A Romantic Vision

Sinners to Sinners

Climbing windows, jumping onto unknown floorings, disturbing the neat study tables and ultimately finding a scribbled and shabby diary for weeks, I the thoughtless daughter of my parents, Awan the reckless child of his great father became criminals addicted to the crime.

In my years of study behind books and stares into the vacant universe, I had never been able to adequately question life as I do now.

There were roughly fifteen or eighteen houses in which we had been, all nights dedicated to studying the inner reality of the strangers. The fascination grew like wild creepers into us. We discussed, deliberated and sympathized with them.
It had been two months here, Sidratul Muntaha was kind as it could be.

We got caught twice by the guards, the rest of the houses had goons instead of security. We were acquainted with fifteen names and fifteen stories out of which the most unexpected was the most remarkable.
We were in a Chemistry professors house searching for his journal when we came across his wife's diary.

It was staggering in itself that a housewife had so much bottled up. An ordinary woman with a foreign tongue excelled in all aspects of living. She unapologetically wrote of her life in her broken English, her encapsulated desire of wholesomeness battling her feeble marriage. Oh, the climax! She had an extra-marital affair with an arms dealer who thinks she is in love with him which he uses her for his gratification has no idea that she is only with him to quench her toxic thirst and her husband she knows well is involved with a maid she lets live in her house and writes 'I use his sin to justify mine. So when they'd ask me why I do this, I would copy his answer, he being the professor might have a better answer because I being just a housewife have none'
Awan and I gasped at her lines and exchanged a look. There are so many questions lurking behind every house curtain, we are so deepened in our sympathy lest we live, shrink than expand for the world would not be able to contain us with answers.

I realize after each house a breath in us muffles and it adds quite in us.
Awan stays melancholic for he lives them indeed in those moments, he reads them loud and accesses their sorrow. He returns though after moments but bluer.

He comes limping, one leg dragging the other in the cold soil.

"Still hurting?" I asked making a place for him to sit beside.

"I mean was worth it" he smiles.
The guard was brutal when he caught us running he threw his stick over and it hit Awan's leg.

"So what is the moral of the story?" He asked.

'A life without spirituality is a waste' i thought, as in words it wouldn't convince Awan.

I left him sitting and smiling to himself.

In the kitchen, I boiled water.
I did not intend to make an extra cup of tea but the result had me to walk to my Fathers room.

"Hello," I greeted.

He coughed.

"Are you alright?" I asked he coughed
Louder.

I sat beside him.

"It is nothing I just slept in the library and the windows were open throughout the night. It was cold" he adjusted his hair.

I gulped.

"Where was mum?" I asked.

He answered a sigh.

I and father walked to his room, it was grimy and convoluted.

He sat on the bed and I handed him the tea.

"Your tea tastes like my mothers" he smiled running his hands on my head and this moment, I break down. There's no love as of a father.