Corridors of Transmutation
Preface
Corridors of Transmutation
Through
Tears of Jasmine
By
Huma Kirmani
This novel is not only a written treasure , rather my passionate dream , a reality after immense weary fears of being incapable to be a writer . Its my long awaited wish which is being turn out as, ‘Tears of Jasmine.’
I dedicate this book to my father M. Farooq Adil and to my three children ; Mizghan Kirmani , Faras Kirmani , and Nousherwan Kirmani .
Chapter One
The sky was as pinkish purple as I heard from my
Grandmother that this color of sky exhibited a lover’s
Broken heart ; I broke out in a great laughter , grandmother’s words seemed dotish to my young stream of thoughts , as I pretty nescient about the pain behind her abstract school of thought . I remembered grandmother’s wrinkled face , her despondent old , weak eyes which were fully brimmed with clear tears . I felt atrabilious features of her past but could not ask any question to the tenacious lady in my family ; she was thought to be the cure , remedy of every serious problem in the family ; there was a pause ,a silence which was broken by my younger brother , Jaffar who was calling me to find his catapult , as he always believed firmly that whatever was being lost in his treasury , I would have either stolen or hid it somewhere ; I really did not want to leave grandmother who seemed as lost in her thoughts, gazed the horizon ; the sun was setting in the west yonder ; though Jaffar was younger than me but not being attentive to him , was taken as a sin in the family .
Its been a long time , air may not remember that silence of grandmother but medulla always ran my adrenaline , whenever I was heaped around with the eternal silence of feminism ; oh ! the loudest noise , wasn’t it ? But in the profound hush , stifled by stream of tears . My grandmother died out long before her physical exit and the traumatic saga of buried alive going on around as from generation to generation , I read in history about a Hindu ritual , ‘Sutti ,’ in Hinduism defines to burn the widow alive if her husband is being expired ; but my family had Muslim background ; then why did I witness immense graves of live women around ; the enigma yet not ceased rather cryptic .
Chapter Two The sun was rising in the east , birds were chirping in the hope of a new flight ; new blossoms being bathed by the delicate kiss of dew ,began to bloom around the long twigs ; an enchanting magic of flowing river which smooth waves were in rhythm of beauty of Nature . God was engaged in sketching and painting the world to begin a new day ; amongst all this creativity, there were tremors of poverty stricken hearts who slept famished in the night , though not expecting a rich meal , rather insufficient grains of boiled rice or dried pieces of left over ‘Roti ,’ as to entertain their thin bellies . Oh!What a contrast , along with the rich beauty of Nature , the most respected creatures’orb never be able to cherish the dispersed beauty as hunger weakened their sense of ecstasy .
There were huts of fishermen where the dried wooden blocks were ignited to make fire ; it was pretty cold as heavy rains poured out in the month of December ; smoke arose as wives began to cook , one could observe few hens who were blessed to be out of their pen to catch worms ; it was a cold morning but might be poverty never let them feel the harsh weather , as one may witness giggles of bare feet children whose skins were cracked out of dryness and malnutrition . In a while , streets would be echoed with discussions of entire vicinity of fishermen , who were mainly concerned with tricky , somber weather as there was a hint of rain in air .
Islamuddin was also a fisherman who died a fortnight ago , leaving four daughters and two boys behind ; his widow Rozina who worked in a bungalow, to ran the mill ; she was a lean , lanky woman whose elder daughter , Rehana looked after her siblings in her mother’s absence . Rozina did not want her daughter to work outside , as she was looking a good matrimonial for her daughter .
Fate sometimes acts as a cruel ruler ; Rozina lived in a small village of Bangladesh where she may never had expected that Rehana’s destiny was far flung , might be across the borders , but right there she was dreaming a happy married life for her beloved daughter .
My orb deceived ruthlessly
Hath by ma reckless dreams ………………
interesting
Chapter Three
Life rolled on as a sailing ship which always endured surging of waves ; unfortunately it was the last eve of grandmother , whom I left gazing over the horizon; I often wondered what was she trying to say or what was supposed to be bubbled out of her heart , as when I returned to ask her , she was not there ; her long gaze ended up . Her fragile body was lying motionless , beautiful hazel eyes were closed ,
“Madre Buzarg , I am here ,can you please explain me ; how can be color of sky seems as a broken heart?”
There was no reply but a hush of eternity ; her soul flew to earn immortality rather morality which she had but never being accepted as a respectable gender ; as after all my grandmother was a woman ; though considered as the queen of the home who had never been given rights to be accepted as a human . I wouldn’t absolve Jaffar , whose untimely call , missed my chance to know the pain of her life .
A day , I asked my mother a question ,
“Moore , did grandmother love her husband ?”
My mother’s eyes widened up to their extent ,
“ Absolutely , every woman has to ; what nonsense you are asking about Mahar .”
I could feel the undefined fears in her voice , her lips trembled , she rolled her tongue on her dried lips ,
“A husband is like a god and a wife should obey him.”
“You mean not love him Moore , right ?”
My question was like a sling ; mother’s anguish reflected on her face ,
“Love is to obey you husband , that’s it Mahar ; I am quite upset for your elder brother , Zarak and your irrelevant questions ; please be quiet and see what Zarghona is doing outside ?”
I aimlessly came outside where my five year old sister was playing with her friend ; I sat on a big piece of rock and felt as my entire family had hard hearts like that piece of rock . It seemed that my family forgot to smile ; Moore’s forehead had lines of worries ; I knew war was going on . Our village was near Qandahar where our minds were bogged down by detrimental consequences of civil war between pro-Soviet series of radical modernization reforms and traditional Muslim Afghans . I did not understand the gloom of that passing evening , as twilight dispersed , Zarghona and I were called by Moore .
Jaffar seemed annoyed and I heard his murmurs clearly ; Moore served him supper but out of annoyance , he refused to eat .
“Jaffar , why don’t you understand ? If you would also accompany your father and brother , then who will look after us and you are too young for that ,” Moore tried to pat his fiery emotions , “ please , have your meal , you haven’t eaten anything since early morning .”
But my brother did not entertain my Mother’s plea and left the room . It was December and chilly winds were piercing our bodies but Jaffar’s heart was like inferno ; Ah! The eve was shifted into dark night , I felt snow which began to pour down outside ; my heart cried at sight of Moore’s misery .
“Will she be like grandmother ; gazing steadily and personify pinkish purple horizon as a broken heart .”
This thought scared me and instantly I jumped on my toes and reached to my mother’s site as her head was bowed . I knew she was crying ; I touched her pink cheeks where hot tears were rolling down .
“Moore , lets have our meal , Zarghona must be hungry .”
she didn’t say a word but joined us . We three had our meal , I knew Moore did not eat properly ; Zargona was half asleep , I took her to bed and wrapped blanket around that delicate angel who was not knowing what was going around .
I came back to kitchen and there was a flashback of that silence ; profound , painful silence of grandmother .
“Moore , May I prepare tea for you ? It is so cold tonight .”
My heart was pounding down , oh God ! please spare my Moore ; Jaffar and Zarghona need her , please God ; my pleas were granted as she became a bit normal .
“Mahar , please come and sit beside me .”
“May I prepare tea first ?”
“No , there is something more important than tea tonight ; come and listen to me carefully .”
Her tone was alarming and it made my fright as a monster as ready to gulped me down ; mother seemed as searching my help to overcome her fears.
“Mahar , I trust you as daughters are sensible and strong ; our country is invaded by enemy , all of us have to be brave and courageous ,” She paused and sighed ,
“Zarak and your Baba left for Jehad as Mujahideen.”
“Where and why didn’t you stop them ; we are left all alone ,” my fears began to gnaw me like beast and the fright was dancing around me .
“They can’t be Mahar , they have to leave , but what should I do to make Jaffar understand that he is too young to be a Mujahid .”
Tiny hands of Jaffar couldn’t carry any gun , I knew it ; my little brother who played with catapult , then began to ask for a gun .
Oh! War I hate you .
That was the first night when Baba wasn’t home ; shadows of dismay followed me till I fell asleep , but before that my faculties were pretty engaged in recalling misery of Moore , as she had been worried for Lala Zarak and I got the answer of my query regarding long , steady gaze of my late grandmother .
The next morning , I felt so lethargic and couldn’t get up from my bed ; thinking about Lala and Baba as where they could be and began to pray for their safety . Moore entered , she looked as she passed ten years ahead of her age ; all broken and shattered.
“Jaffar is nowhere ,” she announced
I jumped out of my bed and rushed towards the exit to search him outside .
“Mahar ,please stopped ; Jaffar left us , I have been searching him since Fajar Prayers and now its mid day ,” Moore was broken into hysteric cries , sobs.
Zarghoona was awake by mother’s heart rending cries ; looking at mother , not knowing what had happened to our happy family rather merry land of Afghanistan.
I remembered that how Soviet troops occupied the cities,main axis of communication and used their air power to deal ravenously with Mujahideen ; damaging , spoiling vital irrigation ditches and land mines .
We were not safe in our own homeland ; there was no news of my Baba and brothers ; Zarghoona aws not allowed to play outside , Moore became dead quiet ; Oh God ! Please spare her life for us , mostly she remained busy in offering her prayers and recitation of the Holy Quran . I used to cook and looked after my sister , who also became silent . That ugly silence except sounds of Soviet aircrafts or devilish gunfires around .
A night I dreamt that a young lady who was clad in a beautiful attire ;who smelled so nice ,embraced me ; kissed my forehead and said,
“Pinkish purple shade does come in life but remember Mahar , then the Moon and stars shine the darkness and above all the Sun always rises , no matter how long and dark the night is ,”
I woke up , oh ! she was my grandmother who was looking so fabulous in that dress ; I could feel her fragrance around . It was a promising dream in horrendous reality of life as a nightmare.
War is a stealer
War is like a wind
Makes my possessions
As to be swept away…………..