I had my road cut out
As words flew and lines came to life, she realized she was writing on the lines of a long-lost poem.A Turkish poem.
Thoughts began to flood her mind.
Dal.
Bank.
His arms.
Anchor.
She skimmed those thoughts and jumped. Like she had jumped over that river. The one that had flowed between there and here. Neelam, they called it. Kishanganga, he used to say was its ancient name.
“Aa jao, Iram baby, aa jao![1]”
A hand on her still swollen bump, another out, and a lunge. Splash.
Iram startled out of that memory, the freezing water of Kishanganga piercing her skin like ice needles even now. Cold. So cold. Mist. So much mist. Nothing to see. Only the water. Water in her nose. Water in her throat. Water everywhere.
Save me.
No, this is peace.
Save me.
Let me go.
Blood. Wetness. Wetness of the water. Wetness of her womb. Wetness everywhere. Blood everywhere.
She cleared her throat loudly, working to orient herself in the here and the now. The hazy picture of the sky and the rocks over that river swirled in her mind. She jumped over that picture, feeling the warmth of Rahim Chacha’s hand catch hold of hers before she passed into the flow.
Iram sat up, working doubly hard to let that moment go.Go, go, go.It went.
She concentrated on the blackboard in front of her. She put chalk to board and went on.
I ran through a maze of mountains
Bled over swelling rivers
Landed in the thick of tangled roots
The wind turned furious outside, screaming on her window. She pushed her head down, as if she was still under its tormenting blitz, like on that windy summer evening.
“Rahim Chacha! Rahim Chacha!”
Bang, bang, bang of splintered wood. Her palms hurt. The wind and the night behind her. Her dead children’s graves behind her. Her husband’s empty hands behind her. Two onesies behind her.
“Rahim Chacha!”
“Iram baby?
“Mujhe andar lelo…[2]”
“A… aao baby, aa jao.[3]”
“Kisi ko aane mat dena.[4]”
