The God That Failed - Hrishi Ram The lost memories of Zoya Alam dated to 1947. Dear Kartik, The stolid memory of my brain only allows me to see the fragments of my life past. How old were we then? Twenty – three, I reckon, for I remember the young and angry blood flowing in you. I remember the charm of your face and the sparse beard around your cheeks. And that is all I remember about you, until my maid recently recovered a lost album, our last memory together. I remember you giving it to me. My memory is weak and the more I take my pills, the more it gets diluted. I would see flashes of our past visions, a stagnant moment, where my hand was being amputated by the meat knife. And yet with the same hand I write this letter as my fingers are smeared with black ink brought from Peshawar, and holds a quill my husband once brought from London. My health deteriorates more rapidly than the sky changes its colour. I might live for another month or so. If you receive this message, do visit me as the absence of your comforting arms and the voice which I have long forgotten leaves my heart dull and dreadful. Consider this a message of my last right. For every day I seek God in my prayers, pleading Him for the answers, and pray for the comfort you so deserve after a much regretful life. Apology for the smudges of ink left by me, these trembling hands do not know how to work on paper. All they have ever done were held yours in the troubles of life you went through. The warmth of your fingers still comfort my nerves when I remember them once in a while. I stare at the album book siting placidly on my lap and wish to open it, perhaps my eyes would sleep peacefully today if they saw the memories held inside the four walls of the leaves. For who knows when they would cease to work, forever. You prayed to your God, and I prayed to mine. I do not blame you for what happened. But when I saw you, I felt your heart screaming against the actions committed, I felt your eyes protruding out of fear. I sensed your guilt and the tremors you felt after. And then I realized that my faith in God slipped out slowly as the tears from your eyes. I do not have the ink from Peshawar; neither do I have the quill from London. I remember now, this is all an illusion. This letter does not exists, because I have no hand to write with, for I removed my limb from the meat knife they brought, for the people who saw us together felt an excruciating amount of fury in our relationship, for they held their sword against your neck and demanded you to cut my arms with which I so pray to my God, yet I, a simple woman whose love for a man was greater than my own limb rid myself from it leaving me faint and tortured. You were not to be blame, perhaps the Gods people were. I still live in illusions. For where else can an old lady live? I lived in a canvass of pain and suffering, yet the sight of you in my dreams made it pleasant. I saw you, gone from this world, when all ended with a nick of the sword against your flesh. I saw you leave me alone in this mortal world of jealously and hatred. I felt your soul leave mine in search of the answer for this hideous deed done in the name of God. So when your last rite commenced, I saw your ashes flow with the wind, singing to me, smiling at me and waving a last goodbye before returning to the God that failed.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Oct 2014 10:30:00 +0000
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