November Rain - Two and A Half
Tap tap tap.
Water drips enchantingly like beads dropping to the floor from an untied 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 seep through on hot sunny day, resembling strand of light sabers 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 as old 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, performed meticulously by an invisible conductor. Sarimah – motionless on the floor, religiously listens to this song of God. She has been listening for more than a month now and yet she could not remember how the lyric sounds like. Because the tunes keep changing everyday, she cannot cope to attend to it anymore.
She is helpless in her grubby robe, no shampoo smell but stinky and her stench is so sickening. Sarimah 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.
“Ummi misses Rafeeq so much”, the unabashed tears pour again, she wipes and it leaks for one more time – and she counts (with a little bud of blooming hope) the day when she will see her son again.
Some times, or maybe some days, on the designated times when the neighbors flock in her house, some of them gleefully shoot a jealousy look to her, envying her courage and how sanguine she is waiting for someone who cannot even be sure whether he is coming back home or will never show up at all.
“There is no harm on waiting, my sisters”, she smiles, revealing her almost non-existent stained teeth, weaved with a series of small coughs from her dry throat.
Birds chirping from afar. At times, the East Coast breeze blows her whitish hair to prevail her wavy wrinkled forehead, an anecdote of many chapters on how long she has survived on this harsh land of either opportunities or calamities.
“Enlighten me, what else I can do except lie on this cold floor, staring blankly to this rusted roof and praying to our Almighty Allah that he will, on one sunny day, show up on that door, and tell me with his purest regret, that he has repented, following the route like our Muslim brothers go after.
“There was a moment, when the terror frightened me to death, I almost flat to black-out. Masha-Allah, unimaginable it is my sisters, for how tormenting it will be when the time he needs to cross that siratulmustaqim, the brutal repayment 6-feet under and the foremost, the ruthless interrogation by Munkar and Nakir”
Literally there is no sound transcends the moan from the crowd of seven people, delivering a sincere gesture of remorseful sorry to Sarimah, for what it seems an appropriate act for someone who needs a pat on her back. That gloomy rainy day on the mid October 1972, Sarimah’s prayers have exceeded her uncountable dripped eye tears, which is without a doubt, almost dried by now.
And Kassim’s voice still reverberates, finding no end.
Water drips enchantingly like beads dropping to the floor from an untied 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 seep through on hot sunny day, resembling strand of light sabers 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 as old 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, performed meticulously by an invisible conductor. Sarimah – motionless on the floor, religiously listens to this song of God. She has been listening for more than a month now and yet she could not remember how the lyric sounds like. Because the tunes keep changing everyday, she cannot cope to attend to it anymore.
She is helpless in her grubby robe, no shampoo smell but stinky and her stench is so sickening. Sarimah 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.
“Ummi misses Rafeeq so much”, the unabashed tears pour again, she wipes and it leaks for one more time – and she counts (with a little bud of blooming hope) the day when she will see her son again.
Some times, or maybe some days, on the designated times when the neighbors flock in her house, some of them gleefully shoot a jealousy look to her, envying her courage and how sanguine she is waiting for someone who cannot even be sure whether he is coming back home or will never show up at all.
“There is no harm on waiting, my sisters”, she smiles, revealing her almost non-existent stained teeth, weaved with a series of small coughs from her dry throat.
Birds chirping from afar. At times, the East Coast breeze blows her whitish hair to prevail her wavy wrinkled forehead, an anecdote of many chapters on how long she has survived on this harsh land of either opportunities or calamities.
“Enlighten me, what else I can do except lie on this cold floor, staring blankly to this rusted roof and praying to our Almighty Allah that he will, on one sunny day, show up on that door, and tell me with his purest regret, that he has repented, following the route like our Muslim brothers go after.
“There was a moment, when the terror frightened me to death, I almost flat to black-out. Masha-Allah, unimaginable it is my sisters, for how tormenting it will be when the time he needs to cross that siratulmustaqim, the brutal repayment 6-feet under and the foremost, the ruthless interrogation by Munkar and Nakir”
Literally there is no sound transcends the moan from the crowd of seven people, delivering a sincere gesture of remorseful sorry to Sarimah, for what it seems an appropriate act for someone who needs a pat on her back. That gloomy rainy day on the mid October 1972, Sarimah’s prayers have exceeded her uncountable dripped eye tears, which is without a doubt, almost dried by now.
And Kassim’s voice still reverberates, finding no end.
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