The one I am writing about, I haven’t got it with me here. It lies in a suitcase in Peshawar. This time when I was there, I wanted to search for it , but all the boxes, and suitcases are upstairs in the attic. Short of climbing the wooden stairway, I couldn’t get it. Another thing was, most of the time I forgot to go get it.
I didn’t have time on my side. Whenever I thought about it, I would be busy. I would tell myself I am in a hurry right now, I will look for it in the evening– in the morning, and so on. It kept getting postponed. Mornings — I was short on time, and in the evenings I would be plain tired. The only thing appealing was getting to bed, and going to sleep.
I had to conquer two things. First thing was to climb the stairway, then secondly battle the layers of dust which had accumulated in the attic. In a second the hands would get grimy beyond recognition. Whose hands are they? Certainly not mine. But the evidence would stare me in the face. They were mine, attached to my body.
I would climb down to wash my hands. Meanwhile if a phone was ringing, or someone was banging at the outside door, it would get my attention. I would forget about lights on in the attic adding to the electricity bill. Once I forgot they could burn to eternity. I only remembered on my next voyage to the heaven above, and would gave a thump to my head, telling myself accusingly you forgot.
Maybe I retrieve it on my next trip to hometown, and wear it for the summer in 2018.
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