On the other side of this sea, is soil. Thick, black soil, the colour of my oiled hair. I'll bury my stories in the soil across this tiring sea. The other day, she warned me against losing stories in the sea. Do you know of what happens to stories lost in the sea? Nobody knows. Maybe they'll end up in a fish's empty stomach into the nets they throw from their motor boats. Or if they're too light, they'll float and with the waves hit the shore ; and if they're too heavy and a little lucky, they'll manage to settle down. There are endless possibilities for stories lost in the sea. But I want my stories to be buried in the thick black soil, the colour of my oiled hair with the shards of paper that were once the letters you send me. Its hard to read them, now that the chai stains have erased some of that blue ink from your old Parker pen. But I still want them with my stories. I'll bury them deep and water them everyday. Maybe they'll grow, as you told me. Even if they dont, I'll still have the assurance of finding them stacked up in the layers of earth beneath, in all shades of brown. Maybe they'll sing in feeble voices for our ears. I'll lie down against the ground and listen to their songs. You could join me if you want. But first ferry me across this sea, will you?
Asmabi
Your gold bangles chime against the bristle of the leaves, tender By the blooming verges of the winding river, your anklets sing. Asma did not have to race against time to scribble the words on her worn out state bank of India 2005 diary this once. She knew what was coming. Beneath the pale moonlit sky, your gentle smile shimmers Your silken drape quivers in the soft midnight breeze. Thaamasamenthe varuvaan praanasakhi ente munnil What keeps you from my side, O companion of my breath! The words were clear against the yellowing pages of the 2005 diary; unlike the last song. A broken ente swapnathin in one line, a neelathamara in the next. Perhaps the blind singer who sits by the beach will sing it another day. Or Asma will ask her to. She can fill the missing words then like an old class test. For Iqbal doctor, Asma’s race against the blind singer’s old Malayalam songs was a class test in memory. She’s been losing it. Last Monday, Iqbal doctor ...
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