Last night when I lay in my bed, I knew exactly what I wanted to write. It was a sad night. I have been reading a tragic story of two young lads in Afghanistan during the Soviet rule. My eyes were puffy from crying over the tragic destinies the protagonists held for themselves. Then I wonder if I was really crying because of the book or was there something else mounting inside me.
It was almost dawn. I had been up to offer my fajr prayer and sat on my bed, switched on the Ikea table lamp and turned to the pages that unfolded a chain of events that brought me to tears yet again just like I had wept the last night. I decided to read no more.
Outside the window a new day had begun. The first light had seeped its way with the rising sun which had been there all the time just that we think it drowns everyday. Soft virgin air blew and the morning pale blue sky conquered last night’s mistakes.
It is early dawn, around 5 Am when the mulvis have given Azan and the mosques have created an ambience for the followers of Allah Almighty to bow their heads to seek redemption; ask for mercy, thank the Creator for the bountiful blessings and hope to keep them going in times of suffering and turmoil.
After I had closed the book and let the characters stay where they belong, I slipped in the warm bed, cozy from my last few hours’ impression. Dawn, early hours of the day. Peaceful and serene. The sky above and the trees below. Pages from the book fluttered as I curled myself underneath the brown and cream blanket. I dreamt. Perhaps the characters from the book escaped through the rough pirated pages and penetrated my dream. Dream I forgot. Blurry images and strong impressions dawned on me as I sank back into the oblivion.