Monica Pathak

Drama Romance Tragedy

2  

Monica Pathak

Drama Romance Tragedy

Sitar And Sunflowers

Sitar And Sunflowers

5 mins
115


'Guns and roses' is a popular phrase nowadays, it shows the poles apart abilities of human affection. Love and hate. Yet, extremes are usually a lie, they are nothing but opinions, and opinion is the lowest form of knowledge. My story talks about, sitar's melody and the manner in which the strings and the tune have been enough for Shamina bibi's twenty years of resilient solitude. While sunflower's early morning blossoming, is the only fun for the villagers, in the hills of Himachal. Their bright yellow petals somehow always fade in front of the grateful smile and hopeful eyes of this music and art teacher in the village. Shamina bibi took the brushes out and was ready to go ahead with the painting class of today.

Twenty years ago, this village had no light, fortunately! Yes, because it was a national order to switch off lights at night so that the enemy doesn't see the settlements. Although, no lights do mean no work they do not mean deep sleep. Women were sleep ridden and many were starving. Fifty men from the village were at the war front, bombings and shootings were enough for this above-mentioned deprivation. The sounds had made their gossips inaudible and then unreasonable. Two years of war, separation and desperation to know the result despite being aware of the uncertainty. Women were working in fields and children were homeschooled at Shamina bibi's house.


One day, Bibi Ji took up a sunflower and hid her tears, behind her smile. She was creative at her best. Ripe age of nineteen, newly married and beautiful. She had all the womanly worries and hopes about marriage, she was all good and positive, somehow her instinct would easily betray her and say that her husband would return healthy and victorious. Lieutenant Omar Hussain, will return. For that, she had learned his favorite song on the sitar. The one his mother sang for him when he was a kid.

For these two years, Shamina was singing this song at night, under the village tree. Here she would meet Omar after school, before the wedding. Nowadays, she does it for the village kids and the worried ladies. 

Tonight, as there was musk in the air, as she held the sitar the trees were silent and wanted to listen to her. It was not the last time, they knew it. But it would never be the same way again, they knew that too. Legends and folklore have always narrated tales, wherein nature has been intuitive beforehand, about the arriving debacle. The ladies enjoyed less of the music but more of young Shamina 's hope. The hope of reuniting and love. This idea of youthful love is more about romantic aspirations and sentiments. Yet, no wonder even in your thirties or late adulthood, these feelings do linger and seem ridiculous and exciting. 

The ladies would look at the hope and have that smile, while the children slept peacefully under that tree. Just the way young Omar would do. 

But that night no one slept, the trees were silent, the wind was felt yet not heard, the owl was nowhere to be seen, and although the big usual candle melted and it was dawn. But neither did the song stop nor did the silence. Until the trumpet blew to break the silence.

The soldiers had arrived, all fifty of them. The only person who is never happy knowing about a 'shaheed' or a 'martyr' is the spouse of that soldier. Back in those days, it was always wives. But fortunately, every lady in this village could smile. So did Shamina, although this is disappointing and worried the elders in the village.

Omar was lifeless yet breathing. He could know that Shamina was around but could not talk to her and nor could hug her. Neither there was a forehead kiss shared. He was looking at everyone blankly. He had a big scar on his head and a stone-cold body. He was in a coma. He arrived with hopes and as promised. 

Shamina opened the bedroom door for the compounders to keep him on the bed. She turned towards the village Sardar and said, "Thank Allah! he returned to live with me forever, now he will never go away. He will always be with me."Everyone cried, maybe Shamina did too, but no one saw her doing so. Well, a wifely wail over her husband is better not heard. 

That evening, and since then for twenty years. At night, she sings the same song on her sitar. She sits in her verandah of the bedroom and begins playing. But the song is not at all like the one she sang during the wars, the song has no hopes of return but prayers for well-being. She wishes and wails at the same time. The trees knew it back then. As usual nature's instincts are way more powerful than of a man. But the resilience and hope of this woman were abnormally well. Her voice had an unexpressed disappointment, a woman of the village could empathize. And those newly married girls in the village recall looking at old Shamina, her voice in the youth and all her vivacious spirit. It is as if those spirits have been moulded into prayers and gratitude. 

Sunflowers were Omar's favorite flowers. She had planted them, and every morning she would look at them and talk about her day mindlessly. She would lose track of time and aspirations. As the sunflowers would waffle in the air, it would appear as if they are enjoying this young woman's company, or better to say they enjoy receiving the attention she had for her husband. But they would fall in despair at night, wondering what keeps her smile, brighter than their yellow shade.

'It is the line, do you remember?' the wind whispered.

'He returned to live with me forever...'

'Oh!' a sound similar to this came, as the sunflowers blossomed for once at night. Secretly, for few seconds. Well no wonder, love and faith are two infamous pairs. They are known to have powers, enough to humble a mountain.

The sitar began, now again. But no bombings and shootings. No woman looked at Shamina, to enjoy her ridiculous romantic hopes. But there were sunflowers, dancing to the tune.

Sitar and sunflowers, the yellow tune of love after the war. Soundless, yet present, seen and felt.


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