It has been days that I heard your voice, and it seems like months that I have seen my messages getting blue ticked. I have been waiting from August 5 for the postman to carry my letters back to your home but unfortunately, hope kills you.
While you wait for me at the red banks of Jhelum and tell stories to your younger brother and play ‘hukus bukus telli wan che kus’ a storm of camouflaged demons come to occupy and finish hope.
How are Faiz and Nani? Haven’t heard them quarreling over sheeni kulfi (a sweet dish) for a while! Keep him safe, the rakshasas (demons) don’t differentiate while they point the muzzle.
Did you go and fetch flowers from the floating market on Eid? Did you visit Abba (father) this year? He always loves the red roses on his white tomb and I remember how you always visited him before your exams. Did the rage of the storm settle before Eid? Did they let you go?
I saw a number from Kashmir flashing on my mobile screen last evening. I almost thought it was you but no one spoke, silence engulfed the room. As if two months weren’t enough! Did you stand in the long queue and try to call me? Did they even let you leave?
I haven’t slept well for a while now. I don’t know what you are going through at this time, but every night I wake up wondering if the light flashing outside my window is a thunderstorm or a gunshot at a distance.
I know if you were there today, you would have told me not to worry and that this shall pass. But more than your words, your voice would have comforted me! The distance of our world was connected by telephone cords and the hope of resistance. They cut the cords and separated us but they can’t break the other. We will fight for hope.
Every night, I lie down beneath the vast ocean of blue monsoon clouds of hope and try to locate the brightest star from the dimly lit sky. I wonder if you do the same. I hope we can talk through the stars, as they witnessed more red than blue in our home.
I hope we can talk soon (only if they keep us alive). Why not? Hope is impregnable.