Nafisa sat perched on the edge of her terrace, reading a poignant tale of  lost love. Kemal was trying to absorb the fact, that his beloved Fusun was now a happily married woman. Each word in the story reflecting his pain and piercing through Nafisa’s chest. Just then the sky boomed with the soulful sound of the evening azaan and she shut the book, to look up. It was the most beautiful yet the saddest part of the day.

As the blue turned to crimson, and then finally merged with grey, she felt a strong urge to go home. Home, a place she had seen 16 years ago and had only visited in her dreams since then. Back when she was a child, the evening azaan was a time to collect her little brothers and run back home, to the warmth of the stove on which Ammi prepared shalgam ghosht, to the brightness that her Abba’s face exuded after he came back from the mosque, and to the chatter when they all sat together on the shredded rug, discussing the day that had passed.

The words and faces now a blur, but alive still in her heart. She walked back down to her room and saw the ashtray over flowing with cigarette stubs, pills waiting to be popped, bottles lying everywhere and Doris Day calling out to her from the speakers, “whatever, will be, will be, que sera sera.”

 She had to go home now. Right now. 

And the lyrics faded in a sudden burst of light, as she drifted towards the familiar road that led to ‘Hiawatha’, the last house on the first street. For the first time in all these years, the walk was a struggle. Her feet felt chained to the ground. The weight pulling her down. She could hear her Ammi say,” Nafisa, come child, the ghosht will become hard and the shalgam soggy,” her brothers all shouting, “Baaji, why didn’t you come to collect us from the playground today? Tariq fell on his way back and scraped his knee.” How she wanted to break loose and run. Run as fast as she could, before the dawn broke.

She was terrified of not being able to make it. What if all that she held on to since the past 16 years was just about to vaporise today? She was sweating or was it the tears? It was salt that she tasted as she tried to breathe.

 The voices now grew louder, more desperate. She felt Tariq’s scratch change into a wound, her Abba’s face turning pale. She could hear her Ammi sob, and little Imraan scream. 

What was happening?

 The alarm went off and she woke up. Thank god. It was just a dream, thought she.  

Just then the doorbell rang and she went out to collect the bottle of milk that was delivered promptly at 6 am every morning. She collected the newspapers too. After making herself a cup of coffee and lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, she sat on her red bean bag, reading the newspaper. There had been yet another hike in the petrol prices, the farmers were protesting again. And then, there it was, like the past 10 days. The valley of Kashmir was suffering. Many civilians and army men dead. Several houses burnt down, with families inside.

  And one amongst them was the last house on the first street.

Pic clicked by Mansha Farooq

Natascha Shah is the Editor of http://tlfmagazine.com/ . Having graduated from the University of New South Wales, Sydney with a degree in Literature and Journalism, she worked as a journalist for four years and then felt the need for unrestricted creativity beyond formulaic writing. Thus TLF was conceived. And yes, she believes, every moment in life is worth tripping on.