Every day has been a new short story in Lahore’s monsoon. July has been blessed and seduced to an extent that it has been wet for over two weeks now.
It’s evening in noon. Again. Other times, it’s dark days and thundering nights. Last night’s drive in the rain was scary to hell, but it was too seducing to be spent at home.
Imagine a short story in a dark day.
Stuck on a flooded road and there’s this small woman in a small car. Smiling and talking to herself – a little confused but unable to leave Lahore on its own. Short curly hair. Large eyeglasses with a thin frame. Thin lips. Fairly fair. And then you don’t mind being stuck.
In fact, you carry the short story slowly without being annoyed anymore of being late for something very, very… unimportant. Then, at one most significant moment of the monsoon day in Lahore, she looks at you, smiles, and gestures as if to say “We’re stuck”.
“Yes, we are,” he smirks and thinks and then he thinks to be stuck for a little longer.
Nothing seems important after that unknown woman. And your day goes on beautifully – without a future, promise, conflict, judgement, or separation.
A complete short story is the incomplete one.
I know. Frustrating. The narrator is ignorant and blasphemous. Fine.
Imagine the monsoon in Lahore again. The whole season being spent with the one. In one’s arm. Hand in hand, waiting for the rain to fall so they can hug without this city’s judgement. Driving in the rain toward unknown destinations. Hand in hand.
The first rain and the first gesture.
Another one with a hug.
Another one with a kiss.
Another rain, another love, still with the same one.
Then comes frustration.
What’s more? How to get more? Possession!
Then comes the conflict – another rain, and the first argument.
Then the first fight with no contact for the three rainless days when the city tried to took a break, though the sun didn’t shine either.
Then what? More rains and more fights.
More arguments.
Both wanting more from each other. Hence, frustration.
And then, before the last spell of the monsoon… it ends. The novel ended before the season did. The divorce lasted longer than the marriage. In fact, the divorce came without a marriage.
Such a shame.
Come back to the short story. The girl with a curly hair, no dragon tattoo, one small gesture, a wide thin smile, and that was that – the end. Perverts.
Like this rain ended without an epilogue in Lahore.
For another rain to fall.
For another short story to be written.
For another eternity to be marked.
Whatever. Lahore is a whore even without the monsoon. This city is that whore of Manto that cannot be ignored and that cannot be left ever.