“A gypsy searching for a forsaken tribe, a vagabond cursed to wander—this is the cry of everyone who’s ever felt they don’t belong.” A haunting, repetitive verse exploring the deep human need for belonging through the metaphor of homelessness—both physical and spiritual. The poem’s refrain “Where is my home and where I am going to sleep?” echoes through various landscapes—deserts, wastelands, bustling towns, and silent valleys—as the narrator confronts regret, shame, desire, guilt, and lost faith.
What if the man in the mental hospital who hears trees screaming isn’t mad—what if he’s the only one sane enough to hear what the rest of us have forgotten how to listen to?
A poignant narrative about a mental health patient who claims to hear everything in nature speak—trees, mountains, rivers, and a childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who taught him that “everything carries wisdom within.”
‘Tell me, my dear…’ The old Doctor said while peering at me closely from behind his thick pebbled glasses. His kind face resembled a map of rugged terrain, marked with jagged lines and twisting contours. ‘Tell me, what do the voices ask you to do?’
We were both sitting on a concrete bench under the shade of a big banyan tree. A beautiful world, painted with liquid gold by the March sun, surrounded us. It was a small and private mental health facility being run by the good old Doctor, and I was one of its few selected residents.
‘The voices do not ask me to do anything. They just want me to listen.’ I replied.
‘Listen?’ The Doctor asked and scratched his bald head. ‘Listen to what exactly?’
‘Listen to everything — the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and the streams.’ I tried to name all my friends.
‘I see.’ The good Doctor removed his glasses and started polishing the lenses with unusual vigor. ‘And are you able to listen to all those things?’ He asked me when the ritual was complete. ‘The trees, mountains, rivers and……….’
‘…and the streams.’ I completed his sentence.
‘Yes, yes…the streams.’ He eagerly nodded his head.
‘Oh yes, I do!’ I replied with a smile. ‘I like to listen to them. They tell me about life and God, and of His grand system and scheme. They tell me that our universe is just His dream. They tell me of the past, and they tell me of the future. They tell me what is possible and what is not. But the most important thing that they tell me is that happiness is only a momentary lapse of reason and that it is the only wisdom that matters; while sadness is the eternal reality, and is the key to all wisdom.’
‘And when did this all start? This listening to…umm! Well…the things?’ The Doctor asked while getting up and started examining a dried-up chrysanthemum bush very closely.
‘It all started with the Turtle — the ancient Turtle living in our backyard.’ I said while smiling at the warm memory of my long-lost friend.
‘The Turtle is actually right.’ The old Banyan tree told me in his deep, throaty voice. He stood in the exact center of the courtyard and looked all wise and elderly.
‘Everything is alive, my little friend. Everything carries wisdom within, and everything speaks. You just have to learn to listen.’
‘What do you mean? How can everything be alive?’ I asked the tree, growing confused.
‘I am alive. Isn’t this so?’ The Banyan tree asked and chuckled softly. ‘I eat minerals from the soil and sip water through my roots. And we all can speak.’ He said while spreading his rustling branches around. ‘We all can speak — the trees and the flowers, the mountains and the springs, the sky and the moon, and even the stones and the soil.’
‘But why have I never heard them speak?’ I protested.
‘You are hearing me speak.’ The Banyan tree replied and smiled at me kindly. ‘You talk to the old Turtle all the time.’
‘Yes, but…’ I couldn’t find words to express myself.
‘Everything speaks, my friend, but everyone cannot hear the words. There are only a very few who care to make an effort. But anybody who makes an effort can hear the whispers of the universal consciousness.’ The Banyan tree explained.
‘What is that — the universal consciousness?’ The words were too big for my limited childhood understanding.
‘Be silent, you pompous ass! Do not confuse the little one.’ A familiar voice grunted from behind me.
I looked back and there stood my old friend — the ancient Turtle. Half-hidden in the overgrown and moist green grass, he was looking at me affectionately and smiling his kind, toothless smile.
‘Hey, you are finally back.’ I stated the obvious as an excited greeting. He had left for some important task a few days ago, and I missed his company badly.
‘It certainly looks like it, and you look perfectly fine.’ He sounded a bit tired. ‘Anyway, what’s going on here?’
‘I was just telling our little friend that everything is alive and everything speaks.’ The Banyan tree explained politely.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ The Turtle silenced him impatiently with a wave of its arm. ‘I wasn’t here and you thought you could go on and confuse my young friend in my absence.’
‘Oh please, Mr. Turtle, please don’t say anything to the Banyan tree.’ I ran and hugged the tree’s trunk. ‘He is my friend and he didn’t mean any harm.’
It was true. The Banyan tree was one of my many friends. Most of my summer afternoons were spent playing under its cool shade and digging for earthworms. I hugged the old gnarled tree trunk closely and could almost feel a warm and throbbing response, deep under the rough bark.
‘Little one…’ The Turtle admonished me, ‘If you choose to play with the giants, you’ve got to learn their secret little jokes too.’
He sounded pretty serious, but I could see that he was trying his best not to laugh.
‘Yes, I remember the Turtle. He was your childhood friend.’ The good Doctor was trying to flatter me, but I knew the truth.
‘You really don’t believe in the Turtle. Isn’t that so?’ I asked him with a defensive smile.
‘It does not matter what I believe in.’ He smiled back at me. ‘It is your beliefs that we are discussing. So you were saying that the Turtle told you that everything in this universe speaks?’
‘So is it true that everything in this universe speaks?’ I asked the Turtle.
It was the very next afternoon, and I was too curious about what the Banyan tree had told me. Besides, everyone else was busy taking a siesta, while I was free to roam the lonely wilderness of the backyard.
‘Oh yes, certainly, everything speaks.’ The ancient Turtle nodded his head. I could see he very much wanted to take a nap under the shade of the rose bushes, but he loved my company far more than his afternoon naps.
‘And what does everything speak of?’ I asked while tickling his old wrinkled head — a naughty but affectionate gesture.
‘Everything speaks with one voice what the universal consciousness wants it to speak of — wisdom and future.’ The Turtle answered while turning his head and looking at me with his soft, grey eyes, and then started singing:
‘Of wisdom and future and of what the universal conscience has in store for you,
of your life and the life of all others, and also of the flow of the river of time
Of what lies ahead, your life is a rose and optimism — a few drops of dew,
while pain and pleasure and sadness and joy, dance their eternal mime’
‘Hmm!’ I was a bit confused. ‘What does the universal consciousness say about me?’
‘What would you like her to say about you, little one?’ He asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘What will I become and what will become of me?’ I asked after thinking for a while.
‘Aha!’ The Turtle breathed a sigh of understanding and then started singing again:
‘She says that you will grow and your heart will grow even more,
and you will be wise and generous and kind to all, that’s for sure
She says that you will learn and evolve, with a light in your core,
you will walk the path and the others’ pains, you will certainly cure
She says you will love and understand all if only you find the door,
the door that opens with patience, and then shuts down no more
And she says this will all happen if you learn not to judge and ignore,
what the others say and what the others do — the pious and the whore’
‘But I don’t understand this at all.’ I said, feeling both confused and flustered.
‘Yes, you do not understand yet.’ The Turtle nodded his head wisely. ‘But you will one day. Till the day of understanding dawns upon you, just be patient and wait for the universal consciousness to work its eternal magic.’
‘But what if I fail to walk the path and what if I get lost?’ Suddenly, the fear of some strange possibility in the future gripped my heart with its cold fingers.
‘It doesn’t matter, little one.’ The Turtle said and closed his eyes drowsily. ‘It doesn’t matter what path we walk or whether we get lost. The only thing that matters is that we see, that we observe, and that we learn, while we are walking the path.’
‘Do you remember why you were brought here?’ The Doctor asked me after taking his due time to understand what I said about the Turtle and the universal conscience.
‘Oh yes, I do.’ I thought with bitterness about that cruel, summer morning.
I was on a trip to the hilly areas of the North, and I saw hundreds of trees being cut down. They were all crying with pain while the electric saws cut them into pieces. Their blood was flowing down the mountain slope, but no one but me could see it.
I sat down on my knees and touched the warm blood with my fingers. I listened to the weeping trees and felt their pain vibrating within each nerve and fiber of my own body. It became personal when the trees recognized me and started shouting my name, asking me for help.
‘You can’t do it.’ I approached the foreman of the woodcutters.
‘I can’t do what?’ He asked me, surprised at the welled-up tears in my eyes.
‘You can’t cut the trees. It’s murder.’ I said while trying to muster up some badly needed courage.
‘Trees? Murder?’ He stood there for a moment, confused by what I was saying. But then he suddenly looked up and started laughing hysterically.
‘It is no laughing matter. You are murdering the trees.’ I pleaded again while trying to ignore his insulting laughter.
‘I carry a permit. I can do whatever I want.’ He stopped laughing and replied to me sternly.
‘But they are screaming with pain and their blood is flowing in the valley.’ I begged him.
‘Who is screaming and what blood?’ He was flabbergasted. ‘Are you mad?’
I couldn’t speak as frustration and helplessness boiled up inside me.
‘Go away, son.’ The old mountain whispered in my ears. ‘They can’t see what you see, and they can’t hear what you hear. You cannot stop them.’
‘I will stop them.’ I told the mountain determinedly and then tried to snatch away the electric saw from the foreman’s hands.
‘Hey!’ The foreman was startled. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
But it was too late. Before he could move, I had already smashed the saw on a stone boulder.
‘Yes, I remember it all.’ I said while bitter tears misted up my eyes. ‘I remember the trees crying with anguish and pain, and I remember the smell of their warm, flowing blood. The memory of that massacre still haunts me.’
‘Have you considered the possibility that the trees were not crying, that there was no blood, and that the mountain was silent as he was supposed to be?’ The Doctor asked me while facing the dried-up chrysanthemum bush.
‘Have you considered the possibility that the trees were really crying, that their blood was staining the slopes, and that the mountain did try to deter me?’ I challenged his assumptions softly, with a sad smile.
‘It was all in your head, son.’ The Doctor said without turning back. ‘It was all your imagination. Only we, us humans, can talk. No one else can and no one else does.’
‘Imagination?’ I chuckled. ‘Why is that so bad? Aren’t we all the product of God’s imagination? Can’t you see that in that context, all imagination is reality?’
The Doctor did not reply and continued with his scrutiny of the almost-dead plant.
‘No, it was not my imagination. I really heard them cry and speak. As I told you earlier, everything speaks — the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and the streams. But not everyone can hear them.’
‘Hmm!’ The Doctor exclaimed and turned towards me with a tired smile. ‘This chrysanthemum plant was planted by my late wife. In her life, the plant gave us such beautiful white chrysanthemums — three flowers each morning and each one perfect in its purity, beauty, and delicacy.’
‘What happened to it?’ I asked while looking at the plant. ‘What went wrong?’
‘I do not know what went wrong. What I only know is that the day my wife died, the white chrysanthemums stopped blooming.’ He said while looking sadly at the plant. ‘But since you claim that you can talk to everything, I want you to ask this plant what went wrong.’
‘Hmm!’ I smiled at the Doctor and then looked at the chrysanthemum plant.
I asked her what went wrong, and she whispered back the truth to me. And the truth made me sad.
‘She says…’ I wiped my tears. ‘She says that your wife loved her and cared for her every day, and her love and care manifested in the beauty of the white chrysanthemums. She says that she is not being loved anymore. Instead, her roots are only watered by your bitter tears of loss and anger. And bitterness can never produce any beauty.’
‘I think it is time for you to go back to your room.’ The Doctor looked at the setting sun and waved at the two white-clad male nurses. ‘It is getting late. We will talk some other time.’
‘Think about it, my good Doctor.’ I smiled at him. ‘Please think about what I have told you.’
After the nurses took away the patient, the Doctor really did think about what the patient had told him. He stood looking at the plant for a while and then smiled and started walking away. But after walking only a few steps, he suddenly turned back. He went to the plant and then sat down cross-legged on the grass.
He thought of his departed wife, and he thought of all the love that she had given him. He also thought of his anger in believing that by dying, she had unjustly betrayed him of her presence. He smiled fondly at her happy memories. He let regret and anger flow out of his heart, and then he started whispering to the plant:
‘I know you miss her because I miss her too,
she had her love for all, not only for me and you
I miss her with longing — a dark and bitter brew,
I miss her for her sweetness, nectar of the morning dew
I treasure you and want to care for you,
but I do not know how, I swear, this is true
I want to love you because she loved you,
but I do not know how — this confession is true too’
The good Doctor sat there for a long time. His tears of sadness and love slipped down his cheeks and fell on the ground, right near the roots of the dried-up chrysanthemum plant. But when his tears dried up, he still did not get up. There was a strange solace in the company of the dead plant. He could almost smell the sweet fragrance of his long-lost wife, and he didn’t want to lose that fragrance ever again.
The next morning, the nursing staff and the gardeners found the Doctor, all curled up beside the chrysanthemum plant. At first, they thought he was just asleep, but when they tried to wake him up, he didn’t respond. He had already left.
Unlike the departed Doctor, the plant was very much alive once again, and there were three white chrysanthemums, smiling and gently swaying in the morning breeze.
‘Tell me why you are here?’ I caressed the back of her delicate ivory hand. It was smooth and cold but with a subtle warmth pulsating just under the fragile skin.
‘Tell me why you are here? Tell me why you are with me at this very moment?’
‘I really do not know.’ A tiny smile danced around the corners of her lips. She peered into my eyes, looking for an answer or perhaps solace. And then she suddenly broke the magic and looked away.
Vienna was the usual evening chaos. Desires were following desires in an endless pursuit. The lights of some old Gothic palace, reflected in and danced along the soft waves of the Danube. The river was the cauldron of silence and the moist evening breeze heightened our senses.
Across the cobbled yard, stood a couple of street musicians. The tall and graceful woman was playing a sad symphony on her old violin, while her companion, an old man, was plucking bits of joy from the keys of his weather-beaten accordion. I listened to them closely and recognized loss and love – singing their eternal duet.
She looked back at me.
‘Why don’t you tell me; why you are here?’ A challenge flashed briefly in her smiling eyes. ‘Why are you here in Vienna?’
For a single and brief moment, she became what she was a half-decade ago – a beautiful golden dragon that breathed the fire of unspoken desires. An unpredictable dragon and an independent dragon – free to roam the wide blue skies.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked myself looking down at the lines mapping the palms of my hands. Then I raised my head and looked back at her with an answering smile.
‘Perhaps I am lost or perhaps I am here for the love that remains.’
When I first met her, I was not as young as I once used to be, but I was as restless as the branches of a tall pine tree. She was the strong wind, blowing through my branches after a very long time. Slim and charming with soft brown hair, cascading all around her lovely face; and a taut sensuous body. Her strange and unnameable seduction weaved its magic wand and I fell under her spell.
I remembered looking at her for the first time. She reminded me of the dark mysterious forests, smelling heavily of the tropical rains. She reminded me of the moist green moss, climbing and curving along the tree trunks. And she reminded me of the rain-drenched soil, emitting wisps of a fragrant mist. Whenever I try to remember what I felt on first seeing her, someone always whispers a one-word answer in my ears – desire.
But it was not an utterly sensuous desire. More than sensuality, my desire spoke of unconditional love.
She looked like a goddess. From behind her dark unsmiling eyes, peeked a bright light of brilliance. Sometimes, when I looked at her face closely, under my worshipping gaze, her chiseled features gradually melted into a soft and malleable kindness. She was a goddess who demanded to be loved while hiding behind tradition and humility. I fell in love with her because the possibility of losing her in the whirling sands of time frightened me.
‘I think I am in love.’ I excitedly spilled out my secret to the old banyan tree. Both of us were the only two souls in the courtyard of the Tomb of the Lonely Saint. The saint was long dead but his spirit, as I felt, was residing within the tree.
‘And when did you realize this?’ The tree asked in a deep, old, and rusty voice – its texture as rough as his bark.
‘The realization came slowly – almost like the hesitant monsoon rain. But now that it is here, I feel as if struck by a thunderbolt I said, sitting down with my back to the trunk.
‘I can feel the lightening tingling along my spine and nerves.’
‘Beware son!’ The old tree whispered back.
‘Love is a banshee disguised as a butterfly. It may be kind to some – mostly fools. But to those who recognize and understand her and submit to her power willingly, she is always cruel beyond words.’
‘She is not a banshee. She is a golden butterfly and her wings reflect all the colors of this world.’ I protested.
The tree felt silent and thought for a moment.
‘Perhaps it is yet not love. Perhaps it is desire – a desire that does not dissolve with the waning moon. But a desire that is capable of evolving into love one day.’
‘What if it always remains a desire?’ My heart trembled with the fear of loss.
‘Hmm….!’ The tree rustled its many branches and legions of tired pigeons flew out, scared of the sudden movement.
‘Remember son! Desire is one of the most powerful of all forces of nature. It is the force that makes the world go around in circles. Desire takes birth, deep within the warm recesses of our ever-hungry hearts. It climbs our souls like a vine climbs up a tree, entrapping and teasing the branches. It starts with an almost erotic touch and then embeds its tentacles deep below our skin And then it starts sucking. It hungrily sucks in our soul and our ego and our character and our self-control; and it leaves us empty and dry.’
The tree said it all deliberately and in his usual sing-song style. His wisdom was like an old wine – each sip to be savored and treasured.
‘How do I ensure that this doesn’t just remain a desire?’ The fear was growing stronger.
‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time; it is always for a higher purpose. And the purpose is always love.’ The tree said.
‘Don’t worry son!’ A few dry leaves floated down and caressed my shoulders kindly. ‘If it is meant to be, it will be.’
‘You have always had the habit of talking in riddles.’ She took a sip and closed her dark beautiful eyes for a moment.
‘Well, that is just me.’ I smiled at her. ‘Anyway, why are you here in Vienna?’
‘New York troubles my soul sometimes.’ She stared back into my eyes. ‘The chaos disturbs the quest for inner peace. And Vienna always attracted me with its old architecture and good music.’
We grew quiet for a moment. The musicians had stopped but the notes of their strange sad-happy symphony were still whispering beyond the edges of silence.
I looked at her face. I was wrong. She did not look as young as I had initially thought. There were lines on her face – very fine lines. I peered at them closely. Under my careful gaze, each line became a crack and the crack widened into a gorge and within that gorge, there flowed the river of time.
‘Why are you here?’ She suddenly broke the fragile silence hovering around and between us.
‘I curate a small museum of antiquities along the Bräunerstraße. And in the evening I come here. I listen to the music and I write.’
‘Do you find it strange?’ She hesitated – her delicate mouth quivering like a bow stretched in full. ‘Do you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna?’
‘I haven’t been able to understand something.’ I tried to change the subject.
‘And what is that, my son?’ The tree asked kindly.
‘Why doesn’t she ever smile?’
‘And why do you want her to smile?’ He chucked softly.
‘I want to see her face breaking into a smile;, and I want to see the light of happiness shining through. I want to see the smiling lines appear around the corners of her mouth and eyes, and I want those lines to become an intricate treasure map. And then I want to trace those lines with my lips and find the treasure.’
‘It is definitely desire.’ The tree commented. ‘But don’t worry, she will smile one day.’
‘And when will that be?’ I was growing skeptical
‘Remember son! An oyster lies deep within the ocean and awaits the arrival of a single grain of sand. And once that grain enters the oyster, it takes years and years to coat that grain with nacre. With patience and with time, that grain of sand becomes a lustrous pearl. The oyster remains patient. It keeps that pearl secure within its shell – hiding it from greedy eyes. But one day, when and if the true seeker of the pearl arrives, the oyster opens up willingly and offers the pearl.’
‘So she is the oyster and one day she may offer love with a smile if I remain true.’ I had understood what the tree wanted to tell me.
‘I would like an answer to my question.’ Her voice broke my reverie.
‘Huh! What question is that?’ I looked at her while thinking fondly of my old friend – the old banyan tree.
‘I asked you if you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna out of the blue?’
‘Nothing is out of the blue.’ I smiled at her. ‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time; it is always for a higher purpose.’
We didn’t speak any more words. We just sat there beside the Danube – two silent shadows lost in their own thoughts. Then her hand moved and covered mine. It was warm and soft. I looked up at her and witnessed a slow and subtle transformation. Her eyes crinkled a little and the lines around the corners of her lips formed a smile. It was the loveliest of all the smiles in the whole world.
We reached across the table and my lips found hers. I delicately and carefully traced the lines and finally found the treasure.
Anna is sitting naked on a high-backed chair and is looking at her sad reflection in a cheap, aluminum-framed mirror. It is a small and sparsely furnished room in a grey, depilated apartment building.
There are two plastic chairs, placed in a corner, piled high with dirty laundry. A small TV is mounted on the wall. It is on mute, and the faded screen is alternating between static and a music video featuring a few garish characters from hell.
There is a double bed in another corner, and it is covered with a dark purple quilt. It is presently occupied by a naked, hairless man. He has a pale complexion and a bulging beer belly. His hairy belly button looks like a single eye staring back.
Two lamps are placed on side tables on each side of the bed. One out of these is throwing a red glare across the room, while the other is dark.
The room smells of cheap sex and sweat, and the stink of unwashed bodies. The room smells of desires, repeatedly fulfilled and repeatedly regretted.
The man gets up slowly, grabs hold of a soiled towel from a chair, and wipes his hairy and shriveled genitals. He examines the towel after the deed, and disgusted with what he sees, throws it on the floor. As he starts getting dressed, a tattered wallet slips out of the back pocket of his trousers. He picks it up, opens it, seems frustrated by what he sees, and puts it back in the pocket.
Anna gifts the man with a cold, hard glare, and her hand automatically starts inching towards the red panic button. The man understands the glare and looks unceasingly at the panic button. He knows the implications of Anna pressing this button. Once pressed, two burly gentlemen in cheap polyester suits, with shining boots and dead eyes, will appear, just like demons summoned by magic.
The man thinks of the steel toes of the shining boots, and fear creeps into his shrewd eyes. He is aware of the pain, which can be caused by the marriage of steel toes to his groin.
‘Fuck!’ He whispers, pulls out the wallet, and throws a few bills on the bed.
Anna duly observes the action and mentally counts the bills. Her hand withdraws from the red button.
The man looks at the inviting curve of Anna’s hips peeking from under the chair’s back and licks his dry lips. He checks his wallet and finds it almost empty. Groaning with disappointment, he gets out without a second glance.
Anna gets up, locks the door, and clicks the safety chain is in place. Picking up the soiled towel from the floor, she wipes herself down between the legs. Then, she picks up a cheap, disposable lighter, lights up a cigarette, and walks out on the balcony.
Anna examines the street below, oblivious to her naked body and the cheers from a few workers passing by. She is more interested in a couple. They are hurrying through the light, early afternoon rain, making splashes in the small pools of rainwater.
The couple looks married. The man is tall and is wearing a dark-colored overcoat. His female companion is also wearing a dark overcoat and is tightly clutching his arm. Suddenly, she slips in the water, but the man’s quick reflexes prevent her from falling. She looks up at him with a small, grateful smile. The couple walks on and vanishes around the corner.
Anna takes a deep drag on her cigarette and wishes she were the woman in the street, safe in the warm embrace of a man - her man.
The couple is still walking in the street, and the woman is still grasping the man’s arm. They walk on and enter a small pizza place. The man walks to the counter, while the woman removes her coat, and moves towards a small table in the corner. She adjusts the chair and examines her surroundings.
It is a small place with cheap furnishings and old movie posters on the walls. Only one other table is occupied - a tired-looking man, sitting with a small girl, five or maybe six years of age.
The woman eyes the child with interest. She is wearing a beige skirt and a red woolen cap, and is busy finishing her French fries, smeared with ketchup. She eats the last fry and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Let’s go, Father. I am full.’ She tells the man, who smiles, kisses her head, and gets up.
The woman smiles at the little girl and thinks of her two children. They were killed in a hit-and-run accident a few years ago. Her eyes start brimming with tears. But then, seeing her husband coming back, she composes herself and smiles at him.
The man and his daughter walk out on the dark street, him holding the little girl’s hand. She tries to jump into every puddle, sometimes splashing her father’s trousers. But he does not mind, and instead encourages her on with a smile.
The rain has stopped since long, and the sun is beginning to paint everything with a golden-yellow warmth.
The man and the child pass by a small playing area, where a few children are enjoying the coldness of the wet slides. They are laughing in their sodden clothes, and their giggles and laughter catch the fancy of the little girl. She drags her father towards the park. They stand outside the fence, holding hands.
A boy stands out from amongst the small crowd of playing children. Almost as old as the man’s daughter, he is trying to swing as high as possible. Suddenly, he loses his grip and falls. A woman runs up to him, picking him up and wiping his bloody nose.
‘Look, what you have done,’ she sounds scared.
The boy smiles from behind his tears, and his smile calms her down a bit.
Looking at the now vacant and oscillating swing, the little girl looks up at her father with pleading eyes.
‘No, some other day maybe.’ He denies her silent request softly.
He looks at the boy and his mother and envies their happiness. Then, he grabs the girl’s hand and they start walking again. They are getting late. She has cancer, and today is her appointment for the first dose of chemotherapy.
‘Keep your head tilted upwards. It will stop the bleeding.’ The worried mother instructs her son while they are hurrying home.
‘Don’t worry, Mom. I am fine. Look, the bleeding is almost stopped.’ The boy tells his mother cheerfully.
She examines his nose, and seeing the clotting blood on his upper lip, sighs with relief. They walk on and enter an old apartment building. The lobby and the staircase reek of stale piss and poverty.
They start climbing the stairs. The boy is happy and is hopping up the stairs two at a time. But the woman wishes the stairs would never end. She is thinking of her alcoholic and abusive husband, who is awaiting their return. She imagines him sitting in front of the TV, scratching his hairy belly, and thinking of some new means of torturing his wife.
The woman and the boy finally reach the door of an apartment on the second floor.
‘The door to my personal hell.’ The woman thinks apprehensively, shrugs her shoulders in frustration, and unlocks the door.
‘Back so soon?’ A deeply slurred and sarcastic voice echoes from inside the room.
‘Come here.’ The voice beckons, and the boy quickly runs to his room, scared to the core of his being of his drunk father.
The woman walks to where the man is sitting. She looks at the leather belt, with its heavy, steel buckle, clenched tightly in his hand. A cold shiver runs down her spine.
‘Please God, no.’ She silently prays, but God does not live in the houses of the poor.
The man gets up with a menacing grin. She bends her head with silent helplessness and turns to face the other way.
The man raises his arm, and the belt hits the woman just above her hips. The leather traces liquid fire across her back. She screams in pain, and the man’s smile widens with pleasure.
Once, twice, thrice, the woman loses count and stops screaming after five. Finally, the man is tired and sinks back into the sofa in a drunken stupor.
The woman collects herself and walks out on the balcony. She rests her bruised back against the cold, rain-soaked wall. Tears are streaming down her face.
She looks enviously at Anna, smoking on the adjacent balcony.
Shehryar khawar 