Kashmir is a fascinating place as we talk about seasons and the beautifying chemistry it is composed of. Each season is unique in its own ways and in its own manifestation. One might fail to tell that by which season one is smitten the most. Seasons in here confuse you as they are pure, crystal clear, presented by God in their original shape, always. I was no exception.
A confused teenager before I became so given over to her and to autumn, alone because of her. Earlier, I liked spring – flowers, bees. Earlier, I liked things that made me happy. I liked summer sweltering heat. I wished the rain that would have soaked me through & through. I liked autumn the death of leaves’ breath. I liked following up the dragon flies, catching them I liked to look at the grey haze. I marveled, then what fog, really was. And, I liked winter I liked to wrap myself in a blanket and hide myself in the corner of the room, avoiding chills. And, I liked snow and rains. I wished to hide myself from the blistering cold, I liked whatever. This was my story too. This is who I’d choose to be. This was all about me. Only I didn’t recognize that I had not yet begun.
She and I were both young and even when I first saw her. I remember that day, even today & very clearly. When she was fronting like a deep red rose amongst the deep blue saffron flowers. Or, precisely like a god send queen in a world; which was bleak, having no sign of life. I did not wish a moment to dance my eyes around and forget out a moment of her sheer cuteness when she was swaying her hands on those saffron flowers. I kept doing evils; looking for her, with a thievish look in my hazel eyes, without her consent. I did nothing about the lunacy of my eyes. She kept holding up the saffron flowers, sniffing them with heavy breaths, then smiled at them and put them in the basket, like a child. I did not know what was bumping into me out there. My heart was melting for her cunning ways. I wanted to pour away my heart, right there, to her. Despite of that, I had learned many theories about love and about being content with oneself.
But, I hung to patience and endless wait.
After this, I made a few tentative steps toward her, and asked,What you are up to?”
She looked at me, a stranger, and I discovered she had found me way little too much awkward to talk to. Then, I felt a little too much discouraged, thinking what she was going to do next. I imagined it could go any worse now. Particularly, if I would have stood in there desirous to ask her any further.
Consequently, I infinitesimally walked away from her when she coughed ,Ahem, ahem!”
Me?” I responded, confused.
And she nodded her head, while her cheeks were little too much blushed like a dwarf star.
Everything seemed little too much at that time. Little too much smile on her cheeks, like a calm water body is agitated by a pebble causing it to form ripples. Were my eyes pebbles’ or was it my heart, wonderl.
A little too much love seemed likely to happen; A little too much feeling of a happiness wasn’t now a tough thing.
A little too much of chemistry was no entertainment, but the reality;
A little too much compelling to breathe air in seemed the next life;
A little too much of anything and everything around seemed good;
A little too much of dreaming the beautiful things didn’t seem awkward;
It took me little much of me, and little too much time to get lost, until I discovered, I had gone so into her.
Insulation from the love seemed an unacceptable thing.
So, your name is, Ms. Saffron?” I enquired, jokingly.
She burst out in tears, laughing and offered me a saffron flower. Before she could have passed it to me, I snatched it from her, and picked up as that was a hallmark of our love.
Then it showered dreadfully to a drought earth that day. A rain of love, without committing that we both were smitten with each other like two parrots.
I would see her in the same saffron fields every other Sunday. We never committed to each other that what we meant for each other. That totally made sense when we would look into each other’s eyes. Even so,that wouldn’t last too long. Not even for a 10 seconds, I estimate.
On one cold January day, she was waiting on for me there, I’d been lately for some work into town. Simply, why she was there was only my fault. Because I’d assured her that I’d be in there at sharp 3 P.M.
In those days, mobile phones weren’t way too common thing.
Plus, the love in purer forms, was.
At any rate, I managed to be there at 3:20 P.M.
When destined my destiny, I found out her garments and the torn pieces of clothing deployed throughout. I did not want to think that it was hers. I sat down weeping. Wailing. Whimpering. Punching down that turfy land. Shouting out to the skies. How could you do this to me?
Why would you? How could you? Why would you?’
This got worse and heavy when I saw her corpse laying the adjacent embankment.
I couldn’t witness the way she rested.
I desired not to believe the reality.
I desired not to sink in all this to my eyes.
And lo, somebody put their belt across my neck from the behind. And smothered me to death, without even revealing their faces to me. It was a favour to me, I opine.
Would I have been alive, I would have filed them a lawsuit, but never get a satisfying result from the law. I would have lived a painful life.
And then, they buried us. They buried us, side by side. As yet, no body knows about us, except us. Not even our own.
And, every night when the world turns the lights off, God does magic. Every night God orders the earth to give a little too much quake’ for us, and the air to drive a sailing wind across the saffron fields. The earth and the air are enslaved to God’s orders, and my grave rolls over a little too much, towards her grave. And her grave rolls over a little too much, towards mine.
And, by this way I set out to meet Ms. Saffron again, and she then offers me a saffron flower again and over again, each time. And before she could pass me the flower, I snatch that beforehand. Every time.
Every other saffron flower, oozes the water droplets out and cry. These flowers question God, why they are not lucky to be offered as a love sign, why they are not lucky to sacrifice for our love’s name.
And, I find the Love Story In The Saffron Fields’ in Islamabad, yet again. I find life in dead autumn, still again. I find the saffron flowers and my rose, besides me, every time. I am smitten with the trees sleeping in a state of death, and the saffron garden becoming
alive again. I am living my death. I am living the Love Story In Saffron Fields’, every time.
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