Colourful Colourless Mornings

What is the colour of mornings?
All hues in a passing. Red like his blood-drenched clothes. Pale like his lifeless face. Black like the smoke of people gathering around. Wailing. Shouting. Raging. Green like the flag raised on his adeau. Oh, it burns all boats of his, my beloved’s, return. Brown like the earth spread over his grave. Grey like the sky overlooking my fate.

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What was the colour of that morning?
Colourless zuwa (darling). Colourless.

What is the colour of this morning?
Pink like the lipstick I wore on my Nikah. Red like the Henna on my hands. Black like my thick eyelashes. Black like his smooth wafting hair. White like his crisply creased Kameez Shalwaar. Shining. Promising. Comforting. Green like the Ghilaf on the Quraan. Oh merciful Allah. Brown like the chocolate he shared with me. Our first as wife and husband. Grey like the dying embers on Izband tray.

All hues in a passing. Just a passing.

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Morning brings me a storm of hope. It crawls along the branches of the trees, climbing windows and ambushes me as I watch the morning. “Sun is the same. Trees are the same. Streets are the same. Breeze’s the same. Nothing has changed. He too shall return. Just a bit late. Like he was stuck in a traffic jam. Like he had met some old good friend. He’ll knock the door. He has been late before. But he returned. The same old tapping. The same old humming.”

Hope catches me unawares. Instigates me to expect him once again. He’ll come. Wallahi he’ll come. He’ll bring two chocolates today. One extra for being late. He’ll wipe my tears with his chubby hands. His warmth is more lasting than this stream of tears. No sooner has a tear touched my face than it turns cold. Am I so unlucky? No. He’ll surely return today. Before the night sleeps. Before the sun escapes into another day.

He’ll stretch out the wrinkles of my face. He’ll undo the lines on my hands. Yes he’ll return today. With all his colours. With all our colours. I’ll tell him everything. Everything.

Hope passes away. Smearing the colours over my day. Pink. Red. Green. White. Black. Grey. Side by side. Anchored to one another by a thin brittle promise of his return. All hues in a passing. His reassuring smiles. Zuhr passes. Asr passes. Maghreb passes. Nobody comes. Nobody knocks the same old tapping. Nobody hums the same old humming. No he has never been this late.

Funeral.

Just a howl. Just a crowd. Just a smoke of people carrying a coffin. My day ends. Not with evenings. Not with nights. My day ends with ‘that’ morning.

What was the colour of that morning?
Colourless zuwa(darling). Colourless.

I was four month’s pregnant when they killed him.

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