“A Wilted Bloom” by Imaan Siddiq

A Wilted Bloom

It was in the discourse of contemplation that Farukh would get dissoluted in. A resting abode and a prospering bloom were perhaps the instability in her life that made it stable. Maybe, it was in the way that her eyes glistened beside the resting river and the discord of the ripples, another flutter of wind and a reminiscing thought of her homeland, a land of impurity nestled in the façade of virtue. But then again, perhaps it was the fate of all great nations and all wise souls to fall and reconquer.

“People like you believe that it is in the salvage of nature that the cosmology reverts to you when even the discourse of the river is but directed. Among the inanimate, then how could the animate struggle to remain afloat?”, were the dubious yet gratifying words of Naseeba that hushed at the back of Farukh’s mind, a safe space for her amidst the unfaltering anguish of the past. How it always rested inconsequently in her hands, the diverging past and the converging present. “Times don’t diverge, people do, in fact, humanity does. Even the rock that is meant to sink might not always rest under the river.”, would have probably been the sagacity of Naseeba integrating a non-existent void.

Farukh could apprehend the restless shivering in her hands as she would proceed every evening to the kitchen to make herself a comforting cup of coffee amidst the jarring winters of London. The shivering was not a symptom of epilepsy but the trauma of glasses shattering and the sanity adsorbing in her fate of absolution. “I will kill you with my own hands for if you even dare to think of stepping out of this stranglehold. Do no incite me to make you and your sick mother pay for it.”, were the words of an overarching shade that she was born to be devoid of. Another dusk dawned and another contemplation silenced as her father rested in jail on trial for domestic abuse and human trafficking, perhaps even Farukh preferred death over living under his baton.

It was then, only a few months later after her parents’ divorce and her father’s arrest that she traversed to the verdant landscape of Gilgit-Baltistan to rest in the arms of a land that held her wilting willows. And it was only then that Farukh was destined to lay in the comforting gaze of a local at first sight. Naseeba was the name that first echoed in her ears as she walked down the local bazaar in search of breakfast. Perhaps, it was in the ode of the winds and the discord of a rift that was only to be corrected by the sagacity of Naseeba herself.

The evening bloomed under the despondency of Farukh’s trial for sanity as she rested near the azure hues of the dusky river and the scent of lavender encompassing the uprooting silence that resoluted her intrinsic conflict. “Do cowards run? Or do they intercede with the plays of the cosmology, the strings being pulled, do they resist?” she reverted in her own mind palace as a hushed voice offered solace. “Flowers don’t run, do they? They persist in the still silence and the lie of commotion to but wilt in the narrative of a prepossessing bloom. Perhaps humans are also like flowers, don’t you think so?” were the words of Naseeba that soon cinched together with the deference in Farukh’s life, the two dynamics of a fading murmur and the sage of a nomadic as she clutched her shivering palms and said that all great humanities are meant to fall and even the colours of demise shall give rise to a vale of despondency persevering in the blossoming cinders.

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