. The UN Gender Empowerment Measure (GEM) has ranked Pakistan as 100th among 185 of its registered countries. Social constraints prevent many capable women from pursuing active careers and achieving economic independence. According to Government of Pakistan figures, the percentage of working women in Pakistan is only 14% – a dismal picture for the future of a country that badly needs as many working hands as possible in order to not only improve its standing among the developing nations but, actually, to survive.

The predicament of the lower class woman is understandably worse than that of the middle or upper class female, though both suffer due to unjust social practices. They are battling domestic violence, Karo-Kari, marriage to the Quran, Swara, Wani, Honour killings and much more, besides other less severe forms of discrimination from close family members. Due to economic pressures, female employment is much higher among low-income groups than in the middle or upper class. Unfortunately, these workingwomen do not benefit from their hard work, as they are not independent decision-makers in the use of their earnings.

For the middle and upper-middle class female, social pressures appear to dictate career choices. Medicine and teaching appear to be the most sought after fields, albeit per force. Though both provide excellent career opportunities for women having an aptitude for these professions, many enter these fields for lack of other available options. As a result, they experience little or no job satisfaction and are unable to contribute productively. Only a small percentage of women defy tradition and venture into male-dominated fields, risking the wrath of their own family as well as censure from society. These women have to struggle hard to secure their rights in the workplace. The attitude of male colleagues is often discouraging, as they become wary of competition from those widely acknowledged inferior. Women who aspire for higher management positions meet stiff resistance; while for those who manage to climb the corporate ladder despite all odds, success is attributed to unjustified means, not competence.

Recently however, a change has been observed with women – though still a minority – competing and succeeding in diverse technical fields joining private organizations and getting noticed for their silent contribution to the dwindling economy. They are also making a mark in the political arena with a record number of representation as women legislators in the political decision-making bodies, traditionally considered male-dominated power houses.

One encouraging factor for women in Pakistan, resulting in an increase in participation in non-traditional fields is the burgeoning of the NGO sector over the last few years. It has provided a wide range of job opportunities to women with good salary packages. The ‘glass-ceiling effect’ felt and resented by a large number of women working in many of the government and private organizations, in which the power hierarchy does not allow women to go beyond a certain level despite fulfilling all the pre-requisites, has been challenged by these NGOs who offer jobs on the basis of qualifications. They install women as programme coordinators and send them out in the field to prove their worth, rather than settling for locally-accepted select set of positions. In this regard, the foreign donors having humanitarian, or female-friendly, agendas are playing an important role.

In the Pakistan Armed forces, there has been a change in policy towards empowerment of women, as is obvious from the induction of female cadets in the Air Force as fighter pilots. In the Army, besides the already established positions of females working as doctors and nurses in the Army Medical Corps, other corps are now allowing induction of females in field jobs. The Pakistan Navy has also inducted female cadets. The Pakistan Armed Forces are generally considered female-friendly organizations and their command structure caters to the social needs of female officers who are not posted to what are known as ‘hard-areas’ to avoid social problems. Female medical officers who happen to be spouses of Army officers are only posted to stations that will accommodate both officers. However, the trend in society of bias towards female colleagues extends itself here too and, sometimes senior male colleagues are observed dealing with their female subordinates with undue harshness. Credit for a job well done is many a time not generously given, while male colleagues attribute even genuine appreciation from superiors to mere indulgence.

Despite all odds, Pakistani women have come a long way in the last sixty years and will continue to move forward in order to secure the rights denied to them by an intolerant and biased society but promised by the Constitution of the country, as well as the religion it claims to represent. The winds of change are blowing on the horizon and it might be wise for all concerned to make way for the emancipated, motivated and self-aware woman of today.

This article was first published in SouthAsia magazine; this is an edited version.

I was sitting with my grandmother having a chit chat, when I found a “Paayal” somewhere around the couch. I started wondering to whom it belonged as no one that I knew wore it. My grandmother took it from me and looked at it. It was like a magic payal or something as it brought that smile of content and memories on her face. Without my asking, and without even her noticing I believe, she started telling me about the first payal she ever had, long time back; more than sixty years back that is.
She kept telling me about all the jewelry she ever had; before marriage and after; the necklaces, bracelets, rings, bangles and Paayals and all other types that I had never even heard of. All that time as she told me about her ornaments, she had that beautiful expression on her face, one with a lot of passionate memories. She remembered all pieces of jewelry she ever owned and that’s what hit me.

It’s not just some gold molded into different shapes, its something that portrays you, your image as a person, it makes you feel strong in some mysterious meanings of the word; it means more than just jewelry. There are memories of people and occasions attached to them and that’s what makes them priceless.

I don’t think I will ever question gold’s importance for a woman again.

Her feet had long forgotten the soft feel of a pair of comfortable shoes or even remotely fashionable sandals; her only comfort was that wooden plateau that would bend a fraction to take the load off her heavy feet. It had been 9 years now working in the city of concrete, carrying the baskets of bricks, sand and helplessness.

Everyday, after a long day’s hard work and on her way home, she would sit in a broken seat of a bus thronged with porters and masons who smelled the smell of their burnt out hearts, she would think of quitting it all. “Today I go back home and never come back; this is all too much for me. My daughter is growing into a woman now, she will be 14 in a few months; I need to spend more time with her.”

The next morning, a rotten drowsy voice would wake her up, “Hurry up you lazy soul, we don’t want to miss the bus; I don’t want to pay for the rickshaw, its too damn expensive. This cursed Government of ours is good for nothing; and so are you, you lazy woman, wake up; I need breakfast.”

That day was more painful. A nail was hiding with a purpose under the thin surface of a sand floor and penetrated into her left foot as soon as she stepped on it. There was no time for treatment; she put some mud on her wound, laughing in her heart as she thought of a day before her wedding when her future husband sang her a song promising her he would spread petals under her feet; she kept working. Each time her left foot touched the harsh surface of the wood, a tear and a smile would battle their way into her eyes; but she would hurriedly lift her foot again to minimize the load.

“This is it, I am not coming to work from tomorrow, I am tired, cant you see?” during the lunch break she finally gathered enough courage to say it to her husband; who, lost in his own thoughts, agreed to her idea. She was surprised, but only for a while; a comfortable lightness eased her shoulders and she started smiling.

Sitting in the bus she kept thinking about the freedom that would be dawning tomorrow morning. She smelled no burning heart anymore. At night she spent good time with her daughter and son and in the late hours went to bed.

She was about to fall into the land of intoxication when a thought struck her mind like thunder; “My daughter will be 14 in two months, and in two years she will be of age to get married. A wedding has its asking.”

It was work tomorrow.