Gunnah e Shab

4. Wave • موج

You feel lonely not because nobody is with you but because you are not with you - Shams Tabrizi

When a bird soars into the high skies, it has no thought of falling. Not the slightest of ideas about how it would feel if its wings were to be clipped, a result that would lead to death. When it flies, it flies with free thought. With faith in it's wings and it's Lord that nothing would go wrong. And so it cuts through the clouds and frees itself of all expectations. If a bird can do it, then why is a human heart drenched in doubt? Where is it's belief? The tawakul? Why does it cage itself? Why does it stop itself from soaring? Why does it not agree to ride out the tide?

Azmaray's eyes were bloodshot as he stared out of the cars window. His index finger, tapping the armrest. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, lips pursed. He sighed, ignoring the dull throb in his head as he contemplated his whole life. His entire being. Thoughts of questioning his life and purpose were no strangers to him. Infact they went hand in hand, like the best of friends. Most of his life had been lived behind a silver veil. It kept the dark out and gave everything a hue of importance. It was when his father passed, that the veil was ripped away, torn into millions of tiny shreds. The world was a place full of hungry tigers and he was the only deer in sight.

Lately his life he had been living from the eyes of another man. He could not ever call what he had become, the Azmaray of his father. That one had been a man of discipline, found in between the pages of old, yellowed books. The one that sipped on kehva and munched on pistachios, taking puffs out of his father's glass, coal based hooqah. Not the one who sipped on whiskey, munched on bacon and tool puffs out of his friend's cigarettes. He had become poison for himself. And his fingers, were in a crux, because they could in all their glory, turn to him and him alone. No one else.

Stepping inside the carpeted walkway that lead to the doors of the jet, Azmaray hid his eyes behind the sleek frame of his sunglasses. The large tinted eye pieces, protecting him. He passed a tight smile to the woman standing at the door, checking his ticket and guiding him to his seat. Number 4-D. A wave of nostalgia hit him. Nausea gently wrapping around his wide throat as he inhaled the familiar scent of leather seats and airplane sanitisers. The wet tissues handed out in their soft packets, cut at his fingers. Taking him back to the fateful day he had arrived in England. Battered and bruised. And now he left, he even more shattered. The healing promised to him — a hoax.

Holding tightly onto the cushioned arm rest, Azmaray tried his best to ignore the feelings that threatened to eat him inside out. He took deep breaths, taking sips of the iced water out of the silicon cup. The gold, ruby ring in his index finger, glinting under the lights. Soon after take off, the lights were dimmed. Straightening his legs, Azmaray leaned back. Ignoring the web of memories meshed together. Ignoring his identity. Ignoring why he was going back.

One forgets all things but abandonment in their time of need. One can never forget the lack of an arm to hold them, a voice to soothe them. For this Azmaray would never forgive his family. And they knew it, which was why they resorted to emotion blackmailing, something they were well versed with. A thing, they shamelessly used, a reason for their pride. He didn't want power. He didn't want his family if it was all the cost of his father's life. An event that had cut a huge circle in his heart. Leaving it empty, raw, bleeding and unrepairable.

"Sir would you like anything else?" The air hostess, approached.
Her hands set on the industrial trolley, drinks set on display up top. A smile set on her face, showing off the set of perfectly white teeth.
"Whi– water please," Azmaray corrected himself.
He was planning to leave behind the man that he had turned into, in England. Although, he knew it was easier said than done.