They stopped just outside the main area of Charminar, the driver of the auto rickshaw refused to go any further, tipping his head forward and whispering, “maf karte, maf karte bhai.”
No one noticed the furtive glance he gave the woman in the backseat, her stole barely covering the brightness of her dark mahogany hair. So unbecoming, and yet enchanting, every wisp curled around her sun warmed face catching rays of light.
Dire times call for taking safer measures and so he had to refuse, thinking of traveling into the district of Charminar with such a being in his backseat, thought to be unforgivable by many. He could only feel sorry for the man sitting beside her, his face already furrowed as he searched through his wallet for the correct amount of rupees. He cannot even warn his own brother, who sits innocent and unassuming beside his own unforgivable decisions. Instead he only takes the rupees from the man’s outstretched hand, briefly presses them to his forehead and whispers, “Khuda haafiz,” driving away without a second look back.
The couple stood on the busy street, their hands briefly touching before he coughed and put his hands in his pockets. She looked at him, slightly confused, before smiling and holding the purse slung over her shoulder closer to her body. He caught her gentle smile, thinking back on how many times she had gifted him with the glimpse of her innocent happiness. He thought of the way the sun caught her deep chestnut hair, of the slender shape of her body beneath the long sky blue salwar kameez she wore, the brightness of her eyes when she looked at him, the soft english accent at the ends of her hindi words. He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze and began to walk towards the four tall minarets standing strong in the distance.
She looked sideways at him as they walked, at the dark stubble along the strong pale jawline, the way his eyes had always been so gentle and open, the honesty of his wide smile, the length of him causing her to always tip her chin back to meet his gaze, and his strong wide shoulders a protection against the disapproving opinions of their union. How he had quietly taught her the ways of his culture, allowed her to reverently watch him has he did his namaaz, and sat beside her tolerantly as she followed her pundit’s tape recorded chants during her monthly pujas.
And, here they were, in the city of nizams, a world crossed by many religions and cultures like layers and layers of years of traditions and existence.
Behind the doors of the stores they crossed, men sat in their long white robes and white topis, and the less crisply dressed shop boys sat on the front steps, shamelessly singling out passerbys with their raucous whistling, “Oye, madam! Idhur dekho, bhaisaab!”
She could see stacks upon stacks of cloth bolts, from silk to crepe to the purest imported georgette arranged in order of colors on white shelves. Stands filled with bright shining bangles, some tinkling faintly in the breeze from passing traffic. Ribbons cascading down from the tops of windows, dress hang precariously from shop eaves, and curves of Arabic script adorned the tops of store signs. She caught herself idling in front of a shop full of the most ornately embroidered saris, watching the shopowner unroll meters upon meters of the palest pink.
“Aatma!” the deep timbre of his voice called over the noise, tinged with a little frantic edge.
She looked back, her eyes wide in surprise, and she quickened her pace to catch up alongside him on the crowded street. He looked down at her, a corner of his mouth pulled down into a subconscious frown.
“I’m sorry, Rehaan. I didn’t realize it would be so easy to get lost here,” embarrassed, she looked away from his gaze, sensing the quiet hurt resting just behind his dark eyes.
She felt him pull her sheer black chunni from her shoulders and wrap it carefully around her hair and forehead with an almost practiced hand.
“Here, it is best that you stay close to me, Aatma,” he spoke as he tucked her dark curls behind the cloth, “I would say that it is not so safe for you.”
She could almost hear the unmentioned words “you and your kind” echoing behind his sentence. He shifted his feet, and continued his walk towards Charminar.
The only women who passed by him wore long black robes, covered their hair, and half their faces, leaving only their enchanting eyes to interpretation. He thought, almost embarrassed, of Aatma’s open expressions, her loud laugh, and long, streaming mahogany tresses. Things that he had fallen in love with. Things his culture deemed precious enough to hide in modesty.
Although through twenty-five years, mistakes have been made and learned from, the heart is still foolish and it cries.
He could feel its burden on his shoulders, this love that had caused so much pain. He could feel its heavy hand against his neck, a suffocating supression of the severest degree.
It must’ve been three years ago when his life first started falling apart. It began with coffee dates, turned fast into spending all nighters together, into finding himself dreaming about her carefree smile, her slight stature, and her soft kiss.
When was it? That he began to value her happiness more than what meant most to him before? And before he realized, she had become his greatest weakness. How many weeks was it? That he had prayed for the strength to end their blissful union?
And yet, he couldn’t. That every time she lay in his arms, surrendering herself to only him, he shed tears for his own terrible weakness. An internal turmoil, boiled beneath his skin, of wrds choked upon on the long calls home to his parents. It only ended in their trust forever broken, their conservative dreams left cracked and sodden. His mother’s broken screams and his father’s quiet disapproval. That with his gift of graduation he gave them the news of his love for a South Indian Hindu girl.
It had taken them a year to begin to accept his phone calls again.
He felt like he had betrayed Him and all He loved. Would there be redemption? He looked towards Charminar, and thought to himself, that it was too late. The closet minar towered above him, the green and white flags streaming in the wind. He tipped his head back, placed a hand against the aged rock, running his fingers over the tiny Arabic inscriptions on its surface. Vaguely, he thought he might not be who he thought he was.
And, there are ways of extinguishing this world.
She had fallen behind again, but she kept his tall presence ever at the edge of her own vision. Bitterly, she thought of how it had been that way for the past couple weeks. Forever being steps behind him.
When was it that their happiness had become tainted with their differences? This tension, like a taught string, pulled at her heart and its sharp finger jabbed unfeelingly at that soft place betweeen her ribs. She watched the women around her, their shapeless robes fluttering in the small breeze, their eyes piercing from behind their hijab. She pulled her chunni tighter around her own hair, aware of the men who watched her from alleys and shop windows.
What were their glances saying? That she could never be who she most wanted to be. No one would accept it. Was it not her own fault that he suffered now, and that it was too late for him to ever make amends? The dust clouded her eyes, and she looked down at her feet. Her hands had curled into fists, long delicate nail prints embedded in her palms. It was like a barrier, this strong wall between them, supported by two religions.
But, for her, it was a choice of giving something up. And, for him, it was a matter of accepting what she had to offer. She stopped walking, reaching the first corner of Charminar, and looked up to the sky. She strained her neck back and tried to see the topmost spire, like a long needle pointing straight into the clear, cloudless heavens. Putting up her palms, she pressed against the invisible wall, but it wouldnt budge. It never would.
And not even the gold metal wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand would save her this time.
Allaahu Akbar
Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah …
He raised his head at the call to prayer, the voices reverberating through the small streets of Charminar from the multiple mosques located in the district. The mix of Telugu and Hindi on the streets temporarily drowned out by the echoing words sung with reverence. He had to hurry, if he expected to impose on those who waited for him, there would be no second chance. He doubled his steps, nimbly avoiding the potholes and trash piled on the sides of the alleyways. He searched for the name of the tiny sewing shop that would indicate the start of the street he searched for. And there it was. “Amir Tailors,” the cardboard sign above a tiny square shaped shop read, its shelves filled with colors of material and in the corner, a tiny pedal powered sewing machine. The old man sitting behind the machine looked up for a second, saw him standing and staring up at the sign, and raised his hand in greeting. He raised his hand in return, and nodded to himself. This must be the right alley.
He looked down the tunnel-like street, the crowded mess of wires and poles and half-hazardly stacked buildings piled on either side of the narrow gully. The small shops, in their sad pitiful existences, lay quiet and abandoned. He hoped that the people waiting for him haven’t left for prayers, like the rest of the alley has. He took his measured steps slowly, picking his way through the lane like it was the edge of a ravine, the ropes and tendrils lying in wait to trip him and drag him down to the depths of his conscience. He watched with a rise of panic just behind his teeth, the glares he could feel from the darkness of corners and rooftops. He reached out with shaking hands to feel the crumbling walls and solitary steps, expecting them to betray his weight and reveal his mistakes.
Exhausted, with his heart beating rapidly, he turned the corner to face the wall of a masjid. The light green wash, with dark green letters inscribed just over the small doorway, not a light shone to illuminate its dwelling in the dim alley. The hall already emptied of presence after the afternoon namaaz, rugs folded away in the corner, and the dark marble floor wiped clean. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath of the stifling alley air before stepping over the threshold into the place of religous presence.
“Rehaan jaan,” an old voice wavered from the corner of the hall.
He looked over, felt his way in darkness only to have his knees knock against an old wooden desk. But he immediately took the old, wrinkled hand outstretched to him and kissed it, saying, “As-salamu Alaykum.”
Peering into the dark corner, he could only make out an old bearded face, wearing a wise smile. Without saying a word more, the old man stood up from his chair behind the desk to open a drawer hidden somewhere. The drawer creaked open, seeming to hold a weight much larger than it been meant for.
He held his breath, felt a presence in the open hall that he hadn’t felt before, like the unveiling of memories fluttering down from high ceilings to rest in his open hands. His eyes, hungrily taking in the sharp outlines of an object in the old man’s hands, blinked often to clear his vision of thick settled dust and his arms involuntarily stretched out like he was a child wanting to be carried.
And into his arms, it was gently placed, and briefly in the light, Rehaan looked into the eyes of the old man who gave him what he had been searching for the past year. Coffee colored irises filled with, he strived to find a word to fit his feeling, and thought that maybe the closest would be compassion. Then again, maybe it was pain and suffering. The light from the doorway shone like beams into the old man’s face, every wrinkle cast stark against shadows, every white hair glistening in reprieve from the accustomed darkness. A soul searching gaze he was susceptible to, as he realized just a little too late, feeling like his heart was read, every cell and fiber in his body laid open for interpretation. Shamefully, he broke contact and looked down at the heavy book in his arms. The cover beaten, the pages bent, the script on the cover almost completely worn, but his lips took shape of the title, a wordless muttering perhaps that in this moment of discovery he uttered, “Qu’ran.”
He flipped the cover over, and as if by fate, the pages opened up to a hidden photograph, like a lost leaf tucked into the first pages of prayer. At first glimpse, he found himself staring into a worn photograph of a little boy, his white topi already stained from a day’s dust and play and his white kurta half torn and trailing threads. Eyes like his, long, almond shaped, and a similar smile to the one he saw every morning in the mirror, one corner of his lip lifted just a little higher than the other. And there it was, the tiny dimple in one cheek, and that small mole by his left ear. Fingers long and lean, like his father’s, nose strong and aquiline like his mother’s, and the thick fringe of eyelashes adorned over the large eyes, black like freshly paved tar.
He blinked, turned his hand over to find tears falling into the palm of his hand, freely, tears that he hadn’t allowed himself to shed after the fated phone call from a distant family. A phone call that gave him news of a chance of amends forever lost, fallen into oblivion without retrieval. A son must always ask for his father’s forgiveness.
But he would never be forgiven, now. It was too late. The heart, that weak organ, playing with emotions, failed both father and son. With the back of his hand he wiped away the tears, but the sobs continued, and hugging that holy book to his chest he could only think of how his father’s love was pressed between the old pages, in the form of a white bordered photograph.
She waited for the summons to prayer to finish playing from the speakers hanging precariously from various minarets in the vicinity before she crumpled against the fourth minar of Charminar. Briefly, she thought of building bridges, thought of burning them, of starting over. A love so stinging, that it brought tears to the corner of her eyes, delicately trailing down the sides of her fair face before burying themselves in the damp hollow of her collarbone. But she would realize, before it was too late, of how giving too much of herself left her nothing of her own. That over the years, she would have to let something go in order to move on. Standing up, she placed a hand against the massive pillar, her other palm covering her tear stained face. Taking the edge of her stole, she wiped her cheeks, but new tears trailed down her cheeks and sobs threatened to tear from her throat. Courage, needed so desperately, as she tried to gain strength from the age old monument that towered over her in its quiet magnificence. Perhaps it was time to stop moving mountains, to stick with what the age old restrictions lectured behind the barely cracked doors of ancient culture. Maybe she had hoped for too much, thinking that love would conquer. Oh foolish thought.
She found herself chuckling, and a wave of sadness threatened to crest from her throat, but she fought back, swallowing her tears and sobs with the grace expected of her. She looked towards the West, to the setting sun lighting the tin roofs and silver minarets afire, blazing in the last brilliance of day. Thinking that night cannot last forever, because there will always be a dawn to chase away the ghosts of yesterday.
It was with that lingering thought that she straightened herself and raised her slender hand. As the closest auto rickshaw halted only feet in front of her, its driver leaning out of his seat with a questioning look, she stopped for the barest second. A breath’s pause of slight doubt, because a bridge burned cannot ever be crossed again.
But she pushed herself into the backseat of the auto, already trying to forget how it ended or began.
