Tahira

As I lay on my straw bed counting the remaining breaths yet to pass my tired lungs, my cloudy vision couldn’t help but see the many seasons of my life replaying like a broken record. My time here was no fairytale. The word tragedy seems more appropriate but don’t for one second feel pity. I have lived a life of scarcity. Scarcity in loyalty, love and laughter. Pity ,however, I received in abundance. People tend to be generous with pity, especially strangers.

I was once a girl with messy pigtails and a tiny front tooth decayed from my daily jaleebi treats. Rockets were my legs; always fidgeting, never still. The days were carefree filled with innocent banter; running around paddy fields, collecting worms for the ducks father reared. Every little wish of mine was attended to, perhaps because the wishes were little. The first season of my life was spring. Unfortunately for a Pakistani girl, it doesn’t take long for the nightingales of childhood to die. It is only in hindsight that you realize, they were murdered. Broken wings, the doctor would diagnose.

But you were a child, even if you were the only person who knew. It’s understandable if the new clothes from the closest bazar, sudden attention from all your relatives and fresh biryani made in bulk deluded you. Silly girl..The warmth of summer started to burn.

Then came the dry season of autumn. I had a new family, a husband who couldn’t give me a child and a father-in-law who tried to. With a firm heart and a hopeful spirit, I sought my parent’s refuge. They sent me back with a basket of pity. Fresh of course. “No, daughter”, they said. “This is your fate. Trust God.”, they said.

With hate for God, I accepted my fate. Thereafter, winter was the only season I knew. 73 years pass by, I lay on my straw bed pushing my last breath though my beaten lungs.

In a meadow not too far away, a baby sparrow sings.