Sang e Khisht

باب چودواں

روئیں گئے ہم زار زار غیر ہمیں ستائے کیوں؟
— مرزا غالبؔ

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Chapter 14 : Aap bhi?

Tears fled her eyes as she sat in her bedroom. A married woman. Dampened cheeks and spirits painted in the familiar shade of a typical Eastern bride, she painted the perfect image. From the deep red of her dress to the heavy jewellery that sunk the flesh of her earlobes further south. The thick anklet and the nude heels that in their tallness, were sure to have her tripping for most of the night. Fluster lined eyes, lips dyed a shade of berry — it was a textbook picture. Except for the pale henna stains.

Staring at her fingers, the length of her disjointed bones, covered by translucent skin and swirls of a vermilion henna. Her knuckles kissed by the many rings she wore, a testament of her father's wealth. The cold metals dipped against her skin and the coarse silk napkin breezed past her tears. Resting her forehead against the cold window pane, gripping the metal hooks that she undid. Hearing it's soft crackling before it broke free.

Golnar relished the freedom of the cold air. The thick scent of the gardenia's whizzed in and it's screaming warmth buzzed against her skin. Sleighing her fingers through the still frozen pieces of hail into her palm — a reminder of the rain from the evening, she smiled at it mournfully. Rubbing it between her fingers.

The only good, Golnar wondered, was that she would no longer be afraid of the ghouls of the bridge. She would be free of it's terror. Free of the alarming nightmares that kept her up at night.

Sniffing, brushing her heavy skirts as she walked towards her over night back, Golnar kneeled. Pulling the zipper of the black bag open, digging through the silk night suit and train of body lotions, she pulled the leather bound journal out. Running her fingers through the tattered name, the words on the yellowed pages, blurred ink and water droplets that had long ago stubbed their way into it's expanse. Pressing a kiss into it's crooked leather cover, she heaved a sigh.

So it has happened without you — she sent out a whimpering cry to her mother's absent picture. The woman who was the reason behind her torture, the pain. The very cause of her having pulled away from her British roots. Golnar had buried the life she had spent on the English soil, all in a bid to tear herself away from her. From Armina Naazim. The selfish house wife who had torn them into pieces.

"Golnar beta yeh khirki kyun khol rakhi hai? Itna thanda ho gaya hai kamra." Stepping into the room, Arbaz pulled his shawl closer, sliding into place beside her.
[Golnar my child why have you opened the window? The bedroom has gotten so cold.]

"Ab-ba." Golnar peered at him, wiping her tears from the tip of her finger. "Waqai mein thand hai?"
[Fath-er is it really cold?]

"Ji jaan, aur yeh samaan kyun khola huwa hai? Khariayt?"
[Yes my life, and why have you opened your bags? Is everything okay?]

"Ji."
[Yes.]

Clasping a hand on to the wooden chair, resting the entirety of her weight on to the recliner, she stepped or rather stumbled forward. Grasping the yellowed out picture between her hands, her clammy palms kissed it, divulging it from the place on the manilla paper it had stuck to for years. Squeezing her doe eyes. Unfeeling. The heaving ache weighed down on to her chest, it's coarse venom seeping into the streams of her blood as she took final steps.