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.