That Moment Of Hope. Nayeema Ahmad Mahjoor

That Moment Of Hope 

Nayeema Ahmad Mahjoor

At that moment, the sky transformed. The weather forecast predicted rain, yet the meteorological signs proved unreliable. Instead, a radiant sun emerged, casting warmth amidst the chill, its smile illuminating the scene.

The emptiness within the heart began to fill with renewed hope, a longing for something without a name—perhaps a symbol of purpose or connection.

It seemed as though the final moments of life were overwhelmed by a cautious optimism, reluctant to indulge in excessive joy. The possibility of heartache lingered, and the chance of reclaiming happiness appeared distant, yet the desire to embrace hope persisted despite the uncertainties.

That moment when I heard his voice, a voice so delicate and full of life, like that of a hummingbird, I was instantly moved to compose poetry. However, this was not the same poetry I had written three decades earlier. Back then, I was beginning to lose faith in love and longing, emotions that had transformed into painful wounds. I attempted to conceal those wounds beneath layers of gauze, never allowing them to be exposed or healed. 

That other day, when I completely lost faith in love, has become a significant and turbulent chapter in my life. Yet, I have deliberately omitted it from the narrative of my life. I erased all traces of that period, and the remaining pages of my diary were lost during the floods of 2014, which devastated the Valley, consuming both life and livelihood. But even in the face of such loss, I found the strength to move forward. That day, thirty years ago, the gun too entered into the turbulent history of the Valley, but I had skipped over it in my book of life. I never looked back at the 90s, a time when the contours of my life shifted dramatically due to unexpected political tremors around me. But, I must confess that that era changed me and my generation. We would hardly talk but whisper. We would not walk but run. We want to be chased by the gun, but we never expose it. And, we had to stay for days under the scorching sun for interrogation.There was no love left, no giggling of blushing brides or flirting of teenagers.They were busy boasting about themselves by showing guns or burying martyrs. 

The time had run out for longing for someone, bursting with poetry, and understanding of what it means to be human. We had turned into a race of timorous ones. I settled into this new beginning. 

The habit of keeping up appearances, like a body that was merely going through the motions of life without truly living, proved beneficial. There was no fear of either being buried under the debris of customs or being torn apart by the vultures seeking to satisfy their aggression. We were in unison to place a lid over the heart, to protect it from further aches. 

Soon, the death and destruction consumed my generation and the one which followed me.

It never stopped. Now, it has become a norm in our lives.

 At this point, I am not inclined to rewrite that history, which has left blank pages around. I have emerged from it, which was a good sign, and I started to accept it as part of my journey, no matter how bleak and dark it was. 

The three decades of the twentieth century have changed the world; how could they not have changed me? A new generation of my clan had reached adolescence.

The political landscape had changed. The forests have become dumping grounds for nuclear waste. Pakistan was dismembered, Afghanistan defeated a twenty-four-nation alliance, and the September 11 attacks transformed global politics. I, too, emerged from the Tora Bora cave like a mouse, looking up at the sky, which seemed to smile at me for the first time. After a long night of prayers, something unexpected happened. 

At that moment of dawn, a revelation came. I had to take a solemn pledge to live, to endure, and to thrive. 

Soon, the Gabriel appeared when the sky turned blush red with sunshine, and I began to feel my heart beat faster—not trembling but rhythmically.

 Was this the moment I had prayed to God? 

God listens to our prayers. I would endorse it. 

This was not my mother’s era of ‘ wariven seet wara chus no chara kara mouen malani ho.’ The lyrics on the Radio would hardly evoke pain or bring tears; instead, they had just started to lose their rhythm and character. Or, we had run out of tears.

One fine morning, a voice—like one heard in a deep sleep or in wakefulness—created music for my ears. Despite trying to resist it, I found myself drawn to listen. The door of my heart opened with a big bang. It was strange to hear words of love, longing, and warmth after such a long time had passed. What made me attracted towards it? His voice was muddled with the tinge of asthma.

The revolution was in the making. 

‘Love or the urge to love will stay until the last man on earth.’ The teacher wrote on the blackboard on the day I entered to find a book on ‘broken hearts.’ This simple yet profound statement reminded me of the enduring value of love and connection in our lives. 

A new world was being created by that hummingbird voice, which, surprisingly, had dreamt of making a symphony with my own voice on the very day I had closed the door to the world. Thirty years of waiting without even mentioning it—how can one person be so patient in waiting for the right moment? The thought was unthinkable. Could this be a mere coincidence, or is nature working in mysterious ways? My mind was racing with calculations. If I had known earlier about the feelings he held in his heart, would I have responded the way I am now? 

I found myself truly living again, writing about love and overflowing with emotions, like the colossal waves of a tsunami. The glistening sand particles on the beach became metaphors, while the warmth of the sea wrapped around me as if to offer comfort in his voice. I felt tall again—or at least that’s how the sensation made me think. I was reflecting on love and emotions, the heartbeat of dreams and destinations, and the longing that comes with listening. Am I real, or am I somehow reincarnated like Buddha? 

A miracle can happen…

The sky laughed again…

The ocean roared… And the birds were chirping.

The seagulls watched me, seeming stuck in the sand. Yet, I discovered joy in the particles tickling my feet, the tide massaging my legs, and the breeze brushing against my cheeks—a renewed desire to live again, even at a stage in life where vitality often fades. Someone had awakened a world I had long buried, igniting a spark of fire within me.

Who was this someone?

Yes, I could hear the music and his hum along with it. 

At first, I looked around, finding no intruder; it was just my heart creating a rhythm of its own. I yearned to sing the couplets of love I had written in the sand. 

Tahira Syed was singing, “Ya alam shouq ka dekha na jayei, woh but hai ya khuda dekha na jayei.” 

My heart was racing with the rhythm.

And, there was this hummingbird voice………. My heart raced to the rhythm of his voice. This hummingbird voice transformed into an instrument that created its own rhythm and symphony. I didn't know who he was, but I felt his warmth, his passionate words, and his racing heart. That humming awakened my dormant feelings.

Then, he began to share the rough patches of his life—his journey from a love marriage to arguments about finances, the joy of becoming a father to his daughter amidst accusations of infidelity, and disputes over property to feelings of abandonment and isolation, all accompanied by a multitude of ailments. Everything I had buried from my past was also part of his story, and I found myself floating once again in a river of misery. Yet, he kept me afloat until I felt light-hearted, like a feather, my eyes glistening with hope, wishing those moments would last until my last breath. 

His whispers grew louder, echoing through the abyss as he unfolded layer after layer of emotion. My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, mirroring the wrinkles on his face. The sound of his tears made him so vulnerable that I longed to reach out, to hold his hand, to embrace him tightly, as if he needed a little warmth and energy to catch his breath. Was he more vulnerable than I? This question lingered in my mind like a dark cloud ready to burst into a downpour. I felt we were on the brink of being overwhelmed by a tide of emotional wreckage. 

His vulnerability deeply affected me. I had never realised that men could be just as vulnerable as women. 

At the exact moment, it energised me; it felt like the feminist within me was extending her reach.

 My silent gaze may have unsettled him; his hummingbird-like voice faded as he searched for my hand to soothe his chest. I wanted to comfort him with a massage, and somehow, I felt he sensed it. A smile spread across his face, perhaps finding its way through the wrinkles, and he would never let go of my hand.

 The couplet I wrote in the sand was washed away. His voice became soothing as he contemplated our meeting. 

“No, never. I love his melodic voice, but seeing him might lead to disappointment. This relationship must remain confined to soothing sounds, couplets in the sand, and waves of emotions in the air. Only then can we sustain this moment for as long as we live.” I sensed his disappointment, but he didn’t argue. We had to live thousands of miles apart, in different countries and on separate continents, in a vastly different world. It was a covenant of our souls. 

That seemed like a sustainable way to keep in touch. Love should not remain old-fashioned; it must take on a new form and be liberalised too, and we should both be rewarded for being its vanguards.  

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