Originally posted on Crazy Knot:
Nearly everyone in this world is conscious about their image or what people think about them. You overthink and create a problem that just wasn’t there at all. I was just the same , I used to think ,think and think and create problems in my head that weren’t there from the start .
I used to think that people do not like me although I don’t even provoke them , if I don’t hurt or provoke them , then what is their reason to dislike me ? None. But , I used to sulk all day thinking that people don’t like me . Without any reason. I was stupid.
Even if they did it was their negativity , not mine .
If you’re going through the same situation then let me give you a couple of advices .
Everyone can’t dislike you . Every one has people who like…
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With each swirl of the swing,she laughs and cries. The color of her cheeks turning from pale yellow to red. And far away stands a woman begging at a mosque for a child. Laila laughs and cries at the same time, hiding the sad betrayal in her eyes. Oh such a lovely girl she is, they say. But who knows the tragedy that made her live a life in orphanage. Her father did not want her, her grandparents despised her, her mother never saw her. Oh such a sad girl, they say. Laughing and crying at the same time, abandoned by her father for being his 13th daughter, left alone in this huge world for being a less powerful human, dumped by daddy, cared by none!
And far away a woman cries in the mosque, praying everyday for a child.
On one of those lovely winter nights, she sat writing her past on her journal. She wrote and wrote and wrote, carving the never ending memories on a thin piece of paper. As lonely as she was, she knew her only solace is this journal. As she wrote about her one and only love, she felt a lump in her throat and felt hot tears on her ninty years old, cold bare skin, streaming down her hazelnut eyes. She felt the tissues of her skin blazing, her veins scorching and blistering,her body roasting. She couldnt bring herself to write about her sweet lost love. Her love life was dark and gloomy as that silent winter night.
As she sat there mourning for her long lost love, she felt a flurry of air caressing her cheeks and stroking her hair. She instantly felt better, and with that breath of wind she knew he was there with her… watching her, protecting her, loving her. She knew she wasn’t alone. She knew she was loved. She wiped her tears and closed the journal, ending her memoir in a sweet serendipity and signing her journal for the 100th time,
“Jennifer ♡ David, together forever!”
Maybe this is the start of my blissful journey towards a renewed life
Maybe this is the ecstasy that I had been longing for.
They were meeting after thirty years. For them, the sun was rising again after a long winter. Thirty years! Their love was strong enough to bear these thirty years in isolation. He came running from above the hill; she was waiting downside the hill. Heels cracked, skin wrinkled, body scarred, but love still as pure as the holy water. On the partition of the subcontinent in 1947, he was left behind in India and taken as one of the prisoners by Indian army, just like many of Indians were taken as prisoners by Pakistan. The war had separated them, right after their wedding, exactly on their wedding day!
They were told that their village would be safely merged with Pakistan, but it didn’t. Millionaires were turned into paupers, their factories and houses were burnt down, leaving them completely empty handed and penniless.
He was running to the downside of the hill, stopping various times to catch a breath, and to make sure his old knees get some rest. As he reached the place where she was standing, he saw her. Dressed in purple and pink gown, wearing a red stole over her head and brown Peshawari Sandals, though her skin had been wrinkled and blemished but her eyes told him that she was innocent, her heart was as young as a sixteen year old. Fixing her red stole again and again and looking here and there for him, she finally caught a glimpse of him. Smiling brightly at him, she had a flashback of him as a young boy, flashback of that horrible day when most of her family members had been slaughtered mercilessly in front of everyone in the name of religion.
How much she missed his smile, his presence, his personality, his lovely voice. They both came closer to each other, laughing and crying at the same time. They couldn’t recognize each other properly. She touched his cheek, his skin felt so rough and patchy, showing her the cruelty he had to face in all these years. She almost thought it’s a wall scraper instead of his skin.
30 years! He thought to himself. 30 years of immense trauma and torment. The pain of knowing your beloveds were killed mercilessly without a cause and the torture of not having someone close to share this sharp, incurable pain with. They had been married, and right after Chanda’s brothers held up her doli, they came. ‘The unknowns’ as everyone called them. Killing their families just for a little piece of land, in the most inhuman way, and taking Jugnu with them as a prisoner. Jugnu remembered the shrieks and cries of his family when he was being torn away from his own family after a cruel beating.
He held her hands and took her in his arms. Chanda made him vow to his life that he won’t go anywhere without her, ever again. They cried the tears of joy and walked together to the village, hands in hands, smiling broadly.
It was the end of their hardship and the start of their life as newlywed couple.
And not to forget,
It was their ‘happily ever after’