The Burg was deluged with heavy downpour. Showers in a void day always induced grey cerebrations in me. I was lotus(sitting) against the window. The raindrops flowing in a slow stream against the sill of the window. My musings was interrupted by the echo of the doorbell across the empty hallway.
“Finally! It must be..”, I aforementioned to myself.
I cantered downstairs towards the russet wooden frame door, clutched the brass, mughal motif designed doorknob. A reassuring but sensation of fear of being wrong reverberated in me like an onomatopoeia. Languidly I opened the egress.
I collapsed to my knees. The rain continued to show no mercy. There was no one there at the door. I dragged myself back to my desk in the study.
I’ve been reading your articles and stories here in Pakistan since a few months. You had captivated me with your first story, which was fortunately published here in a local magazine. Wait, I’ve not introduced myself to you, have I? I am Sania. Yes, I live in the far east province of Islamabad. I hope you’re doing fine, and this letter finds you good. Due to tensions, we here don’t have access to any other forms of communication other than contacting through letters.
I just wanted to mention, that your works have been a catalyst in making me more hopeful and positive for a better tomorrow. I sincerely thank you for that and urge you to keep motivating and inspiring people.
Love for you and all in India.
I leafed through the letter again and again. I was overwhelmed with elation. Yes, I’ve had a few admirers, but as a writer every time you get extolled, it’s a new feeling. I never knew I could galvanize others with my work. But I always believed in the saying: “The pen is mightier than the sword”.
The letter coaxed me to write more like a spark plug.
Sania wrote to me often. I was getting accustomed with the regular knock at the door by the mailman. The old versed man, often smiled at me and just exclaimed a short phrase
And he handed me the letter encapsulated in a falu tint envelope. I would stroke my finger on each word on the grained texture of the paper, imagining her, a young beautiful and blooming enthusiastic girl, sitting against the window looking at the distant horizon amidst the chaos engulfing her, writing on the paper.
Her epistles were a constant fountainhead to me scrawling more and more, divulging my emotions and thoughts on the paper. She had a charismatic persona. I could image her as a young girl, playful yet elegant, a sincerity in her attitude. She craved for freedom, from the shackles of terror that arrested her from the bright opportunities that were on display for her. She wanted a better world. She was a revolution. She was a symbol of power and pride.
She was someone the utopian future relied on.
She was someone I relied on.
It has been more than quarter of a month since I’ve received letters from her. The mailman passes by everyday at noon, glancing at me, summing his short stare with an apologetic nod of denial as I stood in the veranda, beholding the wild blue yonder, breathing the welkin slowly as my heartbeat rises and rises and mind gets flooded with anxiety and thoughts of the inevitable distraught.
I still remember the phrase she had inscribed in her previous.
“Sketch the Map
Bridge the Gap”
A powerful message abstracted in her writing, she always amazed me.Finally, I decided to write to her.But, my fears slowly seemed to turn into reality as I never heard back from her. Still I continued to hope. Hoped the best for her.
The piece of paper lying down in the ruins and asbestos of an ancient worn out set-up in the East province of Islamabad.
I went to my study, placed myself on the worn out cathedra, took a puff from my belvedere and started writing, blocking the disturbing noise of the monsoon battling against the fenestra like a mirror shattering to a million and one pieces.
The title on the paper said:
“Cross Border Romance”