Awaiting The Dawn

Awaiting The Dawn

13 mins 11.4K 13 mins 11.4K

                                            Awaiting The Dawn




“Abbu, will I get a new Fez this Eid?”

Maqbool tore his eyes away from the floor where he was looking aimlessly and gazed into his seven year old son’s innocent round eyes. His son had asked the same question again and again only to be disappointed every single time. He didn’t seem to mind and still kept on pleading with his father, forgetting how much he had been scolded for his folly before. Maqbool sighed. How easy to forget things. Bliss of childhood.
He could not blame his son though. He remembered, when he was a child, how much he looked forward to eating the traditional sweets. The bubbling excitement he used to feel during festivals. How eagerly he would tear away the gift wrappings and peer into the neatly folded clothes smelling of ittar.
Eid in his time was a grand affair. The whole mohalla would light up with bulbs of every size and colour. All enmity, all prejudice would be forgotten as people bustled about each other’s houses, celebrating.

All of it had changed.
Maqbool belonged to a weaver family. His grandfather had been a renowned weaver in Gopiganj.Aristocrats, landlords and nobles, everyone used to praise his work. Even today, he remembered when the Maharaja of Kashi had come to their humble abode. He was delighted by his grandfather’s work. He had embraced him like a brother and rewarded him with ten gold mohurs. He also remembered how the mohur’s beauty got subdued when kept beside his grandfather’s carpets.
His grandfather had started the legacy of weaving carpets which was now being continued by Maqbool.
His family had always prided in the mohurs, until they had to be sold to pay for the mounting debt on their family. Maqbool had fought hard to keep the mohur’s but he could not bear to see his family’s tears of hunger .

He remembered his childhood, when after hours of playing in the mud and dust, he would come back home to find his Grandfather bent over another magnificent piece of art. He would look eagerly as his grandfather took the needle in and out of the carpet again and again. Even today, he smiled whenever he thought of how it had boggled him that his grandfather could create something exquisitely beautiful with just the help of a mere needle.
His grandfather nurtured his carpets like his own children, held them in his arms like a new born child.Some were emblazoned with gold, others were engrained with sequins and floral patterns. They looked so magnificent that Maqbool had wondered whether God himself helped his Grandfather to create these carpets.
It took months of bone breaking toil to make a single carpet. Even today, he remembered the twinkle in his grandfather’s eyes, the sheer jubilance and unsuppressed joy in his grandfather’s voice whenever he finished another one of his bewitching creations.
Maqbool had been eager to follow in his footsteps. He had set up his very own handloom with his own hard earned money. He started weaving carpets with vigor.
Caprice started two years  back. There were whispers in the air. About power loom carpets being imported. Very soon, the footfalls into his dingy house decreased. He no longer had to work day and night to get his orders finished before the deadlines.
People who did come to his house would make a disbelieving face at the price Maqbool would tell them and they would then walk away. Insulting him and calling him a fraud for keeping such high prices for his ordinary carpets.
There were these machines which Maqbool never learnt to function; they were mechanical giants, printing out bundles of carpets in mere minutes. For years after the coming of the power looms, Maqbool stuck to his traditional method, but then, when his family started going to bed hungry, he decided to take the path of hypocrisy.He hated these machines which destroyed his art. He hated as the feeling with which he used to weave a carpet was transformed to emotionless, synthetic dyes. He hated as care with which his family had always woven these carpets turned to elaborate carelessness as hundred of carpets were flung here and there.

“Abbu!” Maqbool’s reverie was broken by his son’s pleading voice. Maqbool answered with immense struggle,” We shall see.”
He got up from the dusty floor and headed outside, he was late for his work. He took big bundles of carpet in a basta and hawked around from house to house.
“How much for this brother?”
“Five Hundred rupees.” Maqbool replied, trying to keep the slight contempt from his voice.
Here he was, a man who hated machines, selling mechanized carpets. It was all for the cause of the sinner stomach.
That dusk as Maqbool walked home, he gazed above the horizon. The sky was the colour of pure gold. The sun looked like a red ball of fire as it appeared to sink below the zenith. Maqbool cast his eyes down towards the new Fez cap he had bought. He smiled as he thought of the look of happiness his son would give him when he would see what his Abbu had bought. He raised his head towards the sky, as a voice at the back of his mind whispered words of optimism.

The sun had set today, but he knew that it would rise again.


                                            Awaiting the Dawn
“Abbu, will I get a new Fez this Eid?”

Maqbool tore his eyes away from the floor where he was looking aimlessly and gazed into his seven year old son’s innocent round eyes. His son had asked the same question again and again only to be disappointed every single time. He didn’t seem to mind and still kept on pleading with his father, forgetting how much he had been scolded for his folly before. Maqbool sighed. How easy to forget things. Bliss of childhood.

He could not blame his son though. When he was a child he used looked forward to eating the traditional sweets. He used to feel a bubbling excitement during festivals, eagerly he would tear away the gift wrappings and peer into the neatly folded clothes smelling of ittar.Eid in his time was a grand affair. The whole mohalla would light up with bulbs of every size and colour. All enmity, all prejudice would be forgotten as people bustled about each other’s houses, celebrating.All of it had changed.

Maqbool belonged to a weaver family. His grandfather had been a renowned weaver.Aristocrats and nobles, everyone used to praise his work. He remembered when the Maharaja of Kashi had come to their humble abode. He was delighted by his grandfather’s work. He had embraced him like a brother and rewarded him with ten gold mohurs. Although, the mohur’s beauty had got subdued when kept beside his grandfather’s carpets.His grandfather had started the legacy of weaving carpets which was now being continued by Maqbool.
His family had always prided in the mohurs, until they had to be sold to pay for the mounting debt on their family. Maqbool had fought hard to keep the mohur’s but he could not bear to see his family’s tears of hunger .He remembered his childhood, when after hours of playing in the mud and dust, he would come back home to find his Grandfather bent over another magnificent piece of art. He would look eagerly as his grandfather took the needle in and out of the carpet again and again. Even today, he smiled whenever he thought of how it had boggled him that his grandfather could create something exquisitely beautiful with just the help of a mere needle.
His grandfather nurtured his carpets like his own children, held them in his arms like a new born child.Some were emblazoned with gold, others were ingrained with sequins and floral patterns. They looked so magnificent that Maqbool had wondered whether God  helped his Grandfather to create these carpets.
It took months of immense toil to make a single carpet. Even today, he remembered the twinkle in his grandfather’s eyes, the sheer jubilance and unsuppressed joy in his grandfather’s voice whenever he finished another one of his bewitching creations. Maqbool had been eager to follow in his footsteps. He had set up his very own hand loom with his own hard earned money. He started weaving carpets with vigor. Caprice started two years  back. There were whispers in the air. About power loom carpets being imported. Very soon, the footfalls into his dingy house decreased. He no longer had to work day and night to get his orders finished before the deadlines. People who did come to his house would make a disbelieving face at the price Maqbool would tell them and would then walk away. Insulting him and calling him a fraud for keeping such high prices for his ordinary carpets.
There were these machines which Maqbool never learnt to function; they were mechanical giants, printing out bundles of carpets in mere minutes. For years after the coming of the power looms, Maqbool stuck to his traditional method, but then, when his family started going to bed hungry, he decided to take the path of hypocrisy. He hated these machines which destroyed his art. He hated as the feeling with which he used to weave a carpet was transformed to emotionless, synthetic dyes. He hated as care with which his family had always woven these carpets turned to elaborate carelessness as hundred of carpets were flung here and there.
“Abbu!” Maqbool’s reverie was broken by his son’s pleading voice. Maqbool answered with immense struggle,” We shall see.”
He got up from the dusty floor and headed outside, he was late for his work. He took big bundles of carpet in a basta and hawked around from house to house.
“How much for this brother?”
“Five Hundred rupees.” Maqbool replied, trying to keep the slight contempt from his voice.Here he was, a man who hated machines, selling mechanized carpets. It was all for the cause of the sinner stomach.

That dusk as Maqbool walked home, he gazed above the horizon. The sky was the colour of pure gold. The sun looked like a red ball of fire as it appeared to sink below the zenith. Maqbool cast his eyes down towards the new Fez cap he had bought. He smiled as he thought of the look of happiness his son would give him when he would see what his Abbu had bought. He raised his head towards the sky, as a voice at the back of his mind whispered words of optimism.
The sun had set today, but he knew that it would rise again.
Awaiting the Dawn

“Abbu, will I get a new Fez this Eid?”Maqbool tore his eyes away from the floor where he was looking aimlessly and gazed into his seven year old son’s innocent round eyes.His son had asked the same question again and again only to be disappointed every single time. He didn't seem to mind and still kept on pleading with his father relentlessly.Maqbool sighed. How easy to forget things. Bliss of childhood.

He could not blame his son though.When he was a child he used looked forward to eating the traditional sweets. He used to feel a bubbling excitement during festivals, eagerly he would tear open the gift wrappings and peer into the neatly folded clothes smelling of ittar.Eid in his time was a grand affair. The whole mohalla would light up with bulbs of every size and colour. All enmity, all prejudice would be forgotten as people bustled about each other’s houses, celebrating.All of it had changed.

Maqbool belonged to a weaver family. His grandfather had been a renowned weaver.Aristocrats and nobles, everyone used to praise his work. He remembered when the Maharaja of Kashi had come to their humble abode. He was delighted by his grandfather’s work. He had embraced him like a brother and rewarded him with ten gold mohurs. Although, the mohur’s beauty had got subdued when kept beside his grandfather’s carpets.His grandfather had started the legacy of weaving carpets which was now being continued by Maqbool.

His family had always prided in the mohurs, until they had to be sold to pay for the mounting debt on their family. Maqbool had fought hard to keep the mohur’s but he could not bear to see his family’s tears of hunger .He remembered his childhood, when after hours of playing in the mud and dust, he would come back home to find his Grandfather bent over another magnificent piece of art. He would look eagerly as his grandfather took the needle in and out of the carpet again and again. Even today, he smiled whenever he thought of how it had boggled him that his grandfather could create something exquisitely beautiful with just the help of a mere needle.

His grandfather nurtured his carpets like his own children, held them in his arms like a new born child.Some were emblazoned with gold, others were ingrained with sequins and floral patterns. They looked so magnificent that Maqbool had wondered whether God  helped his Grandfather to create these carpets.

It took months of immense toil to make a single carpet. Even today, he remembered the twinkle in his grandfather’s eyes, the sheer jubilance and unsuppressed joy in his grandfather’s voice whenever he finished another one of his bewitching creations. Maqbool had been eager to follow in his footsteps. He had set up his very own hand loom with his own hard earned money. He started weaving carpets with vigor. Caprice started two years  back. There were whispers in the air. About power loom carpets being imported. Very soon, the footfalls into his dingy house decreased. He no longer had to work day and night to get his orders finished before the deadlines. People who did come to his house would make a disbelieving face at the price Maqbool would tell them and would then walk away. Insulting him and calling him a fraud for keeping such high prices for his ordinary carpets.

There were these machines which Maqbool never learnt to function; they were mechanical giants, printing out bundles of carpets in mere minutes. For years after the coming of the power looms, Maqbool stuck to his traditional method, but then, when his family started going to bed hungry, he decided to take the path of hypocrisy. He hated these machines which destroyed his art. He hated as the feeling with which he used to weave a carpet was transformed to emotionless, synthetic dyes. He hated as care with which his family had always woven these carpets turned to elaborate carelessness as hundred of carpets were flung here and there.

“Abbu!” Maqbool’s reverie was broken by his son’s pleading voice. Maqbool answered him with immense struggle,” We shall see.”He got up from the dusty floor and headed outside, he was late for his work. He took big bundles of carpet in a basta and hawked around from house to house.

“How much for this brother?”

“Five Hundred rupees.” Maqbool replied, trying to keep the slight contempt from his voice.Here he was, a man who hated machines, selling mechanized carpets. It was all for the cause of the sinner stomach.That dusk as Maqbool walked home, he gazed above at the horizon. The sky was the colour of pure gold. The sun looked like a red ball of fire as it appeared to sink below the zenith. Maqbool cast his eyes down towards the new Fez cap he had bought. He smiled as he thought of smile which would light up his son's face when he would see what his Abbu had bought. He raised his head towards the sky, as a voice at the back of his mind whispered words of optimism.

The Sun had set today, but he knew  that it would rise again.

 


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