❝𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 & 𝐣𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲❞
Story of a 20 years aged woman called Husna Ara, a youthful dreamer living in poverty; who wa...
*Author's suggestion: Keep a tissue box beside you*
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Husna
Funerals are always gloomy. As they are supposed to be. I didn't know why it rained again. The past theory of sharing pain sounded comfortable to me as acceptence. Everyone had worn black, except I. I was in a light pastel kamiz,it had a pore at the slightest end which no one could notice. Ceaselessly, a lot people wept,a lot mourned and some only groaned. The scenerio wasn't favorable.
" Rain brings unforgettable memories, it drenches the benevolence in the essence of hearts It thunders the axis of life, it saddens me,my dear. It burdens me,my love. It remembers me of gones, what says your names. . . My love, It thunders the axis of life, It saddens me,my dear.... My love,if I could ever Meet you again..... "
The lady with a violin in her shoulder, squeezed eyes;wet,sticky hair and lost in the drizzling of rainfall kept singing in her soft tone. Her voice was sweet as honey which rythmed every single tune of the violin. She sat in the bench beside the graveyard, singing her heart out. Soothing some peace amidst the heartbroken ones whose eyes rained in scarcity of loved souls,was her work.
I was shook by her singing but not pleased. I had heard such kind of singing first in life.
The scar in my cheeks suddenly ached. I rubbed the place with some rain water smudged in my palm. My other hand hardened the fist on umbrella. I looked at the coffin one last time and then at the woman embracing it so dearly. She must be his wife.
The concrete that was digged before the grave read a name, CaptainLatin Jousef. A proud martyr in Operation Holey Artisan Terrorist attack.*
It was necessary to visit the funeral of an army as other army's wife. Bilal's group captain was no more. In the same operation Bilal disappeared. From this world. From my life. Oh,yes. How hard to believe,Bilal died.
" Shall we go now,Mrs Husna?" the driver asked politely. I nodded slightly.
The violin lady with a soft tune ended her melody. No one noticed her leaving. A black coat was adorned around her body with knee length. I stared at her retreating back for a moment and left the silent,lifeless spot.
"Stop at the Kabrsthan (graveyard). I again want to see Bilal before going back" I announced him before sliding the door of the car. The kashmiri shawl I had around me was wet at the back,so I put it aside on the car seat.
Everytime I thought of visiting Bilal's grave, something inside me cracked. A breaking sound,a hollow of sadness and some echoes collided into each other. My throat became heavy when I watched the grave from afar.
