The longest tale: about a matter of time
The longest tale: about a matter of time
LOVE FROM IRAQ Poetry by Rukayya Zirapur First Impression: December 2018 © Rukayya Zirapur ISBN: 978-81-938195-9-3 Published by: Writersgram Publications, New Delhi www.writersgrampublications.com [email protected]
Rukayya Zirapur asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A Message Life is that stunt which can be played by flexibility. In that life, you’re flexible. So, do not miss the opportunity of becoming what all you can. Not all at once but at least in that One Life you are awarded with!
Author’s Note This book is grammatical error because that’s what makes it the best.
Prologue It’s funny when you come to know about husbands and not husband and wife. Life is funny, so the love? I was having my dinner after long hard day in the balcony of our room. Akram was still out with Sir Mahindra for his security. When after my dinner I stood up to keep things on their place and freshen up, I saw Riya comforting herself in the garden of Sir Mahindra’s bungalow.
It sounds creepy seeing someone sitting in the greenery who is not alike to other kids who love being in the garden and play for hours. Somewhere she looked frightened. Keeping everything on hold I washed my hands and rushed to her. “Is everything alright?’” she shook in fear as I kept my hand over her shoulder. “What happen, aren’t you fine?” she didn’t answer,
instead gets up and swipes back her leg to run away from the situation.
I knew something’s surely wrong but I also knew this is not the right time. If I could give my all to this little kid I would. I was eventually trying to think how I can bring her back from long deep thoughts she is engrossed in. I was filled with plenty questions. What’s wrong? Why did she suddenly choose to sit in the garden? Will she tell me? But, who am I to her and why would she tell me? Oh! I don’t get why it worried me, may because of the love for Sir Mahindra. Sir Mahindra was a retired army in 2015. I and Akram were working as security guards to his bungalow, and related stuffs. When I see Riya again in the late night gazing outside the window of her room, I go to her. I knocked the door and entered on her demand. I asked her again, “is everything alright? You can share with me. You’re like my sister, do not fear little girl.” “I’m not fine” she grabbed my palm placing it on her cheeks. “Things at school are
getting worst. I have never felt guilty about myself ever. I’m good at studies and score at my best.” “When you score good then what’s wrong?” I kneel down holding her hand. “I’m not a writer, that’s what hurts me the most.” “Why do you want to be a writer?” “Simply to win competitions, I want to be a writer. I was never before insulted as today. We had a competition to write a little short poetry of three hundred words. The topic was our choice. I wrote whatever I could but because they don’t believe they didn’t consider it as appealing. I made it rhyme and it took me nearly three hours to complete. Probably I worked hard on even what I find difficult” “What topic did you write on?”
“It was about love between two boys. I didn’t know that it doesn’t sound good in hearing. I just penned down what I could through my thoughts. There’s another competition but not in school, on Friday five days from today which says, ‘You have to write a longest poetry that sums up ones whole life.’ It’s difficult you know. How is that possible? I don’t want to lose.” People believe what they hear; they on the same time make others believe what cannot be even true. Love is not about having sex and making kids. Love is a precious feeling. We can develop it for anyone, anything that our heart finds appealing. Riya was upset not because she didn’t win. She said that it hurts when she loses, but I knew where she was going. If she can write something different from others, writing a story shouldn’t be that big. She was still stuck on why people don’t believe in gay and if she again writes on the same topic she will be humiliated all over again.
“Um it’s okay. I would help you write if only you don’t mind.”
“You’re a writer?” “I’m not a writer; I would tell you one story and you would frame it in your own words. Do not bother about the topic, just listen. Observation is the one unique quality of a writer, you should always be aware of it. If you then find it good, just go for it. Is it fine?’” I hold her tightly popping into her eyes. Riya was Sir Mahindra’s daughter’s daughter. Her mother died in an accident. She was grown by her grandparents, Sir Mahindra and his wife Dalima. She was 11 years old studying in STD 8th. It sounds shocking when you come to know about an 11 year old kid writing about love in three hundred words.
The topic was yet more shocking then the genre. It’s like when you suddenly see oil getting dissolved in water. It really sounds horrible, isn’t it? But you cannot even judge the generation. They are quite ahead from what you think.
Anyway, we sit down in the garden. I narrate her whole story. All situations, risks, love and laughs that were in the story catches her attention quickly. I could see her grabbing more and more attention as I continue further. It’s fun narrating your own story. It’s like you can laugh on your own funny jokes, situations and get lost in things that matters so much today. After it gets complete Riya silently stands up and walks inside the room. I knew she heard everything carefully and she would surely make it good. Meanwhile I feel a hand rolling over my shoulder as I was recalling everything and smiling for. I look back and oh! Akram is back.
“How are you doing my boy?” hugs me tightly. “I’m sorry for making it late but you know this job matters to both of us a lot.” I smile while he holds me from neck and kisses my forehead, off course like always (giggling). Akram Azizi is my husband. We haven’t yet lived the night after we got married, but can’t see a day without hugging each other and even kissing sometime. We sleep together but never in that way. Love is precious and we don’t know when we would eventually get lost in nights jumping off one another. We’re just two souls who love being together no matter what. It’s funny, I really understand but it’s totally okay. I don’t care ;) Then there comes Friday. When I rush out of the room hurriedly, I see Riya returning from the contest. That was a great day though. I give a pause suddenly and stop and ask her, “how wasss it, girl?” Keeps ink filled papers in my hand and takes one step back and gives a hugging post.
Obviously then I understand that she have actually rocked the stage. She says, “I didn’t win the first position, but people’s heart. I came second.” I could do nothing but smile for very long, “that’s my girl.” After completing the duty, I move towards the garden and sit on the bench. I open the rolled papers and start reading. I wanted to see how my girl presented it. It’s not that easy for every eleven year old kid, it needs dedication and intelligence. My eyes already turned red before I start reading. Those days were though difficult, leaves a remark of, ‘Love Exists- No matter what!’ Anyway, in between Akram comes from back. “What’s wrong?” I just keep those papers in his hand. “What’s this?” he asks “Our life in papers” I reply. He looks blank then takes a seat beside and reads it out loud....
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