Waiting for the rain - June - September 2004

Waiting for the rain
Raania Azam Khan Durrani

June 18th 2001 – Karachi
“ I wonder what is in her mind but in my mind ..I find only you “
Sunset in Karachi breaks my heart. As evening approaches, your quiet city, which lives in my heart, is being taken over by the loud sounds and bright lights of Karachi. The gloomy mauve of the city evening brings me down. As the sun drops down into the ocean, my heart sinks into the endless thoughts of you.

June 20th 2004 – Karachi
Tonight the air in Karachi is humid and warm. I lie in my bed thinking of what the air is like where you are.
I think of the dark crowded night when we were dressed in white and tiny flames were lit around us. It was the funeral of a lion. I had to climb up some stairs so I could see what was happening beyond the crowd of mourners.

To feel is my strength – to generalize and be numb is my weakness.

June 23rd 2004 – Karachi
Many things come between many people and many people between many things. It is natural. Interruptions are real. To withstand these interruptions of reality, we must choose to be real first.

July 2nd 2004 – Karachi
Our geographical distance is enough to make us suffer; must we also always consider our political boundaries?

July 13th 2004 – Muree / Nathiagali
I saw the mountains again. The sudden bends on the curved roads. I met the fair people who enjoy clean air on the higher altitudes.

July 15th 2004 - Islamabad
Rain is not the same everywhere. I saw the first rains of the monsoon season in another country. I recall running across the tiny street and climbing up the small stairs and then finally finding a dry spot under the door of a huge Temple. I remember the heavy raindrops falling into my coffee cup- diluting the rich, hot liquid into a watery, cold, light and almost dreamlike concoction. I can almost hear the sound of your voice, which sang near me.The pink kite paper, the drenched red bricks, and the many colourful flowers of the small garden – they all added to the scene. They all enjoyed the beat of the rain and the sugar in your sound.
Today I sit in a place away from you – I hear the continuous raindrops hitting the parked car, which I sit in alone, waiting for the others. It is evening, and the storm was short – but the rainfall seems to be never-ending, No one is with me but the memories of your voice and the smell of the abundant red bricks of your village.I see lush green hills around me. I see absolute organization and planning. I see this gorgeous land coexisting with impressive urbanization. What I do not see is the colourful clothes of the street children. I cannot smell the oil lamps of the temple. I cannot hear the bell, which was rung a hundred times at dawn and dusk.
Amidst the chaos of this rain- the chaos of this rat race, and the clamour of the status conscious women – I realize I do not fit. I do not belong to this city, I do not know these rain drops, and I do not own this car.

26th July 2004 – Karachi

Still no rain here. The monsoon has still not arrived, no rain here at home.The happy faces of the smiling children are with me. In lie in bed clad in white covered with layers of white bed linen. I look out the window. I want to go out but I cannot move. Through the window I see some sky- I see the coconut trees and their leaves shimmering in the 5 ‘o’ clock sun. They are dancing in the salty sea air. The longer I look at these green blades, the longer I wish to continue looking at them.

28th July 2004 – Karachi

They say it rained last night. I was asleep. When I woke up this morning, I saw no signs of any rainfall. There was no smell of the soil and the leaves did not look any greener. Maybe it is all in my mind. Maybe the leaves this morning were a hundred times brighter. Perhaps the dust had settled and the soil was damp. Maybe the air smelled more of the land than of the sea. I would like to believe that. I would like to wake up tomorrow and experience all the above without thinking so hard about it.When I was with you I could see so much. I think of that morning when the leaves were the brightest, the soil of your fertile land was most fragrant. My senses were so alive. I wish to have that morning back. I wish to walk through the heavy afternoon rain. I wish for the sound of those innumerable raindrops to engulf my mind. Maybe its not the rain that I wait for.

August 14th 2004 – Karachi

The breeze was priceless tonight.

August 19th 2004 – Karachi

It begins to drizzle as I sit out here on the steps. The dogs and I enjoy the very scarce but electrifying droplets. I enthusiastically believe that this is rain, when in reality it just a light mist. The breeze is taking the clouds away, I think. I realize that the breeze in my city is unmatched. Leaves of the ‘badaam’ tree are restlessly moving in all directions. The birds are returning to the trees, they are very loud in the evening; I wonder what it is that they discuss. Usually the moment before the rain is heavy, silent, melancholy and unbearable – but it is just a moment. Today that moment is too long.The breeze continues. One lonely brown leaf falls to the ground. I look at how different the coconut tree is to the ‘badaam’ tree. They stand together but their moves are not the same.I hear the voices of some men quietly speaking in the house next door. They are speaking a language that I do not understand. Our homes stand together but our language is not the same.The mist is gone- there is no electrifying spray. Why does it not rain where I am now?

August 27th 2004 – Karachi

It has been more than two months since I saw the first rain of the monsoon. Been so long since the large raindrop diluted my coffee and your magical sound filled my ear.Yet I am afraid of what it will be like once it does rain. Will my longing end? Is it the monsoon I long for or it something other than just that?August is near its end. Karachi becomes dustier, dirtier, filthier- day by day. We make the money in Sindh and it is invested upcountry. Political chaos, urban decay, over population – all seem to be issues of just Karachi. Sindh suffers.Friday once was a time when the family got together. The women prepared lunch at home and waited for the men and boys to return from ‘Jumma’ prayers at the mosque. It was a happy day, a day which we spent with our grandparents when we were young.Now Fridays are difficult days. Friday prayer time is a weekly high alert for terrorist activity. Bombs and bomb scares are common. Guards with kalashnikovs examine the worshippers prior to entering the mosques. Killing machines have made their way into the places of worship. While praying men think of which one of them has a bomb tied to his chest. Friday afternoons the air is filled with sounds of the ‘ Qutba’ from different mosques, the once calming sound that I associated with brotherhood and camaraderie, is now a sound that I pray passes without being accompanied by blasts. My Karachi seems unfamiliar to me, as if it is no longer mine.The dark gray clouds are back, and evening in Karachi is heavier than ever.

September 2nd 2004

I lie alone in the darkness of my room. The light of one tiny torch aids my vision and my ability to write.
What makes a distance collosal is the different names of the two places.
My dark room has transformed itself into a colourless concrete cube.
I see nothing; nothing at all.