Fiction: The Sad Tree Written by Afaque Ahmed.

Already fed up with the impenetrable mysteries of the science subjects, I am, in perpetuity, saddened by the tree, terribly sobbing for the moments we spent together with it, under its shade and shelter.

As I usually pass that tree, I hit upon thoughts of the heartrending breakup, in the same college she studied and passed out, but I am still continuing to suffer, unfortunately unable to forget the moments I am feeling now. At the very outset, I tried to be away from her memories, and prevent myself from ruminating on her, but, as the tree takes to me, her memory and the sights, harboured in my mind, remain every minute of life with me like the oceans with water and the nights with darkness.

The tree which, unknown to us, used to be ecstatic with our presence there, and which used to shower blessings and spread happiness among others, now is a terrible sight, has become barren, and broken heart. It looks like an old man has expired. Now it looks to me that it will die in the waiting for her, amid the sweet songs of the birds and in the aroma of baked earth which has been marooned from the day she has left.

The moments, we have forgotten long ago, it remembers, much to my surprise, leaving me always in little tears after making me bask into  laughing seemingly. It reminds me infallibly of them, not because reducing me to red tears, but for unburdening itself of the sentimental perplexities by crying out to me.

It reminds me of that day when we met very first time under it. We were having sinking feeling and looking at each other, and I broke the silence and asked her if she was comfortable. She was fearing a little bit or perhaps feeling shy of speaking to me, instead she was fingering her hair, having a wry smile on her lips. And that time I grabbed her hand, her eyes down in shyness. And articulately expressed my love to her and she ran away, sinking into pleasure.

Next day, she left a paper for me with a girl who gave me and this  paper read that she wanted to rendezvous in the evening time under the same tree. I went there, it was almost at the break of dusk, the sun was dead down, emitting very slightly red light, she came and exchange her love with mine. I took hold of her hand, and embraced her. I placed the kisses on her eyes and moved my tongue in search of her lips, but she was not helping me in it and suddenly when she allowed me, I caught her lips and suck them, to our satisfaction, exploring the otherworldly affection and ecstasy.

It reminds me of the sweet talks we murmured, too engrossed to take notice of somebody else, perhaps listening to us secretly; of the birds—we saw, her hand in mine—that were chirping and making the intriguingly mellifluous voice, bringing us to ask questions on beauty of nature; of the arguments and quarrels on trifling issues and that she always won defeating me extremely.

It also reminds of her hair fallen on her shoulders absorbing me like devotions to prophets, and spirituality to scholars. She asked many times the same question: ‘why are you astonishingly staring at me, sublimely intrigued?’ And in response to the answer I used to question: ‘can a person survive  without water? Can a person breath without oxygen?’ Can I live without looking at you? So I am living now but my soul expired and my heart dying intermittently like an exhausted bird with its wings clipped and like a child with its parents no more.

The tree knows ‘I don’t take a fancy to the memories, but born all of them owing just to our comfort, also pouring my heavy heart out to it.’ It sympathizes with me on the torments, and hugs me while I wipe my tears, welling up in my eyes and burst into seemly laughter.

Today was the same day as was the day one year before when her birthday took place and was celebrated. I went, in the morning, with the same mood and same dress, and as much happy as I was on that day, to the tree which fervently was waiting for my coming. I arrived at the place, already drenched in fragrance of flowers blooming, with a beautifully designed cake with her name on it. I placed the cake down on the table near the tree and myself sat opposite it, exactly in the same way, I lit the candles and cut the cake, singing with it the songs of her birthday, and made each other taste, reveling in merriments before pasting it on the faces silently and happily. It was all same. But her absence stirred our blood, surged our emotions and brought us to tears in our sparkling eyes. I, after embraced the tree, my faithful friend, bid adieu to it and returned home with her memories there again abounding in sweet nothings, murmurings, giggles, and tissues of lies.

Since she has forsaken us into labyrinth of her memories, I have become acquainted to it, and been spending every minute of my life with it on its request, though it is much terrible. We usually greet each other with warm smile and share our day’s sufferings and complain about her, then say good bye being sure to be meeting the next day.






Afaque Ahmed is  a finicky drinker, much of eye-drinker,  earning a BBA from a best university of Pakistan. He takes to reading romance and sometimes fiction.

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