My Silent Victory
She stood at the window and laughed. First small giggles, then a light rumble in her throat and then a loud guffaw till she laughed and laughed and laughed and didn't stop. The mother did not weep, she laughed. Her 22 yr old, young son and her 56 yr old husband had died in the vicious act of terror that had stripped the city of happiness for a brief moment. Her son had offered his seat to another passenger, an old lady, which brought him and his father to sit directly under the bomb that exploded at 6:24. No, their family was not poor and struggling for daily bread. No, her husband was not an ailing man. They were comfortable in their meager income, oblivious to cruelties of life in their little world of conditioned happiness. They had earned what may yearn for, fulfillment.
When she found the corpses, or rather the corpse, the only corpse of the two that was in an identifiable state, her husbands, it was lying in a pool of blood. No, no, the pool of blood was not just his. It was the blood of over two hundred men and women and children who were either dead, dying or still alive bleeding and burning and screaming for heavenly intervention. That blood had no religion, no ideology, no propaganda, no greed, no desire, although flowed with it the desires, the longing, the hope, the grief, the excruciating, piercing, shrieking grief of many. She ran her hand through over his burnt ump of hair for a head, suddenly obstructed by a protruding piece of metal from the thick of his skull. She tugged at it and fresh blood flowed. She cupped her hand and filled it with this blood attempting in vain to let it flow away and mix with the rest. She held her chunni under and drenched it with the blood, till the blood flowed no more. She tried to straighten his shirt, his mangled arm and amputated foot. She took of his other shoe. If he didn't have one, he wouldn't wear either, grace requires symmetry. She tried to rub the blackness of the burns away, but it stayed. The black burnt flesh, it stared, it stayed. She washed the corpse with water she brought from home. She washed him till no longer any unnatural element remained on him. She then called for the ward boys to put him on the stretcher. She laid him down straight and neat. She then attended to her son, her son's remains of a corpse, a burnt stump for a body up till his abdomen. It reeked as if to nature said, this is putrid, it is dead, it is burnt flesh bone and blood and it is putrid and you know what the shame is? It has been set ablaze like the lives of those tied to this tragedy; it has been set ablaze by human minds and human hands and human flesh, fresh human flesh blood and bone. Hah! She washed the corpse, her son. She put on a new pair of clothes for him jus like she did for his father and then she asked the ward boys to take it away.
No one was allowed to be there except her and Rafeeq, her younger son. Their neighbours were there. Anil uncle had taken Rafeeq to the hospital. He hadn't stopped puking and wailing for three days now, he had a fracture from the fall. He was still in shock and fell into alternate silences and bouts of hysteria. He had fallen flat at the site of his fathers blood drenched face, cracked skull, plucked eye sockets, the eyes had burnt right out of them, the nose and other features had just melted. She though had still not uttered a word. Her serenity frightened people around her. There were weeping in laws, Muhammads parents were dead. Ah their good fortune! Allah gave them peace. Many came and shook her, they gave her physical pain. The doctor even gave her medication. He was scared she would drive herself mad a notion that was made certain when she started laughing. The doctor was summoned immediately. All she kept saying was that she was fine, she was absolutely fine. When the doctor arrived he shook her. But she just giggled, a glint in her eye, her tender fingers covering her mouth. She turned away and giggled.
"Begum! Your husband and son are fine; they have just gone to Lucknow to meet ashraf miya! They are fine! They'll be back in a few days."
"Doctor miya, don't lie to me, my husband and son are fine. They are dead in the house of Allah, they are in jannat. I know that, ashraf chacha is on his way here to pay his condolences. I haven't gone crazy doctor miya, why doesn't anyone believe me!"
The doctor was clueless. All his knowledge and experience of the medical profession proved futile to him, he was unable to fathom this ladys ailment. she showed all medical and pyschological symptoms of a perfectly sane and normal human being. there were no ireggularities in her reports yet she was giggling away to glory. not a tear had she shed. He just extended the medication and said he would be back next week. He advised people around her not to speak to her especially not to lie to her but be around her to prevent her from acting in fit of rage.
That night begum ruksaana was sitting on terrace and she giggled as she looked at the stars, "They are so stupid, I tried but they don't stop crying. They don't understand. I will not cry, I will not be grieved. I will not give to those devils incarnate, the fulfillment they seek, and to know that their souls would burn in jahannum from the longing of my pain makes me happier. I will not cry Allah, keep Rafeeq and Muhammad safely."
Ruksaana died the next morning, and her face still bore a smile, a serene, beautiful heart warming smile. The priest who said the prayer for her last rites was heard saying, "she died a happy woman, so rarely found these days. May allah guard her soul."
Ah, the beauty in tragedy! Do you hear me shriek? Do you?
- sometime in the week of the bomb blasts
When she found the corpses, or rather the corpse, the only corpse of the two that was in an identifiable state, her husbands, it was lying in a pool of blood. No, no, the pool of blood was not just his. It was the blood of over two hundred men and women and children who were either dead, dying or still alive bleeding and burning and screaming for heavenly intervention. That blood had no religion, no ideology, no propaganda, no greed, no desire, although flowed with it the desires, the longing, the hope, the grief, the excruciating, piercing, shrieking grief of many. She ran her hand through over his burnt ump of hair for a head, suddenly obstructed by a protruding piece of metal from the thick of his skull. She tugged at it and fresh blood flowed. She cupped her hand and filled it with this blood attempting in vain to let it flow away and mix with the rest. She held her chunni under and drenched it with the blood, till the blood flowed no more. She tried to straighten his shirt, his mangled arm and amputated foot. She took of his other shoe. If he didn't have one, he wouldn't wear either, grace requires symmetry. She tried to rub the blackness of the burns away, but it stayed. The black burnt flesh, it stared, it stayed. She washed the corpse with water she brought from home. She washed him till no longer any unnatural element remained on him. She then called for the ward boys to put him on the stretcher. She laid him down straight and neat. She then attended to her son, her son's remains of a corpse, a burnt stump for a body up till his abdomen. It reeked as if to nature said, this is putrid, it is dead, it is burnt flesh bone and blood and it is putrid and you know what the shame is? It has been set ablaze like the lives of those tied to this tragedy; it has been set ablaze by human minds and human hands and human flesh, fresh human flesh blood and bone. Hah! She washed the corpse, her son. She put on a new pair of clothes for him jus like she did for his father and then she asked the ward boys to take it away.
No one was allowed to be there except her and Rafeeq, her younger son. Their neighbours were there. Anil uncle had taken Rafeeq to the hospital. He hadn't stopped puking and wailing for three days now, he had a fracture from the fall. He was still in shock and fell into alternate silences and bouts of hysteria. He had fallen flat at the site of his fathers blood drenched face, cracked skull, plucked eye sockets, the eyes had burnt right out of them, the nose and other features had just melted. She though had still not uttered a word. Her serenity frightened people around her. There were weeping in laws, Muhammads parents were dead. Ah their good fortune! Allah gave them peace. Many came and shook her, they gave her physical pain. The doctor even gave her medication. He was scared she would drive herself mad a notion that was made certain when she started laughing. The doctor was summoned immediately. All she kept saying was that she was fine, she was absolutely fine. When the doctor arrived he shook her. But she just giggled, a glint in her eye, her tender fingers covering her mouth. She turned away and giggled.
"Begum! Your husband and son are fine; they have just gone to Lucknow to meet ashraf miya! They are fine! They'll be back in a few days."
"Doctor miya, don't lie to me, my husband and son are fine. They are dead in the house of Allah, they are in jannat. I know that, ashraf chacha is on his way here to pay his condolences. I haven't gone crazy doctor miya, why doesn't anyone believe me!"
The doctor was clueless. All his knowledge and experience of the medical profession proved futile to him, he was unable to fathom this ladys ailment. she showed all medical and pyschological symptoms of a perfectly sane and normal human being. there were no ireggularities in her reports yet she was giggling away to glory. not a tear had she shed. He just extended the medication and said he would be back next week. He advised people around her not to speak to her especially not to lie to her but be around her to prevent her from acting in fit of rage.
That night begum ruksaana was sitting on terrace and she giggled as she looked at the stars, "They are so stupid, I tried but they don't stop crying. They don't understand. I will not cry, I will not be grieved. I will not give to those devils incarnate, the fulfillment they seek, and to know that their souls would burn in jahannum from the longing of my pain makes me happier. I will not cry Allah, keep Rafeeq and Muhammad safely."
Ruksaana died the next morning, and her face still bore a smile, a serene, beautiful heart warming smile. The priest who said the prayer for her last rites was heard saying, "she died a happy woman, so rarely found these days. May allah guard her soul."
Ah, the beauty in tragedy! Do you hear me shriek? Do you?
- sometime in the week of the bomb blasts
posted by all day long i think of things.. at 11:59 AM
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