Gunnah e Shab

35. Lost • کھو دیا

"The little moments? They aren't little" — Jon Kabat-Zinn

Tears fall from the eye one at a time. A streak of hot wetness left behind as they fall into the parted lips. Hands clasp on chests and dig into the skin there, the tender flesh turns a raging red from the sheer force. Nimble fingers hold wide ones, to their cheeks and leave soft kisses. Lips tracing a path where the tears have dripped from. Wet lashes in their heaviness sink down and touch the soft skin of the under eye. Dark bags adorn the once golden hued skin. Pale lips in the place of red ones. Trembling voices and shivers take over from the cloak of confidence.

A long companionship of paternal warmth comes to an end. The light body of a man full of life placed six feet under. The white shroud does little to calm the scared heart, a savior has been ripped. Hands left empty with grains of soil. Silt fills the nail as it digs into the muddy softness, a pain tearing through the limbs as fistfuls cover the new grave. The wound is fresh, open and raging. The ache is like a million bones breaking a hundred times in a second. It isn't going well, and every eye is lowered seeing the young man's pain.

Wordlessly they enter their home. One man less. In silent agreement they leave the young one to his own devices. In bleakness they all mourn. Alone and yet so united in their pain. Without a syllable escaping their once grinning mouths, they greet the guests. Hugs and handshakes exchanged. Pats on the back and empty words are given to the young one. The pit of his stomach filled with dread, so much it makes him bleed black. A charcoal.

She brushes her fingers on his burning forehead. Her cool lips like a prayer answered. She slides into the space beside him, her hand wraps itself around his shoulder her lips press against his cheek, drinking his pain. Soft brown eyes stare into pained mocha ones. A small nod of reassurance as warm tears leave his eyes once more. Never ending. She rubs his muscular back from above his starchy white shirt, her inky hair a contrast that spilled under the white veil. Sniffles escape his mouth as he takes her fist into his, letting out muffled sobs against her knuckles. Drenching them in his pain.

"He was— he was on our wedding. Three days and he is gone. He was alone Ayna— we—we were oblivious in Abbotabad and my father was breathing his last. I have failed him. Failed him," Zaeem spoke.

His voice carried a painful dread. Ayna shook her head, kissing his hair and forehead in small intervals.

"It's not like that. He was so-so-so-so proud of you Zaeem. He couldn't have had anyone better to call his son," she comforted.

"Par mujhe unkay paas hona chahiye tha!" [But I should have been with him!] he shook his head.

"Zaeem you were with him. He lost his life in your arms jaan. He held on until you weren't by his side, don't cry anymore. Please," [Life.] Ayna shook her head.

"But I was in Mushkpur before that. I was so happy to have my brother around me that I forgot my father. What kind of a son does that?"

"Zaeem you were happy and you deserved it. He was not alone, I spent time with him. Heard him tell me stories about you, of your childish insolence and of all the tricks you did on him. His eyes were filled with nothing but the purest form of love for you Zaeem. He was at peace, and thats more than what we can ask for," she kissed the side of his head.

"You promise that?" He looked down at her.

His eyes were full of unshed tears. All his defenses lowered. He was like a young child, only a few days old, one that searched for comfort in people they were familiar with.