Friday, January 23, 2015

Child Bride 1916 - part one

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...


Wednesday, January 7, 2015


Nostalgia to me is sweet memories, all the good that has happened in years past. It is common knowledge, a variety of experiences exist.  But when looking back I see my past through a haze, as if a translucent cloth through which only the bright spots penetrate.  I see streaming from this misty veil the glimmering light of memories past and twinkles of sweet delights. Hidden in shadows all the dark moments remain, my memories will not awaken them.

With each passing year the haze becomes foggier. The spark of light begins to dim. I light lamps, ignite energies to keep the beautiful, fond memories intact. The exertion is long and hard, a great strain on my soul, but the endeavor is rewarding. Sweet memories past is all that continue to remain with me, as if each and every piece were real.

And this is how I choose to remember!