Going through my papers, I came across a letter post marked Queens NY, Nov 3 ,2003. It was hand written – beautiful hand writing – two pages – written on both sides, no name of the letter writer- full of references and quotes from my stories. It was sent to me by my publisher. The sender had enclosed it, in a separate, sealed envelope, requesting the publisher to send it to me. No, let me say it again.

My publisher called and told me that some one had asked him for my postal address. I asked what was his name? He said he had asked the person but he said his name was not important and that I would know who it was from if the letter was sent to me.  My publisher sounded amused.

What would you like me to do? he asked after a pause.

I told him that if that person called again, tell him to mail the letter to you and then you send it to me. “No matter what he says, don’t give him or anyone else … my address”

Well, what I had thought was; better attend to the matter to appease him and that, if he was some kind of a trouble maker, we would have something in our hands.

” Alright, at least that would make him stop calling me every other day”. My publisher sounded relieved.

I received the letter a few days later. He was right.. I recognized the writing.

I had been receiving letters from him – if my memory is not failing – since 1979. It started when one of the magazines, gave my name and address in their list of contributors for that month. I started getting hoards of letters, all kinds of letters like marriage proposals, immigration, requests for monetary help, help find matches – US citizens – for their sons and daughters. One even from a US jail, someone waiting to be deported. It was then that I wrote all of my publishers never to publish my address ever again. Then we moved and our address changed. No more letters … until that call from the publisher.  Soon after that the magazine went under because of financial problems – story of literary magazines in Urdu language.

I kept this letter for two reasons. One – it was from a very lonely and sad person and, two,  because of its lyrical prose.  The combination of these two,  meaning loneliness and  sad lyrical prose – seemed to have a story in it just waiting for a creative mind to write … or so I thought. Or maybe I kept it because he didn’t sound mentally sound to me and  – God forbid – if need be at any point in life I should have it as a proof of his madness.

Today, I discovered it in my papers and read it . Again I was struck by his loneliness and a sad, flowing river of thoughts. Writing to me was cathartic to him for his pent up emotions, his illusions, his disappointments in life. Its been quite a few years since I received this letter and I think keeping it is not important anymore.

Where ever he is, I hope he has found some peace in his life.

It was raining last night.

The English say “it was raining cats and dogs”

Why cats and dogs? I have never seen any cats or dogs falling from the sky. I only see rain.

But it was raining hard – real hard and accompanying thunder was deafening. I was sitting in our family room, reading Hesse’s Novel, Sidhartha. I like this book. I read it – way back – in 1983.  Recently when I was talking to my sister in Pakistan  she told me she was reading Sidhartha and getting confused. We talked about it and then decided I would read it again and then we would talk about it some more.  So I took out the book and started reading it.  Now I am  26/27 years older and -( ahem )- wiser than when I first read it. That wide eyed wonder has been replaced by a certain … well, lets leave it at that. I was not talking about this book in the first place anyways.

I was reading when I heard the first clap of thunder and then immediately after that it was rain, coming down with such force that I could feel the windows vibrating. I put down the book. Time to listen to the music and go back where time stands still and memories reside.

I love rain. It makes me – sometimes – melancholy. sad and nostalgic. Yes all that and some more and I love the feeling. I remember all those times when I got a few ‘thaprras’ from my mother for playing out in the rain and getting soaking wet. She strongly believed that there were two things that children get playing in the rain. One was head lice and the other was catching cold or some other horrid ailment. Oh well – thhaprra or no thhaprra – but how can one rein in free spirits with short memory spans ?

Then there were rains of Gujrat. Where every monsoon season, our courtyard would fill up with rain water causing a constant worry that if it didn’t stop raining, water would come into the house  and damage everything. Once our servant quarters were totally destroyed because of rains and flooding. I can still hear the dreadful sound of a falling roof. Luckily there was no one in the house. Our house boy and his family had gone to their village to attend some family wedding.

I don’t remember if it ever rained in Sialkot when we were living there. Oh no, wait. It did rain, though just a few big fat drops.  But because of this rain we – my sister and I – were checked out of one school and sent to another which was in the heart of the city’s main commercial area. Why were we taken out of this school is – in a way – quite funny.

One day coming home from school, all of a sudden these huge , fat and heavy drops of rain started falling.  Abdul Wadood, (called “hud hud”by children) our male house help, for outside chores,  holding the two of us by hand ran for shelter. There were a line of houses on the other side of the road. But to reach there one had to cross a sloping distance of a few yards.  Soon as we reached there, someone from the road shouted something. I don’t know what he said but there was horror on hud hud’s face and he again grabbed our hands and ran back doubly fast.

“oy tujhe pata nahin yeh buri ourton ke ghar hein? kurriyon ko le kar ja raha thha bewaqoof”(don’t you know women of ill-repute live there and you were taking these little girls there? stupid man.)

Hud hud hung his head on his chest and mumbled something. Only once he lifted his head and looked at the sky where a few clumps of sad looking clouds were floating in a very blue sky.

We reached home and excitedly gave the story to our mother.  With a grim face she told us to go get a bath and then come back for afternoon snack.

We never went back to that school. The new school was friendly. Teachers did not  wear  white long dresses and black head scarves and surely were not as fair and white as in the previous school but we were happy. Made new friends.

And then the rains in my beloved Wah. Where it rained in every season. Summer rains when we would sit out in the verandah and watch nature washing the summer heat and dust away. Giving a lovely shine and freshness to the flowers, the trees and the grass. And the lovely, exhilarating smell coming out of dry and thirsty earth. Happy and carefree laughter resonating, memories in the making … oh.

Spring rains, winter rains… All beautiful, all had a special feel, a pull that made you leave whatever you were doing and listen to it, hear what it says, feel the feel and savor it.

And most of all the rains falling deep into the night – rain, falling on the roofs, washing away the ‘dirt’, filling up the courtyards and keeping a young girl awake. Lying in her bed – lying still and acutely awake, thinking thoughts, hopes, aims, desires – future; where she was in no hurry to be.

Going through my bookshelf, I came upon “The Voyage Out” Virginia Woolf’s first novel. I had bought this novel in 1983 at Victoria train station.

My sister’s Saudi friend Rabia was coming to London to spend a few days with her. This friendship had started in Lahore, Pakistan where both were doing MBBS in FJMC.  This vacation package was from her father for working hard to obtain a doctors degree.  We were also vacationing in Surray at that time.  My sis asked me to accompany her to the station but my husband and I were taking the boys out to lunch at a recently opened new eating place in Wembly. I told him about what my sister had asked me. We decided that he should take the boys there and after, picking up Rabia, we would meet them at the restaurant.  So we left for Victoria train station and they for Wembly.

While waiting for the train to arrive, I started checking out the books. It was a small kiosk and the books were displayed on revolving stands. I bought a few books, mainly journals and biographies.  I had not read Virginia Woolf by that time. Seeing a number of her books displayed, I bought three of her novels as well. “The Voyage Out” was  one of them. Over the time I read all I had bought that day except this novel.

Actually, this was the first book I picked up that night before going to bed but being on a vacation, moving all the time, going here to see this, going there to do that, I could not make a connection with the story or the book didn’t make any favorable impression on me.

After having a memorable time in England we came back, got busy and the usual routine of life resumed. I read my books one by one, leaving this on the night table, intending to read it when ready to read it. I never was.

When  coming here it was not possible to lug all the books with us. I selected a few the rest were donated to a library.  I still remember, when leaving for the airport I went to my room one last time to have a look and saw this book still on the night table.  I was leaving a house full of things, why bother about a book. I was about to leave, but then I went back slipped the book in my bag an left the house.

Now After – what? twenty seven years!  I took out the book from my book shelf, determined to read it and I did read it this time.

I finished it yesterday and I am – I don’t know what I am feeling? Sad – maybe – but why? I do not know.

The twenty four year old, mother less girl who grew up on her father’s cargo ship was a dying breed – last specimen of innocence – one could tell after reading first few pages. She had not received any formal education, no general knowledge of facts of life but had a born talent to understand music and plays piano well. When on land, she lived with her two, old and unmarried aunts.

At one point her late mother’s sister who was invited to spend some time on ship, self appoints herself to educate this girl.

The girl catches some deadly virus on a river expedition  in South America and dies shortly after that.

I did not read the last few pages for a while. Why? it was just a story!  So?

May be the timing was wrong because I cannot think of any other reason.

I am watching a very sad, Pakistani drama on GEO these days. Very painful story lines.

Stories are not always true. True. But there is always some truth behind them. I am sure of that. Because it is always some thing the writer saw, watched, heard, and then started thinking, weaving, kneading, painting ….  CREATING!

Its a good writer that involves the mind and leaves a lasting impression. It does not matter it made you feel sad in the end. Be thankful that it gave you something.

Why a heavy heart

no flicker of a smile on silent lips

Curled fingers grasping air

Air

Let out the sound

Don’t hold it tight,

so tight.

Been long denied hopes

Been long let go desires

Push the wall

Breathe –

Coming back from Lahore, he handed me a slip of paper. “you don’t have to read it now but it might come handy when you are writing a story”  I looked at the folded piece of paper and then looked at him. He was already looking out the window where the ever changing scenery was running parallel to the train tracks. I put the paper in my purse and forgot about it.

I had known him since my childhood and disliked everything about him mostly because of his sneaky nature. Why he was living with us is a different story for some other time. When I was nine or ten, he used to send ambiguous messages to one of my cousins through me with strict instructions to deliver the message when she was alone.  At that time I didn’t think much about it but as I grew older and wiser, these messages also became rare, then completely stopped or maybe he found some other channel.  By the by I forgot all about it but that day, when he handed me that note, my memory started opening a long forgotten page.  There definitely was going on something between them. I thought. Maybe, was even now …!  Many mental pictures, images, situations started popping up in front of my eyes.

I looked at him again. He was sitting  in the same position … leaning against the window and looking out at the fast receding trees, fields, small villages etc. Soon the train’s rhythmic movement lulled me to close my eyes and  doze off.  When next I opened my eyes, it was my sister telling me to wake up,  our train had arrived to our destination.  I had already forgotten about his note and my images. Moreover, I was young and life had just begun with all its ever changing – sometimes enticing sometimes disappointing – scenario. Who had any spare time to sit down and tire the brains digging out somebody – mean and deceitful as him – and his past.

One day when looking for something and not finding it I emptied my bag on my bed and found not only what I was looking for but that piece of paper too. First I thought to tear it up without opening and take it to the trash bin. Then curiosity took over to see what it was that he thought was good for writing about. It was a couplet and started like …

“lou aaj safar khatm houa ……” (so today it was the end of a journey …)

In two lines he had tried to compose a sad event, a loss … in no way it indicated it  was his personal loss or had anything to do with him – affecting him in any way … It was obvious he didn’t want any one reading these lines to think it had anything to do with him personally.

I was nine year old once again.

We were going to her house in the evening. He called and asked me to bring a glass of water for him. I went to him with a glass of water. He gave me a folded piece of paper – told me to tie it in my hand kerchief and remember to give it to her, but only when no one was around. when I was leaving he suddenly held my shoulder forcefully. Don’t tell anyone about it. His eyes were bulging with menace. I obeyed his orders.

Our school happened to be situated near her house. If we went through her house, the distance was shortened by half a mile. So every morning going to school and every evening coming from school, we would cut through her house. I became his personal messenger for two years.

During these two years things happened, some making sense, some going beyond my apprehension.  Like sending the messages but when visiting them with the family, he pretending and behaving like he was there just tagging along with the family … not even looking in her direction.

Messages stopped. I moved to another school. But once in a while we would still go to her house. She never asked anything about him but was   always happy, always smiling.

Then she was restless, asking me all kinds of questions about him.  One day I saw her crying.  She would not tell what was wrong.

Our family was approached by her family. They wanted him to marry her but were refused, because she was about four or five year older than him.

Both families snapped their ties with each other.

Heard that in a mosque, she stood all night on one leg – praying.

Heard again sometime later that she was  complaining pain in her right leg and was hospitalized.

Heard about her hospital visits – more hospital visits.

He never showed any averse affects of this news or separation.

Life went on .

He got married to an older woman because it was beneficial to his carrier. He was all set in a comfortable life.

We never saw her or her family again.

The day he gave me the note, we were coming from her house where we had gone for condolences.  She had died the previous night in a hospital.

I had questions, many questions that I had never asked. I could have written a story because, there were no broken lines anymore. I understood what had happened  but instead, slowly and gradually, I removed myself from his sphere. That was all I could do to lessen her pain – now that she was beyond all pains inflicted by that rogue of a person – or was she?

I cup my hands

and stand before you.

The Deity you are holding in your heart is not me, nor mine.

And yet,

I stand before you and cup my hands.

Come closer,

do not stand across me,

the waning light is coming between us, robbing the moments,

scaling the time.

Come closer, face to face

one more time.

Do not say a word

be still.

I am the echo of the centuries past,

when Vishnu whispered,

Be still –

Receive love.