Bad Bone by Mehreen Ahmed
The cafe hummed a note of non-rhythmic jingle. Mila Rahman sat with a glass of sparkling water reading Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night; deep in reading, she took a sip occasionally. As it stands, the passages of infidelity bothered her more than the stylistic complexity of the book. It resonated of something that she did not wish to remember. A wind picked up just outside the glassed window. Her attention diverted because of an intermittent, yet twiggy knock on the pane. A gum tree stood tall; a sudden blast tore off a branch and felled it on the sill. Mila looked at it briefly and resumed with her study of the characters.
A sea of snow; the whispering winds of quietness. She reflected on a placid icy slope of a winter afternoon; silent like a still painting, her face stood out amongst the cafe crowd. Not a sore thumb, as there were others like her too, but with more sprightly, appealing demeanours. It eluded Mila. Carefree, she thought. Something tore her in the gut. She conferred with an inner self and tried to understand a joy colluded with despair. Not known to her, why had it always been like that? To not to be able to seperate the clashing emotions fused within the unmarked boundaries of her soul. Her soul never at peace, never resting, oscillated between here and there; between this temporal world of the body and elsewhere, a life of the mind or of the spirit. Of the mind, she noted with care. An inner self of being, where dreams took place, more so in hibernation. Hibernation was the word. For that was a long journey. It offered no reprieve from dreaming on a continuum. In awakening, the tall green grass now turned into straw. Dehydration caused hallucination of the mind. The letter came way too late, her fate could have turned. But no, that was not written in the stars. Written off. Love written off. She couldn’t break someone’s heart by accepting. For accepting the letter meant, a defeat for Papri. Married, yes, but she had married him, while his realisation of love for Mila came afterwords. But it was too late by then. He had already married. Married, yes, but there was dilemma, which Papri never knew, even to this day.
But Papri had no where else to go. He married her and then left her by herself. Long overdue. Forlorn. For she didn’t know what had happened to him. Mila received his love letters, one too many. An imminent affair loomed at her doorstep. Nearly knocked her over. She read the letter but did not respond. A marriage of the heart very well could have been. But the grass had been dehydrated by then. The dehydrated grass had turned into straw. Then the brittle straw clung on to the earth for dear life. She went into a quiet hibernation. Now there was a stream of straw whose tortured roots lay rooted to the soil. The soil made of sand, caved into its roots. Nurtured it not, the soil lay hollow. Then there was a hole. A hole in the soil where she slept in awakening and she dreamt of nothing. But hunger acted up. Hunger she ate all day. She walked in a dream. Dream of a life. Listened to the spring birds. Broke the silence of the morn. There was silence in her heart. It whispered, not but a dirge. For it was spring. Love in the air. The air was fresh, Mila sat under an apple tree. Fresh red apples hung over her. An apple tree burdened with fruit. Burdened. Her heavy heart burdened; so many memories. If one could paint them, then there would be many shades of red. She buried herself deeper into the burrow. The hole which she clawed. She picked up the dirt with her own two hands. The dirt which slithered between the five fingers. It slithered right through. The waves of her thoughts, flowed undulated. She wanted to see him now. After many seasons, she wanted to know what he looked like. She gave him up for Papri because she was a homeless orphan. She had given him away only to find him after all these years. Age and ageing broke her. Broken bones but not bad bones. Would it be bad to want him back in her life? She didn’t have a single bad bone they said. Alas! It was the paradox that killed her. The poison ivy crushed her unduly. Creepers, the ivy poison, crept up the spine first. The love potion, at its best worked like magic, at its worst a delusion. Maybe, it was delusion. She never really wanted him. She was better off without him perhaps. Leave him to his nemesis, to his Papri, one that he married, then he had second thoughts and wished that he had not married for he loved Mila. That was what he thought. And his thought turned in a while, and then he took Papri back. Papri in Bengali, meant petal in English. She was like that soft and sensitive. She used to say, look at me, how I’m embracing death; this world too harsh; far too harsh. And that was the truth. Yes, it perhaps was but for her, who never even tried to do much.
Mila dug deeper into her trench. She dodged a bullet. It could have taken its toll. He would never have understood, let alone accept. For much too much, far more engrossed, with money and matter and materialism. She on the other hand, soared on the wings of poesy for sure. It would not have worked out for her. In the end, a realisation, it was better this way. She pulled herself up and out of the burrow. The leaves under the tree crunchy and brown. Brown, a natural process of decay, but brown because they paved a way to new life. The dehydrated grass, had turned into straw, when she hibernated. The straw now turned back into green grass. She felt content. Shades of pink turned her reds around. She felt not just content but she, young again. She was a sheaf of corn; the life giving properties of the sun; sprinklings of water. Back to the waves where life began as did hope and optimism. Optimism and hope replaced the drought of the soul, and the nihilism of the thought.
https://storylandliteraryreview.wordp...
A sea of snow; the whispering winds of quietness. She reflected on a placid icy slope of a winter afternoon; silent like a still painting, her face stood out amongst the cafe crowd. Not a sore thumb, as there were others like her too, but with more sprightly, appealing demeanours. It eluded Mila. Carefree, she thought. Something tore her in the gut. She conferred with an inner self and tried to understand a joy colluded with despair. Not known to her, why had it always been like that? To not to be able to seperate the clashing emotions fused within the unmarked boundaries of her soul. Her soul never at peace, never resting, oscillated between here and there; between this temporal world of the body and elsewhere, a life of the mind or of the spirit. Of the mind, she noted with care. An inner self of being, where dreams took place, more so in hibernation. Hibernation was the word. For that was a long journey. It offered no reprieve from dreaming on a continuum. In awakening, the tall green grass now turned into straw. Dehydration caused hallucination of the mind. The letter came way too late, her fate could have turned. But no, that was not written in the stars. Written off. Love written off. She couldn’t break someone’s heart by accepting. For accepting the letter meant, a defeat for Papri. Married, yes, but she had married him, while his realisation of love for Mila came afterwords. But it was too late by then. He had already married. Married, yes, but there was dilemma, which Papri never knew, even to this day.
But Papri had no where else to go. He married her and then left her by herself. Long overdue. Forlorn. For she didn’t know what had happened to him. Mila received his love letters, one too many. An imminent affair loomed at her doorstep. Nearly knocked her over. She read the letter but did not respond. A marriage of the heart very well could have been. But the grass had been dehydrated by then. The dehydrated grass had turned into straw. Then the brittle straw clung on to the earth for dear life. She went into a quiet hibernation. Now there was a stream of straw whose tortured roots lay rooted to the soil. The soil made of sand, caved into its roots. Nurtured it not, the soil lay hollow. Then there was a hole. A hole in the soil where she slept in awakening and she dreamt of nothing. But hunger acted up. Hunger she ate all day. She walked in a dream. Dream of a life. Listened to the spring birds. Broke the silence of the morn. There was silence in her heart. It whispered, not but a dirge. For it was spring. Love in the air. The air was fresh, Mila sat under an apple tree. Fresh red apples hung over her. An apple tree burdened with fruit. Burdened. Her heavy heart burdened; so many memories. If one could paint them, then there would be many shades of red. She buried herself deeper into the burrow. The hole which she clawed. She picked up the dirt with her own two hands. The dirt which slithered between the five fingers. It slithered right through. The waves of her thoughts, flowed undulated. She wanted to see him now. After many seasons, she wanted to know what he looked like. She gave him up for Papri because she was a homeless orphan. She had given him away only to find him after all these years. Age and ageing broke her. Broken bones but not bad bones. Would it be bad to want him back in her life? She didn’t have a single bad bone they said. Alas! It was the paradox that killed her. The poison ivy crushed her unduly. Creepers, the ivy poison, crept up the spine first. The love potion, at its best worked like magic, at its worst a delusion. Maybe, it was delusion. She never really wanted him. She was better off without him perhaps. Leave him to his nemesis, to his Papri, one that he married, then he had second thoughts and wished that he had not married for he loved Mila. That was what he thought. And his thought turned in a while, and then he took Papri back. Papri in Bengali, meant petal in English. She was like that soft and sensitive. She used to say, look at me, how I’m embracing death; this world too harsh; far too harsh. And that was the truth. Yes, it perhaps was but for her, who never even tried to do much.
Mila dug deeper into her trench. She dodged a bullet. It could have taken its toll. He would never have understood, let alone accept. For much too much, far more engrossed, with money and matter and materialism. She on the other hand, soared on the wings of poesy for sure. It would not have worked out for her. In the end, a realisation, it was better this way. She pulled herself up and out of the burrow. The leaves under the tree crunchy and brown. Brown, a natural process of decay, but brown because they paved a way to new life. The dehydrated grass, had turned into straw, when she hibernated. The straw now turned back into green grass. She felt content. Shades of pink turned her reds around. She felt not just content but she, young again. She was a sheaf of corn; the life giving properties of the sun; sprinklings of water. Back to the waves where life began as did hope and optimism. Optimism and hope replaced the drought of the soul, and the nihilism of the thought.
https://storylandliteraryreview.wordp...
No comments have been added yet.
