Man Khushaal Hastam II - من خوشحال هستم

Continued from: Man Khushaal Hastam - من خوشحال هستم 

I went to meet her today.
I went to the same street I had first met her. I looked around. Found no trace of her.
I went to the other side of the building where I had started meeting her after her location was "changed" by her "chacha". Found no trace of her.

I went back to where I had first met her, the place where I kept meeting her for days. For months. For a year before I left.

I looked around. Disappointed. I shrugged my shoulders and stood there staring into the void of nowhere.

Projects changed. Interns changed. Even the guy selling sweetpotato at the roadside corner changed. My office timings more or less changed. Yet, each day arrived cloaked in the heaviness of corporate mundane routine which I had immensely fallen in love with. Ironically, each day was different. What stood different was her.  

Each day, as the evening breeze swept across, I sat on the stairs of Forum, chatting with her. About Afghanistan. About Chitral. About Karachi. About Sohrab Goth. About her weekends. About her family. Little did I know, amid all this, in her lively conversations about herself, she was talking to me about me.

I went back today to tell her how much she had taught me. 

Her words dancing across the evening breeze of Karachi, mixed with that faint smell of bhutta and vehicle fumes, still journey across my thoughts. Inevitably translating my unseen, unheard and unsaid thoughts. Thoughts that I eventually meet when I stare at the words in front of me. 

I desperately stare harder at these words, surrendering to my wonder of how does she still manage to let my thoughts be given words. So painlessly. So carelessly that half of the time I do not even realize it is happening. 

I went back today to make her meet my words that she can back trace to her stories. 

I went back today taking in my eyes the Silence of Definition. The Stillness of Now, that "pale blue dot" of my universe within which she existed. 

Many give words to your thoughts. 

Few give stories to your thoughts. 

Stories to thoughts that you only become aware of when you see them in the shape of words on screen. 

Many unwind your thoughts from complication. 

Few turn the complicated into stories within you. 

I went back today to tell her of Stories she had once taught me. 

I went back today to tell her of things happening in my life because of her. For she made me write. 

I looked around, regretting the fact that I did not ever even attempt to take a picture of her with me. Capture the moment. I have nothing of her to show. 

But then I realized, she was so independent of "capturing" the moment; for her, moments simply existed. She couldn't fathom the philosophy of capturing what resides well in stories. 

I went back today to tell her that "Man Khushaal Hastam". :) 

Perhaps, she would just smile and ask what is there to declare about it.  

For Joy and Happiness exists for her just as breathing exists for us. 

And in this thought again, she just taught me how to breathe again. 

Three seasons & more

Season I.
I stand at the fence as I see the other greener pastures. With my sad
eyes, I try smiling to avoid anyone catching the glimpse of my dismay.
I turn around to walk back to my garden, only to be pulled back again
and again by the lush greener fields on the other side of the fence.

Season II.
I stand at the fence today as I see the other pastures. However,
today, the owner of the field looks different. I stare into the
neighbor's eyes and see the familiar self. Today, the field across the
fence, his field, looks less green. Looks a lot like my side of the
fence. Or rather, worse. I realize how he has been standing at his
fence, his eyes speaking of yester years of joy. I feel sad. It hits
me. I gather some seeds, some plants, some grass and walk to his side.
I try and I try to complete his greener pastures like they were. I try
to complete him, only by casting his pastures greener.

Season III.
I stand at the fence, astonished, Rather surprised. I see, how today,
his fence is back to being green, as much as my sadness is back to
realizing how much greener is his fence compared to mine. I sigh and
watch in dismay with heavy sinking heart yearning to have as greener a
fence as his again.

In between these seasons and beyond, as much as the grass is dependent
on owner, it is dependent on the seasons that cast their magic on it. I
forget that both sides of the fence flirt with the clouds, get hurt by
the sun and healed by water. I forget how seasons have been making the
grass on both sides greener or less.

We all have our souls and we all have fields composed of our worldly
factors. Happiness and Sadness are seasons. Sighing over greener
pastures across the fence or giving grass to the other field cannot
stop the seasons from happening. At the end of the day, what matters
is the neighbor and not his fields. What matters is me and not my
fence. At the end of the day, we all put our things aside and walk
back alone into our own souls. And when it comes to the soul, Peace within is the
Absolute Greener side of the fence.