Dear You,
I thought I would start off this letter with some kind of memory that
was so beautiful, it'd hurt to remember it; of clear, grey roads and
the windshield coloured with melting raindrops holding blurred images of
daffodil fields (and I must tell you that I feel beautiful that I have
lived to see the sight and have a distinct image of it in mind), but I
will tell you instead that I like this red dress and that I just laughed
harder than I have done in weeks. And I am grateful, believe me I am.
And
I will admit I've been trying to put together some words but all
they've seemed is second-hand and half-hearted. Like the staler version
of truth and a shadow of me. But moments like these make me whole, they
make me feel like I belong here, I belong here in this red shirt, these
black buttons, in the silence that is walking gently into this room at
12:08 AM after a day full of sounds and summer. I belong here and there
is a song in my playlist that tells me I will always find my way back
home. How can I not, when I walked into the kitchen to a fully occupied
table, long lost sounds holding each other close for they'd come
together as one after a long time. How can I not, when I can hear the
love in your voice through a half-broken telephone line and grinning
from ear to ear. How can I not, when you add the two extra o's to my
name when you say it so that I feel loved. How can I not, when I find
myself speaking so easily to you when everybody else just knows me as
the quiet girl. How can I not, when you tell me I am special and your
favourite. How can I not, when you pull me into a bone-crushing hug and
squeal with me. How can I not, when you are as little as three years old
and you say, "I
want to stay here," and I hold you close and you add, "With you."
"Why are you so quiet? Why don't you speak? Kiya kuch zindagi main kuch aisa hua hay keh tum nay kaha yar ab nahi, ab kisi say nahi bolna?"
Classroom floors, a game of truth and dare, my surprised face and her
curious face. "I just can't." Maybe that answer did not suffice but it
was the truth. I am grateful, I feel blessed. And to tell you the truth,
I am the safest when I stand on my prayer mat during the last prayer of
the day and it is dark and nobody can see my face or hear me and I am
safe still. And I told a friend that I am a Secret. We are beautiful,
golden secrets. I wish I would've answered, "I love everything from a
distance." My greatest strength is love, I tell you. I can love and I am
grateful.
I will tell you the truth, my life is not about pretty
scenes and neat rooms and sweet dispositions and phone calls or even
friends. But I know yours isn't too. Ours is something more intricate,
flawed, imperfect - beautiful. My life is about the buzz that Friday
creates, about lovely hands dripping with mango messes, about being out
of breath in the summer heat, about walking under roofs where
generations of memories have lived and about living something that is
entirely mine, about living a page of my own story book in the loudness
of Karachi and the haphazard happenings of summer. I wouldn't change
this, I wouldn't be anywhere else because I am living something
beautifully flawed and I love summer, I love summer because it comes
along with so many colours and stories and sounds and clenches them firm
in it's palm so that there is cacophony and the photograph reels and
the voice recordings are mine, entirely mine, forever mine. There is
greatness in Memory, and there is greatness in living it. For now, there
are so many that I am breathing them in and I am thankful for
everything, the good and the bad and my story for it is mine. All praise is for God.
Suppose you ask, "Why don't you speak to each other anymore?"
Suppose you ask why I hesitated answering the call. Suppose you ask
why I am different than before. Suppose you meet the version of me that
grew over the past year and I meet the year-older version of you and we
look and suppose we tell each other in tones of surprise that we've
changed. In the end, there is a clock in your room, there is a clock in
my room and it ticks and it tocks and the minutes melt into the days and
the days into weeks and the weeks into months and the months into years
and the clock in your room carries the weight of all this time. Of all
that it brings and all that has happened. Because moments happen when
moments happen and it is beautiful because it is not our doing; moments
come together when stories collide each other and it is overwhelming
just to think that they happen - that they happen and that they
are for us and ours and things happen in minute, days, weeks. Things
happen, things change, people grow, I grow, you grow, moments happen -
and moments later, you are at a different stage, in a different setting
and things keep happening. So words fade and my moments changed me and
your moments changed you and that is alright. And in such a state, when
things start fading you know that they were brittle, temporary. And the
permanence of unconditional love through it all is what is beautiful,
and to carry all those moments inside you under a roof you can call home
is also beautiful. I have faith in the permanence of unconditional
love, and in the beauty of things that were always mine.
It is
late, I should sleep. The good and bad thing about all days is that they
end and so this one ends too. I am not happy that it ended, but I am
not sad either. So I will be grateful that we made it through another
day and tomorrow is a new task. I have learnt to not under-estimate the
magnitude of 24 hours. So much happens. No matter what, our
life is beautiful, complete with it's flaws. I believe it is and I see
that it is. I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed.
Thank You for listening.
Love,
Me.
