02/06/2022

The straps were slipping through Nusrat's sweaty fingers. It had been a long walk, noon had turned to evening. And when she looked up, at a call that heard, 'Nusrat, Nusrat, Nusrat', she did not know that she would walk into the woods, but she did.

Nusrat Jahan, her hair braided into a crisp plait, a scarf wrapped around, and a jute bag in her right hand, took to the woods on the right of the road. The calling stopped then, and Nusrat knew that, perhaps there never was a voice, perhaps she just wanted to be there, under the canopy.

She hung her jute bag of vegetables on a nearby low branch, looked around to see if someone was present, no one.

Long, long days. Long, monotonous days. Long days with no interest. The evening sun blinked above her. It said, 'Go on, go on, I'll stay up a little longer.' It would not stay up a little longer.

Nusrat borne, and grew up in the neighborhood, she learnt to walk, and to run, and to shout, and to cry and laugh on these roads. She learnt to climb trees right where she now stood. But now, it had been two years, and Nusrat had learnt nothing. She had forgotten, instead.

'I'll give you forty minutes.' The sun buzzed from above.

Slowly she walked, and then she ran. Nusrat ran in the woods, with the trees laughing next to her, the birds cheering above her, and the fallen leaves whispering below her; 'Oh, her I remember. She's grown up now.'

They rustled and cackled; old, befallen leaves, long untouched.

Suns are generous things, but they are also, timely ones. Nusrat still had only walked, and then ran. There was still to shout, and cry, and laugh — all things forgotten.

The sky that was purple, and pink, and orange a lot lower, turned a navy soon. These woods were safe, just as the neighborhood, and just as the days, and the nights. Life became indoors and by the verandahs very early. Her mum would wait, and her three younger siblings would all sit on the couch, palms plastered on cheeks; 'When does she come?'.

Nusrat could feel a scolding in the cool breeze, wheezing by.
She could also, feel calm in the sky above; of silence and of aloneness. The sky did not move, the scanty clouds did not pester, all was still — as she wanted.

Legs know more than we give them credit for. They knew when it was time to stop; the warped nerves wailed a wise wail, and Nusrat sat down right where she was.

Right Where She Was, was a good place.

A prime spot, tree branches gave way perfectly above her. The grey sky with moonlit stories; stars that stayed, silent, watching, knowing.

An echo nearby, and Nusrat tilted her head towards it. Arms stretched behind, and legs  lined forward. Azan for Isha; Nusrat felt sleepy.

Eloquent silence — it told Nusrat of serene, white nothingness. Of quilted calm, and of healing inertia.

When the wind passed, and trees swayed, leaves snored, and the earthen ground underneath pulsated,
Nusrat laid down. Hands beneath the side of her head. She slept a conscious sleep.

It was still humid, the warmth trickled down her neck. To shout, and to to cry, and to laugh; tomorrow, she would bring her sister along. This is a place to be.