Zoha pulled out the carton box, which was stored on the top shelf in the wardrobe. The weight slipped on her palm and she struggled to maintain the balance. Underneath her feet, the stool grunted, complaining. She allowed her other hand to accept the support and slowly brought down the box.
With a noise she dropped it on the tiled floor. Dust assailed her nose. She didn't know this box was up there. Today when she was cleaning the second top shelf, her eyes caught the sight of it. Then curiosity left her digging into find what was inside.
She opened the box. A green plastic bag grabbed her attention. She took it out and looked inside. Collection of albums were sitting in there like sad kids locked in a dark room. Thin concern nipped her forehead. She put her hand, uncertain, as if dreading she would regret it later, and pulled out one album. It smelled slight of old ink. She flipped the cover and found a first picture of a newborn. She fixed the album in a horizontal position, then peered at it. She couldn't much recognize herself as a baby. It was the first time in a very long time that she was seeing this. A warm feeling touched her heart. She had a history that was alive, in front of her very eyes.
She flipped to other photos in the album and came to see more of them. There were faces of people who she very little remembered about. After she turned four, they disappeared like some strangers who she saw them for little bit and once they turned away they never came back. Her memory of them was blurry until she saw them in one photograph; Zoha, one year old, in the arms of her mother, who was smiling, happy to have a first baby, standing next to her husband, Rehman. It was a small, sprouting family, starting a new life. No matter how many times she said she didn't know those two people, but somewhere deep inside she recalled a memory with them. Like the transient touch. Love, sweet with endless layers. Words spoken by them. She felt she could catch that invisible feather, which always tickled her skin, raising goosebumps, and trickling the tears of loneliness, but it never came in her hand.
She looked at the photos, then stopped before taking out another one. Her shoulders were slumped, frown hung on her lips. Her fingers trembled, sending chills to her body. Thought was frozen at one place. She sat on the floor, unmoving. Night unrolled calmness in the room. The place felt even more empty to her. She picked the album from the floor and flipped to the photo of her parents. Beautiful, charming soul of her mother attracted her like she could just hug her and feel her brush against herself.
Tears bursted in her eyes. She shivered.
Mum-my. She felt the word unreal in her mouth. It was never spoken. She put her finger between gape-mouthed, surprised how it came out. How did it happen. She never called anyone by that. Not even dadi who raised her. Not even Saliha. She caressed the surface of the photo and tried to feel the feeling of having a mother. I wish you were alive mummy and daddy. I wish you were with me right now. I feel really alone. Scared. There is no one who loves me and can never love me like you could. Like dadi.
She pressed it against her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt like nobody was in her life. Nobody knew her. She was surrounded by strangers. Helpless, she couldn't call anyone who could listen to her, understand her sorrow and console her loss. Life was just going with no meaning, itself aimless. She could see nothing beside a hazy darkness ahead. Her voice was locked in her throat, having no one to share her feelings and emotions.
She took out the photo from the plastic sleeve, and put the album away in the bag. There were several other albums that she never knew were in there. But for now she was really tired to look at them. Water from her eyes dried on her skin. She was beginning to feel sleepy and dreamlike. The light in the room bothered her mood. They appeared bright and shocking.
As she got up, hoisting the carton box, pang of pain struck her left leg. It had fallen asleep. She moaned to move. Then dropped the box and sat on the bed, clutching her knee to slowly drag the dead leg. She couldn't carry the box, because it was heavier. Instead of putting it back, she once more looked into it. This time her eyes caught the leather bound journal beneath the bag of photos. She first thought it was a big album. She ran her hand to get it out.
YOU ARE READING
The Unspoken Heart
Romance[ Completed ] Zoha's life has been weaved with tragical fate. Her parents died in a tragic car crash, when she was four. Her Dadi, or grandma, raised her with relentless love and care. She bloomed into an ambitious girl, studying to become an archit...
