winter changes a lot of things.
the forest sings hymns of a frozen country, the ice shields our forgotten memories, blue seas have long to journey before they turn to mist, these are the days from an artist's messy canvas, the pine trees are covere...
Perhaps it was the trickling sound of the burning paper inside the firewood that made me remember you. The sounds of a silent struggle, a hushed fight and my eyes were set on the frozen footpaths outside the window but I knew who was winning.
The whiteness of the woods almost makes me surprised, the soundless snow can sometimes be so treacherous, just like a naive boy strolling a big city at night— both equally calm and witty. I took the scent of the burning wood in, but perhaps it was the paper that was burning more— now completely crumbled into a burnt black void of death, ravaged off of all it's words— the only thing that gave it meaning, was now shredded away. But then again, who has ever had a say in fate?
I leaned back in the comfort of the armchair but that could never stop my heart from constricting, shrinking— just like that paper, becoming void— and I thought of that one night. The night I would learn about fate. From a naive pale boy in a big city.
It was the winter of 2000. Mumbai was bustling with life and love— the city of dreams had it all. In the rush of a million people at the train station, stood a thirteen year old boy. He was pale, short and like any other boy his age, confused. The sounds of his surroundings didn't seem to get to him, no, he was in a world of his own. A world where he was the master of his destiny. And for a little boy that belief alone held the power of burning everything around him and eventually, he shall learn the true meaning of his flame.
The winds were strongest at night and they gushed past him with force, so did the train with a loud ringing— a sound I can still hear to this day. He got in the train to Deoli, he had no home so it wouldn't matter where he would be. The first time I saw him was there, in that very moment, when he struggled past older men and made his way to the only empty seat which happened to be across from mine. In hindsight, was that written in our fate? He would not agree at the time.
The night was cold, the winter breeze from the window left us chilled, shivering and yearning for warmth. I looked at him, completely curious where such a young boy would be travelling to alone at night, and I didn't hide that as I asked him, "Where do you go, mister?" He glanced at me, careless of who I was, and answered "Deoli"— short, and not open to further questions, not about himself at least. I still can't fathom what he must've been thinking when he asked me about fate. If I believed in it and was it something I despised— I was left stripped of my words at first. Then, after a moment of thought, I said, "Fate is what you believe in and work towards. Don't you think that's sweet?"
He seemed to think for a moment but then shook his head— "No, it's not sweet. It's completely bitter. My life has been hard and I know that fate isn't sweet. It's far from it." My eyes widened at first, then were filled with sympathy for the young boy but I chose not to question him. Looking back, I think that would've done me more good than him.
The boy was gone by the first hint of light on a misty morning. I got down from the train and set off on my own ways. I wouldn't hear from this boy for the next five years.
It was the winter of 2005. I was in the same night train, an empty seat in front of me, the same rush, the winter breeze, the numbing cold and a question echoing through my ears, bringing me back to my senses— "Say, do you now believe in fate?" I remembered that face. A more structured, a more grown yet beaten up face — a deeper voice, the reality of life experienced seen in his demure. I asked him if he finally found his answer and he nodded.
"Fate is true if you believe that the forest hums every night only for you and it's a hoax if you think the night is dark only for you—fate is anything you think was meant to happen. I've learnt that fate is much like the winter woods where fire burns the ice— you are the one who decides if it's the warmth that means something or death of something nice. Fate is mindlessly treacherous if you think you're not in control yet it's soothingly comfortable if you believe it's all written in the stars."
He was 18 and it took me many more years to understand what he meant. Fate was like that burning paper inside the firewood.
It was ever-changing, ever-loved, always suspicious, always loathed, forever burning, forever scarred, always leaving us scared, terrified of what's written, the fear of not knowing growing as a black burnt void inside our hearts, constricting and painful— fate was always ever-changing. Fate was what you decided to see. Fate was always bittersweet.
The firewood dried out and I reached for another paper to burn but I hesitated this time, and slowly stopped. I sat back in the black burnt night, staring at the skies of hope, the winter snow fell slowly all around me, the forest hummed an ancient lullaby and call it fate, but this— this moment felt perfect. Like it was all written— the pen was lifted and the ink had dried.
مكتوب : (maktūb) — it is written.
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a/n: this is a fictional story to be taken at first-hand value. I do not claim to be a scholar of philosophy so I don't know the answers to these big questions — kindly enjoy the story, the feelings, the calm, the warmth, the cold but most importantly— the feeling this piece tries to portray.
thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed.
I know I said arriving in December but I had to post this one here— lol.
