Jeevani was alone. Her small, twelve year old body sat in her
bridal corner, shedding silent tears under a long veil. She whimpered, “Amma… Bauji…” as her body shook
against the rocking motion of the noisy train.
A buzz of festivity surrounded her.
Women, old and young of the wedding party, sat huddled on seats or
luggage, their bodies swaying in rhythm.
Their voices rose in unison above the train’s whistle with lyrics of
traditional folk songs. Beats from the duphlie drummed as the sole
accompaniment to the singing.
Under the veil, tears strolled down
Jeevani’s cheeks. Behind closed eyelids,
she saw Amma at the doorstep, anguish
clearly painted on her face. She pictured Bauji
as he stood without expression, his entire body leaning against the
door for support. This last image of her
parents was what Jeevani carried with her for the journey to her new home in
Quetta. Between sobs she inhaled the
clean and fresh desert air wafting in from the open windows. Sensing a hint of an aromatic breeze she
looked out into the wild landscape catching glimpses of red and yellow
tulips. Leaning back in her seat, she
sighed as the train chugged up to the plateau. Her home in the flat, fertile land of
Khushaab was trailing behind. The train snaked through rough
terrain toward the three craggy mountains that loomed over the rugged city of
Quetta. All the mountains formed a ring
around it, like a Kuwatta protecting
the valley city as a fort.
Jeevani wondered what this new home would
be like for her.
to be continued...
