Azhar Shabir
“I can’t live a moment without you” may seemingly be a line, but it is a complete pledge in itself that a girl had made with a boy to whom she was one in a million.
They happened to virtually meet each other on Facebook, yet it was more than real and delightful.
Both being readers of Rumi, they held on to love and would usually discuss the fate of the moth willingly setting itself ablaze. The unfortunate end of the moth would even make them cry, and they would console and control each other’s tears with the promises they had made in facing every obstacle of their future smilingly. It was this hope that used to keep them awake for the next day, as they believed that ‘hopelessness is a complete halt.’
Followed by weeks of uncertainty, the Indian Government suddenly, one night, snapped communication services, and the next day announced access restrictions to Kashmiri lands for outsiders. This announcement created shockwaves for the lovers and all the people living around them. As expected, such unilateral decisions generated a huge outcry that soon engulfed the entire valley.
Educational institutions, transportation, tourism, and internet services were stopped. But beyond all this, hundreds of lovers shading themselves in the blazing Chinar leaves, walking past the mustard fields, in the bosom of rivers, and by the boulevard of Dal Lake, the mere act of two persons walking hand in hand turned into a mere dream, as the movement of the public was disallowed, and a curfew imposed with thousands of soldiers in riot gear manning the streets.
Such restrictions were put in place to ensure that a civilian uprising would not unfold. Even after ordering these many restrictions, the decision-makers, uncertain about what may unfold, detained thousands of people.
For the two lovers, Aayat and Furqan, the world seemed to shrink into a narrow razor-size trough, each living in complete isolation, they never had dreamt of. Their separation was a loss to love; each would keep thinking about the other, missing the joy they used to share before.
The turmoil killed hopes for all alike, and lovers were no different.
Furqan’s mind reverberated with the thought that if a letter could reveal to his beloved how lonely he is feeling, how separation has clipped the wings of his heart. This thought couldn’t save him; it died there in the imagination, where memory served its graveyard as he was breathing in Shahid’s country without a post office.
Aayat was no less in pain; she had no one to express herself to. There was nobody to listen to her silent tears and hiccups that she kept absorbing in the pillow.
She used to pass her miserable moments of a lover in exile, reading Rumi, and this was the only source that could remind her of the loving and peaceful conversations she shared with Furqan.
While the valley was suffering, and the communication lockdown was extended, Aayat managed to accompany her widowed mother to Delhi for a medical check-up. The moment their vehicle entered Punjab, Aayat’s happiness knew no bounds; she could at least now have a picture of Furqan saved from his Facebook profile.
While scrolling, her body began to shiver; tears at once started bursting, and she began crying loudly. What she saw on the internet was the dead body of her beloved Furqan, who had been hit by a bullet in his head while on the way to his home.
Unfortunately, the news of his death reached Aayat after a gap of two days, that too while being away from her home. As she was on the way to Delhi, she had to console herself and her ailing mother; this wasn’t an easy task.
Losing a beloved and accompanying your sick mother while bearing the sensations of separation inside.
For Aayat, love died while pain and memory survived. This incident has added to her mental trauma, and she is suffering to date.
Inspired by a real story, the names in this story have been changed.