ان کہی

 ~ It was early spring, 1999, when the naked trees began to feel safe enough to pump life into tiny leaf buds. A lady sparrow had almost completed the nest on the louvered window of the dressing room. Amjad Chacha had restocked the kites as the sky grew clearer and the steady wind blew.

10 a.m.

She was too excited to visit him. As she passed Chacha’s crowd, she released her finger from her mother’s hand and ran toward the rusty blue door. She was afraid of that grey dustbin, though—where they had found a snake’s skin last time.

She ran past that dustbin and knocked—knock, knock...

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She insisted on having lunch in a single plate with him. It was Chicken Pulao. Their love!

They used to play all day long whenever they met—no homework. no tuition.

That day, Sunday, 1999, 5 p.m.

They were discussing their school and homework struggles, sitting under the Jamun tree after playing the whole day. 

The elders were having chai and pakoray in the garden. Women were sharing their hectic household routines, while the men were deep in conversation about politics and religion.

Children are blunt. They leave nothing in their hearts, but elders, they pretend. They had a lot piled up in their hearts while they swooped the tea.

I, the narrator, wish they had spilled it out.

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Today, Sunday, 2025

Early Spring, Amjad Chacha died last summer. She came with her husband. She didn't run towards rusty blue door this time. A wave of fear passed through her chest when she crossed that grey dustbin. 

Knock Knock...

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 Anna (HIS wife) made Chicken Biryani. They had a good lunch. 

5 p.m.

They are having chai and pakoray in the garden, but the Jamun tree is no longer there. The women are sharing their job routines, and the men discussing soccer and  the future of AI.

Swoop. Swoop.

I, the narrator, hope there is nothing between them - this time