Free counter and web stats Zubaidah Arshad: November Rain

30.4.07

November Rain

November Rain

Two

Water drips enchantingly like beads dropping to the floor from an untie necklace, splattering upon striking a hard surface. The zinc roof Hussin had salvaged from a junk yard 14 miles from his home now is badly rusted and stained. Tiny holes with various sizes are everywhere, scattering from one end to the other on that perforated sun shield which the shaft of dusty sunlight will be seeping through on hot sunny day, resembling a strand of light saber pointing sharp to the ground. That tiny cubicle covered by the roof had served Hussin for many years (half a century, more or less) and is the abode for Hussin, once. But now, the clean entrance that leads to his house is coated with grime and dirt – waiting for someone to sweep it away, just like it used to be. At one corner in his no-room house, a woman just septuagenarian as he is, lies statically flat and stares blankly to the splashing crystals that drenching from the wavy roof.

Nature is playing its melody outside. The sound of wind is so eerie that it brings together a massive gush of torrential rain. It is enormous. The sounds of clapping thunder, howling wind, tapping downpour and streaming water are so eclectic that somehow it is a reminiscent of an orchestra with its grandeur masterpiece, conducted meticulously by no one. Mumtaz – motionless on the floor, religiously listens to this song of God. She has been listening for more than a month now and yet she couldn’t remember how the lyric sounds like. Because the tunes keep changing everyday, she can’t cope to attend to it anymore.

She is helpless in her grubby robe, no shampoo smell but stinky and her stench is so sickening. Mumtaz just like that for weeks and she refuses to bath, change her clothing or even move to the lavatory for a session of pee. God loves her that her neighbors are so sympathetic that they give her foods and to some extent, feed her not to let her die, alone. Her lips utter the prayer just like Hussin does.

“Allah Thy Creator! Give me strength for Thou art Thy Beneficent, Thy Merciful. Show my son his way home if he is alive and wash the sins he had succumbed if he no more breathing. And if he is really died, I beseech upon you My God, Thy Greatest to show me his body, not to let him afloat in open sea”

Anger is not the feeling that bulging but the pain it is that pounding inside her heart. Such a long wait is so throbbing which every second that passes by is nothing but mere a lethal torture.

“Amma misses Rafeeq so much”, the unabashed tears pour again, she wipes and it leaks for one more time – and she counting (with a little bud of blooming hope) the day when she will see her son again.

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