In the Shadow of the Almond Tree| By Waqar Ahmed Malik

Respected Mr. Qaiser,

I trust this message finds you in good health. After addressing you as “Qaisi” for eight years, today, for the first time, calling you “Qaiser” feels strangely unfamiliar, almost peculiar. Perhaps it will seem strange to you as well. Since the divorce, I no longer possess any claim over you, nor the right to call you “Qaisi.” The divorce has not been mine alone; even my silent love has been rendered divorced. My clothes, jewellery, cosmetics, books, and even the eight cherished gifts you bestowed upon me each year on my birthday—each of them too, has become divorced. I am attempting to withdraw, to distance myself as far from your life as possible. Yet, the scent of your body, so deeply ingrained in my very veins, refuses to leave me. I hope that, with time—be it months, years, or perhaps even centuries—this fragrant presence will eventually dissipate, and I will no longer carry the perfume you once infused into my body. For when two clay figurines are separated, what power can the fragrances still hold?

Since returning from your home, I have devoted myself to caring for my elderly parents. You have, in some way, done me a favour by giving me another opportunity to serve them. Now, all my energies and passions are centered upon them. I wish to surrender my every moment, my every breath, to their well-being. I have given my soul to this task, though perhaps my heart requires more time to adjust. I cannot understand how, while I devote myself to them day and night, they continue to watch me with tearful eyes. I find contentment in my life, so what affliction could they possibly bear?

There are times when they, too, taunt me, accusing me of being barren—just as your mother once did in the early years. Yet, back then, you were always a wall between her words and me. Those moments, however, offered me a peculiar sense of solace, as though, while wandering through a dark forest, snow began to fall, and a familiar yet unfamiliar figure appeared, shielding me from the cold, impending death. Qaiser, guard that umbrella well—it may one day shelter another frail and weary soul. Now, when I find myself enduring the harshness of my mother’s reproaches, your protection is sorely missed. But no matter—after all, she is but a mother, not a stranger.

Qaiser, you have altered not only my habits but also my tastes and preferences. Just like you, I now long for simple meals of lentils, rice, and vegetables. Yet, my parents have their own tastes. Eight years ago, I too cherished the things they do. But you, with your quiet influence, led me onto another path. You reshaped me. Pray that I might one day return to the simplicity and innocence of the girl I once was.

The weather this morning has been delightful. The clouds are rolling in, thunder rumbling, and lightning flashing. The strong winds sway the barren tree in Baba’s courtyard. These are the final days of November, and the beauty of autumn is at its peak. The yellowed, withered leaves of the berry tree fall from the branches, swirling in the air before settling upon the red soil of the yard. Amma stands in the northwest corner, sheltered by the earthen stove, blowing on the embers. The acrid smoke from the damp twigs has brought teary moisture to her eyes. The fire burns briefly, but the wind douses it again. Meanwhile, I am sweeping the courtyard. Even the act of sweeping the floors of mud houses seems to carry a certain formality—a ritual. The dust, once more, is swept back into the very dust from which it rose. Isn’t it a curious thing?

In the fifteen years of my childhood, I had swept the dust of this little abode. After my matriculation, my uncle took me to Islamabad. At the time, I was overjoyed to be rid of the dust. But after some time, I found myself weary of the colorful marble. I longed once again to sweep the dust from the dust itself. When the rains came, the absence of the earthy, musky scent in my uncle’s stone house gnawed at me. I would find solace in the nearby park, inhaling the scent of the wet earth. The same park where you and I first crossed paths. I remember it clearly: on that first day, you wore a soft blue suit. In your hands, you held fresh lotus blossoms. Those bright, fragrance-less flowers you tucked into my lilac shawl. From your proximity, I caught the scent of romance, a fragrance that has remained my favourite ever since.

This harmony of marble and dust endured for the next four years. The lotus and Romance gave way to jasmine and Brute. During this time, I completed my B.Sc., while you, perhaps, were in your final semester of M.Sc. Qaiser, do you recall those two almond trees that stood in a corner of that desolate park in Islamabad? Beneath their meagre shade, how many hours we spent exchanging scientific notes and ideas. Our discussions would start with the arid theories of science, but soon enough, they would drift toward flowers, fragrances, and exchanges of gifts.

The rain has begun to fall. The fire that my mother had so painstakingly lit has long since been extinguished. I now sit on a charpoy by the berry tree, writing you this letter. The furrows on my mother’s brow are stark, visible as ever. Not long ago, she cast at me a glance laden with displeasure—one akin to that of a farmer staring at barren land, which, despite all his toil, yields no sign of life. The rain’s droplets have started to sneak into the shelter, too. I have shifted my charpoy away from the damp so that the letter remains dry. What’s this? What has become of the berry tree? It seems to be sprouting greenery. How is it that these leaves are emerging? Oh, Qaiser, do take a look—this berry tree is starting to resemble the almond tree. And lo, even almond buds have appeared. The moist breeze carries their fragrance across the courtyard. But why does this scent now hold the essence of both Romance and Brute?

Qaiser, you surely know, don’t you, that such weather breathes new life into weary bodies, particularly of the women. In such rain and romantic weather, even if only for a moment, a glimmer of fertility is granted to the dry, barren soil. In the days I spent with you, such rains would stir something within me as well—a kind of quiet exhilaration. It would make my body thrum, taut like the bow of a Roman warrior. This sensation was born from the rain, yet its remedy was always found in your embrace. A mere moment in your presence would dissolve all the stiffness in my form, lifting it into the air. Qaiser… oh, my beloved Qaiser… what am I to do now? My body hums like a bell, trembling with the vibrations. The quiver has taken root in this clay statue of mine. How will flexibility be restored now? I cannot halt the rains, nor can I summon this brave warrior of the Roman age to my side, nor can I snatch the bow from his hands. What use is a bow filled with arrows if it has no target?

Two months before coming here, I had planted a jasmine sapling in a flowerbed near your veranda. Every morning, I would water it. In just two months, it had grown healthy and strong. But then, suddenly, you cast me away. I had tried to hide my barrenness in that little sapling, but perhaps nature did not favour my childish consolation or my flight from reality. By now, that plant must have bloomed. If not, then surely you never bothered to water it. Please do take care of it. After all, its flowers will soon be for your use. Perhaps one day, when you’re walking through the park, you might find yourself in need of those jasmine flowers. You always loved the scent of jasmine, just as you did with Romance and Brute, didn’t you?

Oh, and I have another request. In the evening, just before dusk, a pair of blue birds would stop by our terrace on their way back to their nest. They would rest there for a while. I used to wet some leftover bread and food and place it in a bowl for them. In just a few moments, the entire bowl would be emptied by them. I believe the pair still visits. You must continue to feed them. May the Lord preserve their pair.

I am weary from storing away my clothes, jewellery, cosmetics, books, and the eight loving gifts you gave me. What am I to do with all these? The clothes are colourful and bright, but I no longer feel like wearing them. Jewellery is a symbol of marital joys and beauties—things that have long since been taken from me. Makeup, in a barren house of clay, is nothing but a waste of time and cosmetics. As for the books, I read them occasionally. As for your gifts, I will try to keep them for a while longer.

Qaiser, when I was leaving your house for the last time after our divorce, I stood in the street and looked at you for the final time. Though it is a sin to gaze upon an unrelated person, you, now a stranger, were once my closest companion. I had spent eight precious years of my youth with that clay statue. We had shared so many secrets, dreamed of a beautiful future together. I had adorned my dull body with the scents of yours. If it was sinful to look at you, then that sin has already been committed. May the Lord forgive me. I have buried the last image of your face in my memories forever. Like the two beloved youth in John Keats’ poem, you will remain forever young in my thoughts and memories. Age or death shall never touch you. Your dark, shining hair, your fragrant form, your fair complexion, your shy smile—and… and… everything about you will remain eternal and undying.

The rain has grown heavier now. The entire shelter is within its reach. Because of the rain, I won’t have to sweep the home today. I won’t have to separate the dust from the dust. When I do this, it feels as though the dust is not parting from the dust, but that I am parting from you. Two figures made of clay are being torn apart. I wonder what grudge people have against the poor earth, to chase it around like this.

I now seek permission to leave. I am returning your identification card with this letter, which, for some unknown reason, I had brought with me when I arrived. My identity was once tied to yours. Without you, what do I have to do with this identity?

Farewell,
Your former life companion