Line

I stood on a line, not where I wanted to be. Underneath my feet on the sole of my kherriyan there are particles of sand, that's it; that's my worth. My feet are an inch above the ground and six feet under lie all my dreams that I sowed with my fingers painted with henna. I traded all my dreams for the sindur in my hair.

There is an archive in the core of my chest, or a chest? Where all my dark desires and deep secrets lie, veiled by the sacred mangal sutra. It is pumping blood the color of my past, the past I will never forget, the past they will never let me forget. The blood flowing fast and then faster, like my pulse when I see him, he still lives here rent free.

Don't ask me why heart is inside my throat, how everything resides like an immobile lump causing me no physical pain,

but it's weight pulling me closer and closer to the ground, ruining my image.

I feel so low, even my eyes can't meet his anymore, keeping aside the lips.

"This is a matter of our pride,our izzat!"

Beti mil jai khak mai, magar izzat...

I buried my emotions again, deep in my closet. All the skeletons, there is a graveyard in my closet.

In the silence of the midnight, you will hear them rattle and tell you tales that are honest.I am afraid if I let you see my skeletons, my honor will slip away like the childhood garment on my 12th salgirah.

You will grind my bones like chili powder.

And will get high on my faults and secrets that are spicy. Sprinkle them on my wounds and the whole neighborhood will feast on it. Enough gossip to feed the chakki all year long.

Then in a cage, a rough skull. Rusty thoughts and tangled webs of memories are swinging.

"What could be done?"

"This shouldn't be done!"

Another person on my mind, spinning more webs. The rent is high here.

A mop, cleansing the thoughts.

Procuring all flaws.

Disturbing networks.

Strangling me!

I am hanging from the webs yet, I stand on the line. A tug of war, my feet are swaying. My breath flickering like the laltain in verandah.

But, I am stable, physically and mentally, or at least I pretend to be.

The heart doesn't let me go behind and the mind doesn't let me make a move.

So, I stood online, on the line, in line with others, aligning all my thoughts, before I was told to get out of the line or reminded to stay in line.

I wished...

for a miracle to happen,

for a passing by person to sweep in,

for a disappearing cloak,

cause maybe this time,

my luck will leave a stroke.

But...nothing happens.

Submerged in ruins of my self-respect,

I bury the remains of my image,

Dusting the dirt off my shirt and creases off my forehead,

Wiping the 'almost' wet eyes and the sadness of my lips,

I started to build a home again, learning to pull thread through his loose buttons, eating all the pies the dirt baked that day and taunts of my past, served fresh from the oven.

And then a gust of wind blows.

I saw him peddle his cycle in the kachi gali, while I was taking care of my kachay rishtay, long before I rose from the ruins of my past.

When can I say his name, and his name only, not what we have left behind.

Having understood each other, why heed the storm over names such as Raheem and Ram.