Identity on the horizon

I opened the creaky Iron Gate, the gate which I had opened so swiftly all through my childhood days, the happy days as I call them. It used to be painted in black with golden and silver alternate bars. On the side pillars used to be a plate with Abba jan’s name on it – Dr. Hamid Hussain.

I remember sitting with him in his clinic and mimicking him in front of his patients. Abba used to be a renowned ophthalmologist of his time. And he was definitely good at it. Most of his mareez (as he used to call the patients) were aged people with grey hair and front teeth missing. They all didn’t know how to read or write. It used to be a really tough job for Abba to check their eye number. I remember him making some pictures and asking the mareez to make them on those papers. It was fun watching the activity. At the end of the morning session, I used to bring him lunch which Ammi used to cook for him. We both used to enjoy it with me sitting in his lap. I remember how fondly he used to call me ‘noor’. Abba never discriminated between me and Ameer, my brother who was then a toddler.

Those days, in the early 1970’s Afghanistan was like any other country of the world. It used to be my dream land with snow capped mountains, pine trees, clear blue sky, turquoise blue lakes and meandering roads in the beautiful terrain. It used to produce lot of dates and dry fruits. It was also famous for the jewellery. I remember buying ‘jhumka’s’ with Ammi and Khala Fatima (the house maid). Whenever Ammi used to go to buy vegetables, she would always take me to the jewellery shop. I was too fond of the stone jewellery. I had kept my collection in a silver box with golden lining which Abba had given me for my 7th birthday. I always used to tell Ammi that those were the things I had kept for my marriage. And she used to laugh.

I still remember her ambrosial smile. According to Islam laws, a woman has to keep herself covered from head to toe. So she was always dressed in a black burqa and a white hijab. I had decorated that hijab for her with precious stones and some oil painting. It was a rule not to wear decorative hijabs but Ammi always used to dawn them for I used to love them.

When at home, she used to wear a simple salwaar kameez. I remember how beautiful she was, her lean figure perfectly fitting the beautiful dresses, her slender and long fingers, the diamond wedding ring Abba had given her. Whenever fresh wind gushed in the kitchen through the window, she would look even more beautiful. I remember how I used to play with her dark brown tresses. With my insistence she had coloured a few of them in golden colour. Her round face with light green eyes, pink lips and perfectly positioned nose made her look no less than a princess. I loved her mascara and the scent of sweet Afghani itra always made me sense her presence. With those perfect features and a nice height, she was the most beautiful Afghani girl in Kabul, my home town.

All thoso memories suddenly gushed out of my eyes. I finally stepped on the walkway. It could hardly smile with those innumerable cracks time had inflicted upon it. Once upon a time it used to be a pure white marble area adorned further by Abba’s Black Ford Mustang which he had bought recently from Pakistan. I looked to my side where a dry patch of land stood still. There was hardly any trace of greenery. There used to be a garden there, long back. I and Ameer jan used to play soccer there. My eyes suddenly started searching for something which I and Ameer had implanted ourselves. Through the corner of my eye, I saw it. It was still there – the goal post. Though the white paint had peeled off its surface and its surface had rusted more than I could have ever imagined. But still, it stood with a sense of pride on its own land – Afghanistan. And this suddenly gave birth to a sense of guilt inside me, for it had not fled in times of distress and remained loyal to its motherland, unlike me, who was a mere coward and fled, leaving behind my homeland, my people and most importantly my family. I had performed this act 22 years back when Russia took over my land and there were soldiers with guns everywhere. I witnessed killings and was scared. I fled from my house that night in a lorry and reached Pakistan where a Canadian couple took pity on me and took me to their land. That was the last time when Afghan blood

had flown in my body.

Fresh warm tears gushed out of my eyes and I felt terribly sad. Suddenly, I wanted to go back in time, I wanted to tell Abba jan how much I loved him, I wanted that warm hug from Ammi and I wanted to play soccer with my little star, Ameer. I wanted to tell them how much I missed them. But all what remained was a charred wick.

There used to be a row of poplar trees in the garden beneath which I had buried my prized possessions to keep it a secret. I immediately got up and found the spot. It was still undiscovered. Something wondrous happened and I smiled. I started digging and it was all intact, arranged in the same way as I had left it 22 years back. I found my brass doll, the steel magic wand and my earrings. A mere touch sent out another round of tears. I took those things out and brought them close to my heart – my last set of memories from my childhood in my land – Kabul.

I stood up and looked up at the 2 storied house that Abba had designed himself. It was once upon a time my home. It used to shine bright with a slanted roof and cream coloured walls. All what remained was a lifeless brick structure. The roof was gone. The bare structure with large holes in its walls still stood high. It appeared like an old smiling man with hair, front teeth and the charm missing. But it still welcomed me. I felt guilty and hung my head low as if I were saying sorry.

 But then the words which I heard over the telephone still echoed in my head – Its too late. The Taliban have killed your family. Your Abba had loved you more than Ameer and I hope you’ll return to your homeland someday. Then he hung up. I had frantically tried to search about him but had no idea of who exactly he was. A call in Farsi after 22 years had made me scream and the Afghan blood had drawn me towards it. I finally decided to fly down to Afghanistan – the land where I smiled for the last time.   

I took out a family photograph from my bag. It was taken long back on my 7th birthday. Though it was in sepia tone but it hit the right spot, it made all the colours alive again. Ammi was holding Ameer jan in her arms who was barely 2 years old. I remember he was dressed in a dark blue pathan suit I had bought for him. Ammi was dressed in red salwaar kamiz. On her side was Abba Jan in his grey suit. He had his hand around my shoulders. And I was there wearing a knee length green dress and grinning holding a cake. A faint picture of Khala Fatima too was visible who was standing at the back of the large glass window. We all seemed so happy then. We were standing in the walkway and the party was just about to begin…

Just then a bullet hit me in my chest. I fell down where I was standing, in the garden. The Taliban has finally caught hold of me. And I felt happy for this was the right punishment for a kafir like me. I suddenly felt relieved. Suddenly thousands of tonnes of load lifted from my head and I felt light for the first time in those 22 years. There was no sense of guilt but a ray of liberation. I closed my eyes and suddenly the Afghani ghazal started playing in the background. I saw myself in the green dress, it was my 7th birthday.

A sense of happiness hit me. I smiled for the first time in those 22 years and for the last time in my life. I was finally back home. I was with Abba jan, Ammi and Ameer jan. We all were happy. I was happy for I finally was dying at a place where I had spent 16 precious years of my life.

I uttered a line from Koran, the qazi Agha had taught me in the school – La illaha  il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah.

And my favourite song played in the background –

Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro………