Mushtaque B Barq

I HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE    (From Ayesha’s Diary)

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When life out of the blue brings to a standstill mode grudgingly, the hemorrhaged pupil fails to open its aperture and the world undergoes a severe change. A change that one never expects because one lives under the garbage of his own fancies. The chill of such severity, when the mind goes blank and the pen freezes in the furrow of the writing desk, one may only pluck the hair out. A frustration one may like me be aware of. Or if not, let them enjoy. If they are sadists, their bellies may swell and ribcages may elevate. And like me, if they turned to be, the companions of verses, they certainly must acknowledge this mental acrobatics.

What must be written when tulips of this Vale are brimmed with human blood? What shall one think when imaginations are held, hostage? What shall one draft when hands are handcuffed and tongues are pierced beyond repairs? What shall one compose when verses are scattered for want of rhyme and rhythm? And what shall one put on the sheet of paper when its margins are marginalised, its lines forced to follow the labyrinths? Yet despite all these confrontations I have to get the better of to share what ordinary skull fails to comprehend. The territories of my diary are not governed by politicians and public support, but honestly by self-styled heroes. My heroes are all over the Vale. They are on the roads teasing the eve. They are in the forests fighting for the cause. They are buried in the fields like seeds waiting for the harvest. They are in the cups of tulips waving at me, winking at me and wailing with me. I don’t believe in romance that scares me. My choice of romance depicts my own conflicts, my own redressal and remedies. What shall I write? I have nothing to write save dismissals and denials.

The scary bones of my little hand shiver for my senses fail to obey my vocabulary. How that bullet-ridden body of my hero has evoked eternal itching beneath my breasts. Maybe my soft nurses in future fail to nurse my baby for underneath them are lying my heroes whom I feed in my privacies and bury in public. The compressed petals whose ribcages fail to shield the metal of ‘might’ are my issues. I am pregnant and my pregnancy knows no limit. I deliver one and conceive other. There is no end to my labour. With every delivery, my blood level drops but a new zygote satiates the needs of my liver. I am amazing for my cutest husband never comes late and never ever leaves so early. He celebrates my vital virginity, such a companion that never leaves me alone. By the way, I forgot to introduce my sweet husband. Usually, girls pump in the crimson rush into their cheeks, not in my case. What makes me fond of my caring husband is that the royal presence enshrines within my nerves, my pulse and patience. Isn’t this enough to describe my hubby?

Crazy are the people who carry photos of their beloved ones in their wallets and on losing them, they sigh and regret. What a wonderful creature my babies have made me. My wallets are empty, devoid of bucks and bills, but my backpack is too heavy to be carried. I do carry stones, broken glass pieces, shells, shoes, plastic bottles, broken bricks and above all I do in my backpack cart slogans and yells. In every pocket on this backpack, my babies live and multiply like a carpet bomb that spreads endlessly unless it destroys the entire locality. Don’t fish for compliments, come on… People label my burden with sugarcoated adjectives; everyone manufactures their choicest adjectives according to the merit of their intellect, and everyone looks down at my bulging belly with grotesque and haphazard honey coated verbal motions. These narcotised and narrow minded passersby pass remarks and every eye irrespective of age and region repeatedly asks the same old question. Are you married?

Well! I am. I married, not once but times many. Let me make it public today that I am the so-called darling wife of my caring husband PAIN……

What makes me stretch these fissured cheeks when in isolation I recall how my mom tries to keep me at bay with human privacies. She is only a mother of few kids and me ah! Countless issues I have delivered, yet biologically I am bound to prove my worth of being a woman pure and pious. With every fallen hero, I do deliver two. With every dozen that stops a bullet with their sternums, my womb generates hundreds.  What flexible physique I have! What wonderful fill I have been bestowed. Marry I can never be, yet from this little bag of brilliance lesser mortals have been delivered, dragged and silenced. With me shall die this basket full of babies, but before that how many of my friends shall stand for this flexibility.

I have nothing to write. Nothing at all. Yet I am bound to roll my ink down the cheeks to nurture this snow-clad sheet of my dairy. These blank pages haunt me. Chase me to graveyards where metaphysical guests ask endlessly like a kid in the class before they are stopped or slapped. These teachers are horrible worms that suck the sap of these kids, never encourage their fancies; they never lift their curiosities, Ah! They manufacture a rotten lot.  Why knowledge shall be confined to ‘information’, why not to expose a kid to the sunshine and snowfall. Come on, grow my kids before they are lost in the dust of desert never to find a way for they are not taught to fight and create their own. Respect their haphazard and wayward queries.

Life teaches and teaches well. I have nothing to write now but to drop the pen and to wind this carpet of fancies before it surpasses the limit and be discarded as trash.

Ayesha.

 

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