From Aysha’s Dairy – II
Published on February 26, 2017

From Aysha’s Dairy – II

From Aysha’s Dairy – II

A few days after Aysha received the keys of her room, her father was looking for a chance to read more from her diary.  His curiosity compelled him to open her room in her absence. This time he was careful. He examined everything in the room and tried his best not to move anything that might invite trouble. The chest of the drawer was ajar, perhaps Aysha had no apprehension of invasion, but it happened, so she had kept her diary in the drawer that was partially closed.

He pulled the drawer, out came Aysha’s diary. He hurriedly pushed the drawer back and left.

Scanning pages at random and from the section of ‘We the Subjects’ few details brought him down to knees.

A sob, a fresh dew on forehead, I am also the eve of this vale. Kunan Poshpura, hamlet of misfortune. Uniform has again put me down, as a girl shall I keep my faith firm on the ‘Guardian of peace’ or shall I take into account the demolished face of the eve that was ravished. Tulips of this vale again appeared black, the fog seems red, and on the horizon up there, crimson hem is bruised. The buds of Daffodil quiver under those soft scales promising the permission to bedeck the surface of mother earth. A well marked pain, significantly seen on the trembling petals for the eve of this vale has lost her faith on the picturesque as this time Summer has looted her bosoms, pulled her maintained  plaits, tattered her well stitched shirts, frozen her sighs and above all misused her fragile frame for lust .

The rug of this room like my unrest appears brusque as the eve of this vale has been exposed to brutal bravery of ‘jawans’. Military influence has modified the lens of a camera man who puts on the screen filthy images of a victim, violation of human rights doesn’t fit in his fractured frames, the bleeding buds to him is only  meant to be crushed, controlled and killed as wonton boys game. This weariness, this silent tangled tress, sunken face, materialistic influence, physical potential and what not is operational. Fistful dreams, Henna palms, a wishful heart where shall I take it rather dump it under the filth of a slum never to be recognized.  A vagabond stamp on the other hand strays care freely to impress upon apathetic edges of lust on the verdant woods to destroy it once for all.    

Hassan cupped his face, dropped his head in shame. His fantasies died within his over burdened hem. His fatigued nerves were losing verve considerably, leaving him almost exhausted.  There was nothing around to fall back upon save his own shadows created by scintillated but flawed streaks of the sun struggling to push the dust into the room where Hassan had concealed his crippled physique. His hands reached to the other section of diary. He wished to inhale a puff under open sky, but the script on the sheets hardly permits him to obey his requirements. His fingers, it seemed had lost the nervous control, his hands were insensible like his entire body for he was equally worried like all other fathers of the world.  He turned a few pages hurriedly; suddenly his eyes caught something worth reading.

Nazima, cousin of Roshiba, my sweet classmate Ah! Why on the earth the eve has troubled her. The choice, this harsh materialistic wish how long should engulf a human heart that desires to derive maximum out of wish list. Is a man on the earth eligible to elect, like or love someone? Fate is what runs the train of life, wishing against the Wish, one would always land himself in trouble. Can human heart be devoid of emotions, sentiments or fancies? No, seems a delightful affirmation. Yes, a clear note of negation. Between this ‘Yes and No’, a man has to live not in disgrace but ‘submission’ is counted. To obey this wish list, a human heart suffers, hypocrites enjoy, but a wise undergoes hardships. Nazima should have not committed suicide, not at all. What then, is everyone on the earth entertained, is everyone encouraged, but then one has to keep his nerve upright not to devoid his chest from inhaling. Suicide is not the solution. If a rape victim has courage to fight, why not a wishful heart learns from a wrecked bosom, why not a cozy beat of crazy wish learn how to submit before the Mighty Will of Lord. Suicide can only expose human willingness of disobedience. It can fetch nothing but unending trauma.

What then, if one finds it hard to manage, time heals every wound. Nazima must have given herself a chance to live, must have given herself another chance to learn obedience, and must have waited hopefully. Now lying down the dust, Oh! God forgive her.    

Like before Hassan was keen to explore the world of fancies of her daughter. His eyes were eagerly looking to seek relief from ‘Fancy Flying’ section of Aysha’s diary.

 A fillet around the silky fall, bangles of glass copying the rainbow up above the Blue all seems good, satisfactory and finical as long as one is allowed to curb a grobian beast encasing in our own hut. An orotund scamp may ignore, but for a sensitive mind, the observation grouches and digs deep like a hawk that pierces its sharp beak down the ribcage of a wandering bird. What breaks the link of spine from its nerves is not an ailment but incredulity that one develops so often. A fairy look in the mirror may be pleasing, but a peep down the ribs may raise brows, harsh and humiliating. No one wishes to wink at a blind man in a dark room, yet one is keen to invalidate his opinion when it is all about self scrutiny. Little things in life bring much joy, but all gigantic towers always bring a clear signal.

Hassan like a carefully drops Ayesha’s diary back in the drawer. Keeps it ajar not to leave any trace to let her even in the farthest imagination to think of invasion. His kept his options open to drop in some other day to explore her wonderful world. 

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