A lyrical tale of unexpected reunion set against the atmospheric backdrop of Vienna’s cobblestone streets and the flowing Danube River. This contemplative love story explores the complex emotions between two former lovers who meet again after years apart, weaving together themes of desire, patience, and the transformative power of time. Through poetic prose and philosophical reflections shared with a mystical banyan tree, the narrative delves into the difference between fleeting desire and enduring love. The story captures the Portuguese concept of “saudade” – that bittersweet longing for what was lost – as the protagonists navigate their shared past and uncertain future amid Vienna’s old-world charm and melancholic street music.
‘Tell me why you are here?’ I asked, while softly caressing her delicate ivory palm, ‘Tell me why you are here with me, in this very moment?’
Her palm was soft and cold, but with a subtle warmth pulsating just beneath the fragile skin.
‘That’s a strange question, and I really do not have any answer.’ A tiny smile danced around the corners of her lips. She peered back into my eyes, looking for an answer or perhaps solace. Then she suddenly looked away and the magic was broken.
Vienna was the usual evening chaos. Desires were pursuing desires in an endless cycle. The lights of some old Gothic palace reflected in and danced along the soft waves of the Danube. The river was a cauldron of silence, and the moist evening breeze stirred both its calm surface and also our senses.
Across a cobbled yard stood a couple of street musicians. A tall 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 their music closely and recognized loss and love, singing their eternal duet.
‘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 brief moment, she became what she was a half-decade ago – a beautiful golden dragon that breathed 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 strong wind, blowing through my branches after a very long time. Slim and charming with soft brown hair, which cascaded boldly around her lovely face, and a taut, sensuous body. Her strange and unnamable 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 tropical rains. She reminded me of the moist green moss, climbing up 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 all I felt on first seeing her, there is a small whisper in my ears – desire.
Though all desires are sensuous, this one spoke more of unconditional love.
She always looked like a goddess and a bright light of brilliance peeked from behind her dark unsmiling eyes. Sometimes, under my worshipping gaze, her chiseled features melted into a soft and malleable kindness. But mostly, she remained a marble statue. She was a goddess who demanded to be loved while hiding behind tradition and humility. I was a humble priest who fell in love with her because the possibility of losing her in the whirling sands of time frightened me.
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‘I think I am in love.’ I excitedly spilled out my secret to the old banyan tree. We 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, resided within the tree.
‘And when did you realize this?’ The tree asked in its 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, while 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. She may be kind to the 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.’ I protested. ‘She is a butterfly and her wings reflect all the colours of this world.’
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 possible 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 within our lonely hearts. 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 savoured and treasured.
‘How do I ensure that this doesn’t just remain a desire?’ My 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 that 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 her soft eyelids covered 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 said while searching my eyes, ‘The chaos disturbs my quest for inner peace. And Vienna always attracts 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 echoing beyond the edge 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 Banyan tree asked kindly.
‘Why doesn’t she ever smile?’ I asked.
‘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 chuckled, ‘But don’t worry, she will smile one day.’
‘And when will that be?’ I was growing sceptical.
‘Remember, son!’ The Banyan tree answered, ‘An oyster lies deep within the ocean and awaits the arrival of a single grain of sand. 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 a true seeker of the pearl arrives, the oyster willingly opens up and offers the pearl.’
‘So she is the oyster, and one day she may offer love with a smile if I remain patient.’ 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 still 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?’ She reposed her question, deliberately.
‘Nothing is ever 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.’
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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 into her eyes 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 slowly reached across the table for each other, and my lips found hers. I traced the lines around her mouth delicately and carefully, and finally found my treasure.
It was an epic afternoon in early August. The rain was pouring down by buckets, and I was riding a train.
The afternoon was epic because I was young and was sitting on the front grill of a locomotive, my legs dangling a few feet above the gleaming steel tracks. The cold raindrops pelted my face, but their chill was compensated by the warm glow of the locomotive’s engine heat, slowly spreading across my back. You have to be a lover of both trains and rains to judge the height of my ecstasy. It was a dream that I had never dreamt, but which had come true.
The world through which the train was hurtling was magical. A thick sheet of falling rain drenched God’s earth and everything on it. There was harsh poverty surrounding me, but it was all obscured by the steamy curtain of rain. The engine driver periodically blew the pressure horn, and the long hoots vibrated within my bones and provided a perfect tempo to my excitement.
I looked up and the sky was a great, grey pavilion, where the dark shadows of mythical gods fought each other with spears made of lightning. I imagined the gods looking down from their dark, billowing thrones and watching me, riding a giant steel snake.
I looked around and saw the tall and graceful trees, wildly dancing in the wind. Their long branches were laden with glistening, olive-green leaves, which clapped madly to the crescendo of an invisible beat. I imagined being a dervish and felt the rainy wind spinning me around. I looked straight up, and each drop of rain felt like an indecipherable caress of forces unseen on my cheeks.
I saw naked children playing in the dirty, brown puddles of rainwater, waving madly at me with barely hidden envy. When I waved back, their faces lit up with shiny and surprised smiles. I imagined being one of them and felt the pure pleasure of my worries being washed away by rain. Even the overly-clad village women smiled at me, secure in the most temporary nature of our chance encounter. I peeked inside their delicate hearts and found them brimming with love and also a bit of fickleness.
The train passed by small and lonely platforms. The old station masters possessively held onto their green and red flags, and peeked at me from under their sodden umbrellas with an open-mouthed disbelief.
‘Keep on looking, my friends.’ I laughed at their helplessness and disbelief. ‘Today, I am unstoppable.’
Each new sight and each new smell excited me - the smell of smoke from the wet and smoldering cooking fires, the stink of the open and overflowing drains, the seduction of the dark, wet soil, and the songs sung by the shady, green trees. I was a king, and the land all around me was my humble and most beloved kingdom - although, only for a very short period of time. I was a fascinated traveler wandering headlong at more than seventy kilometers per hour, into a land of wonder, which revealed new secrets with each jolt of the turning steel wheels.
The train gradually slowed down and finally crawled to a stop at a small railway station. It was a train crossing, and the wait for the express train coming from the opposite side was expected to be quite long.
It had grown almost dark when I jumped down onto the crumbling concrete platform. The rain had stopped, and the tired engine was throbbing, but the romance was still vibrating in the moist breeze.
I looked around and found that I was not alone. A small family was sitting on a wooden bench, under an old fig tree. It comprised a husband, wife, and their three young children. The couple was quiet, enjoying their solitude, but the children were playing. Their carefree laughter and cries created a strange contrast to the somber silence of their parents.
Suddenly, a small procession appeared on the platform. It was a wedding party from a local village. Probably, they were all traveling back to the groom’s place, as was obvious from the presence of the shy bride, clad in all reds.
I watched them with interest as the villagers hastily occupied the few remaining benches. They were all tired of the day’s festivities and were irritated by their sodden clothes. The bride sat sandwiched between the groom’s relatives, looking uncomfortable in her heavy attire. The women, though as tired as the men, were teasing the girl. Her discomfort was obvious from the way she was constantly fidgeting with her clothes.
‘Poor girl!’ I thought to myself, ‘She cannot even ask her companions for a visit to the toilet.’
But then my attention was grabbed by a waving, yellow light, floating towards me. The light gradually transformed into an old lantern, swinging from the gnarled hands of an old man. He was dressed in tattered and soiled clothes, and when he approached me, I was nauseated by the smell of his unwashed body.
His eyes were hidden behind thick, grey, and bushy eyebrows. But when the light from the lantern touched his eyes, I could see that they were filled with an ancient weariness.
‘Who are you?’ he eyed me with suspicion.
‘I am a traveler!’ I blurted out.
‘A traveler?’ He examined me from head to toe. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just observing life and enjoying the weather, I guess.’ I was growing a bit uncomfortable and confused, unaccustomed to such strange inquiries.
He sensed my discomfort and laughed at it. It was a deep, cracking laughter, which ended in a phlegm-filled cough.
‘So, what have you observed so far?’ he questioned me sarcastically after clearing his throat.
‘Colors, romance and mystery’. Undeterred by his sarcasm, I maintained my optimism, ‘Colors of the green fields and muddy earth, romance behind the smiles of beautiful women, and mystery in the emotions I can appreciate, but still cannot understand.’
‘Did you also hear something?’ The old man asked me, but this time, his tone lacked any barbs of sarcasm.
‘Yes!’ I eagerly nodded, ‘I heard the deep rumbling of the angry thunder clouds, I heard the laughter of the playing children, and I also heard the wind singing a thousand songs.’
The old man sat down, gesturing at me to do the same. I first looked suspiciously at the wet platform and the muddy water still running through its numerous cracks, but then chose to sit down, feeling like a damn fool for doing so.
‘So, how have you found this world so far?’ He gently plucked an ant floating on a tiny pool of muddy rainwater. Then cupping it carefully in his dirty palms, he gently blew on it and released it safely on dry ground.
‘The world is beautiful and filled with a thousand colors and a million songs.’ I thought for a moment and replied.
‘Hmm! What else?’ He asked while waving kindly at the thankful ant scurrying along.
‘It is a world filled with happiness and joy and smiles and laughter.’ I replied while gesturing at both the playing children and the wedding procession.
The old man kept looking down, his fingers absent-mindedly combing his dirty beard.
‘You do not agree with me, old man?’ I asked him as I was getting uncomfortable with his prolonged silence.
‘Do you see this lantern?’ he apparently did not hear my question. ‘Once it was shiny and new and its light shone with brightness and its round, glass cover, magnified the light manifold’.
I silently scrutinized the old lantern and waited for him to continue.
‘But now it has gone dirty.’ His dirty fingers gently caressed the grimy surface of the lantern’s glass, ‘The badly scratched glass has lost its transparency, and the light does not shine brightly anymore.’
‘Yes, it is old. You should buy a new one.’ I was getting bored with his abstract commentary.
‘Oh! But it is not old.’ He looked up at me, ‘Rather, it has been kissed deeply by time. Time kisses everything, and just like a leech that feeds on blood, time feeds on light, brightness, and happiness.’
‘I believe it is only a matter of perspective.’ I insisted.
‘Perspectives are individual in nature. You develop perspectives once you see through the colored goggles of time. The colors deprive you of your ability to see the true nature of time. Perspective is time’s weapon and its tool, which it uses to disguise its true self.’ His last few words were lost again in a deep rumbling cough.
Spitting a dark, green glob of phlegm aside, the old man waved a hand at the red-clad bride.
‘Do you see the bride?’ He did not wait for my answer and said, ‘From your perspective, she is life, but from the perspective of her groom, she is lust and a commodity, and from her own perspective, she is hope and desire. One day, time will pass, and all these perspectives will vanish into thin air. Then you will see what she really is - a pawn, an object, and a slave.’
Sensing my growing discomfort, the old man softened his tone, ‘Life is not happiness and romance, my son. It is sad and tragic. Time makes it so. Happiness is temporary, and sadness is eternal. Happiness is ignorance, and sadness is maturity and understanding.’
‘Then I hate time.’ I blurted out.
‘No, do not hate time for it also brings along empathy and acceptance.’ The old man consoled me, ‘And these two gifts make you a human being. One day you will shed off the colored goggles of perspective and will see life in its true manifestation.’
The sudden blaring of the engine horn brought me back to reality. I got up and saw the guard waving the green light. I looked around. The romance had gone, and so did the old man. I cursed my dark imagination and climbed back onto the train. There was no old man with an old lantern. It was all in my imagination.
But I was wrong. The old man was real. I saw him again several decades after that train journey. He lives with me now. Rather, it would be appropriate to say that he lives inside of me now. I hear him laugh all the time at the cruelty of time and the fickleness of life. And I see his deeply lined face each time I look in the mirror.
There once was a little boy named Sebastian, who was fond of wandering and adventures. These wanderings and adventures were his ‘walkabout’. What is a ‘walkabout’? You may ask. That is indeed an interesting question.
It is said that once a child reaches puberty amongst the Australian aborigines, he or she is left free to roam the desert, preferably under the watchful eye of a tribal elder. The child wanders here and there and sees all. The sights become perceptions; the perceptions become observations; and the observations become learning once translated by the elder. As they grow older, the learning is applied to life, and the lessons become wisdom.
Though Sebastian was never left free to roam around, he loved doing it whenever he could. He loved the tall trees and the green mountains and the blue sky filled with the billowing summer clouds. He loved nature and all its wonderful smells.
It is a story of times long gone by. It is a story from ancient Egypt - long before the time of the Pharaohs, when people still worshipped the old gods. The new gods and religions emerged long after. It is a strange story - a story of souls meeting, drifting apart, and then coming together again, across the thresholds of time and space.
Shehryar khawar 