The truck trudged along a worn down path that led to Lahore. It carried seven men, three women and a child. The child was with his father - having lost everyone else that shared his blood. One of the old men, blind from one eye, was looking out of the truck's behind. He was one of those who had lived through all of it, and been there much before it started happening, to see how it had begun. He had lost all his children and grandchildren to them, his wife had died after giving birth to his youngest son. His mouth was moving but no sound was coming out of them.
The child was crying. His father had a stern look on his face. He had been in the midst of it all, working as a doctor for the old regime. The number of deaths he had seen in his lifetime were less than the number he had seen in the last three days. He wanted to escape it all, leave behind all the memories. They were too bitter to stay even in the recesses of his mind. But most of all, he wanted the dreams to stop. They visited him in his dreams, the faces of some of those had seen lose their lives on his beds. They never said anything, at least he didn't hear any words. They just stared. He could never stare back. Every morning, his own bed was wet with the fear and guilt of seeing those faces.
He noticed his child's crying was becoming more incessant; he wasn't just sobbing anymore. He put an arm around him, not knowing how to console him. He muttered a few words of consolation and put his stare back on the tarpaulin above the woman sitting opposite him. She had tears in her eyes too, but he didn't notice.
After a few more minutes, the child finally stopped crying. He was tugging at the shirt of his father. Three tugs and his father took notice.
"I want to go home, abba"
"That's where we're going, son. To our home in Lahore. Remember I took you there last year and you met your cousin, Rashid?"
"Not that home abba. I want to go to our old home. I don't want to go to our new home."
"I want to go to old home too child, but we can't. You must understand this. It's taken by bad men. If we go back, those men will harm us. That is why we're going to Lahore. Do you understand?"
The child started sobbing again. The woman sitting opposite his father smiled and motioned for the child to come to her. The child, still sobbing, went to her hoping she'd take her back to his old home, or at least make his father understand why they needed to go back.
"What is your name, son?" she asked.
"Mohammed"
"Hello Mohammed. My name is Sania. I don't know anybody in Lahore, but I'm going there because I'm sure I'll be safer there than I was in Amritsar. Didn't your father tell you that?"
"Yes khala, but.."
"Your father cares about you Mohammed. All he wants is for you to be safe."
The tears had stopped flowing.
"Since I don't know anybody there, you'll be the first person I know. Will you be my friend Mohammed?"
"Yes I will!"
He was beaming.
The child was crying. His father had a stern look on his face. He had been in the midst of it all, working as a doctor for the old regime. The number of deaths he had seen in his lifetime were less than the number he had seen in the last three days. He wanted to escape it all, leave behind all the memories. They were too bitter to stay even in the recesses of his mind. But most of all, he wanted the dreams to stop. They visited him in his dreams, the faces of some of those had seen lose their lives on his beds. They never said anything, at least he didn't hear any words. They just stared. He could never stare back. Every morning, his own bed was wet with the fear and guilt of seeing those faces.
He noticed his child's crying was becoming more incessant; he wasn't just sobbing anymore. He put an arm around him, not knowing how to console him. He muttered a few words of consolation and put his stare back on the tarpaulin above the woman sitting opposite him. She had tears in her eyes too, but he didn't notice.
After a few more minutes, the child finally stopped crying. He was tugging at the shirt of his father. Three tugs and his father took notice.
"I want to go home, abba"
"That's where we're going, son. To our home in Lahore. Remember I took you there last year and you met your cousin, Rashid?"
"Not that home abba. I want to go to our old home. I don't want to go to our new home."
"I want to go to old home too child, but we can't. You must understand this. It's taken by bad men. If we go back, those men will harm us. That is why we're going to Lahore. Do you understand?"
The child started sobbing again. The woman sitting opposite his father smiled and motioned for the child to come to her. The child, still sobbing, went to her hoping she'd take her back to his old home, or at least make his father understand why they needed to go back.
"What is your name, son?" she asked.
"Mohammed"
"Hello Mohammed. My name is Sania. I don't know anybody in Lahore, but I'm going there because I'm sure I'll be safer there than I was in Amritsar. Didn't your father tell you that?"
"Yes khala, but.."
"Your father cares about you Mohammed. All he wants is for you to be safe."
The tears had stopped flowing.
"Since I don't know anybody there, you'll be the first person I know. Will you be my friend Mohammed?"
"Yes I will!"
He was beaming.
3 comments:
what are you trying to say? i find no meaning in it.
The kid finds solace in the fact that he's made a new friend, so the new world won't be all that alien and difficult to confront now that he has a friend by his side. Although I do agree, it seems abstract.
wow man. sorry i missed it completely.
now i can feel it. its awesome.
you are an awesome writer. are you going to continue this?
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