A Garden Of Hydrangeas

سالگرہ | Birthday

Chapter 13.

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Curtains to the show that was set to take place had not been pulled back. They were still in a lonely silence, allowed to flow free from the top to the bottom. The unseemly influence of the charcoal that dripped in straight sharp lines, diluted — deluded into the blue of hopes, light and perched atop of a stray cloud pulled out too soon of it's chambers. In fury it turned the world a depth of the deep grey it had threatened with and in alarm the tiny hare's ran to their friends the deers in their burrows, tugging at their slender legs — would the show be over before it began?

One after the other, the children of the mother cloud yearned for her and turned up on to the frontier. Knocking on the world to wake up after the injustice that had been served to them. Their tears, in neat rows fell on the slanted roof tops and car windshields. Stars fought for the mightiest lover of theirs — it was an open infidelity, of them betraying the bright moon that held them together for the sake of the large Sun who dazzled them with it's bright looks. Yet they forgot — the moon never forgets, it has seen a lot. Worrisome winds tore the skies apart in their strength, and brought down to the world a fury of God — it would not rest until justice was served.

In their tiny huts made of brick and painted moss green to blend in with the juniper trees and conifers, men stared out at the national polo ground in worry. The flag, wet and torn down lay on the sofa behind them. The phones rung one after the other, alternate arrangements pulled through at the last minute — thank God for giving them enough brain to make two separate plans. The procession would proceed like it did every year, officials and locals alike would soon take to the ground, their families behind them as they settled on the cold benched. It was after all not every day that their country turned older. Waterproof tents were brought out of the storage and even as the bone chilling rain fell on their shoulders the rangers set it all up with the help of the men sent by the marquee owner.

Flagged cars rolled into the parking lot, the staff saluted as the minister — younger than them by at least ten years, stepped out of his car. The green and white flag on the right corner of the car fought and danced with strength, the harsh rain not of worry to it. Hands were shaken, words exchanged in silent whispers, secrets and relationships long forgotten resurfaced as the family followed behind on the carpet covered brick pathway. It was a show of power, the aristocratic stood out in neat lines — an intersection between them made as they sat on their cushioned seats.

Decked in a starchy white shalwar and a black sherwani that had round gold buttons, a pin like the flag of Pakistan pinned right above his heart — Arham played the part of being the chief minister with great detail. His hair were gelled back, the usually loose curls out of sight. He had taken out the gold hoops from his ears, taking away instantly the youthful look that they provided him with. The wet soil smelt like purity, it reminded him of the blood that had once flown rampant, dampening the ground just like water did. It had been years since the country was freed but still the cries of those that were martyred could be heard from the distance — if one was willing to keep their ears open that is.

He walked behind his father and the former ruling figures of the province — Asghar and Azmaray Khan. The three of them had in their own lives seen, fought and overcome challenges that he could never imagine passing. He applauded their strength, but then immediately thought of how powerful were the ones who had left, walked out of their lives and became unnamed. Lost their identities for their future generations — that was the epitome of selflessness, and how they were wasting those sacrifices that should have meant to them the absolute world.