Demised Apples

His feet ambled down the fissured, dusted path,

Longing for the comfort of reminiscence in the foot of the valley he once called his abode.

His eyes trailed to the azure sky speckled with translucent white puffs of cotton,

Their peruvian webs of moist thread struggling to allow the sunlight seep into the tired eyes of the land.

The mallards chirped the arrival of fall,

And his head perked in recognition of the rhythmic trills that resonated through the cool gusts of wind.

Is it autumn already?

His glazed eyes directed their attention to a soft thud sounded by an apple tree.

An Ambri apple.

A smile found home on his lips, for it was the season of harvest!

His fingers curled around the air in his palm,

As if to remember how the oblong apple once fit in his hand.

As if to remember the sight of the fruit with blushed red skin and fainted stripes that his thumb used to run over.

As if to remember the sweet aroma that engulfed his senses when he used to climb the apple trees in search for ripe produce.

Oh, how he wished to.

He continued walking along a bridleway in the midst of Chinar trees,

Their palmate deciduous leaves painting his stroll shades of amber and yellow.

The clusters of their round burr fruit often found themselves caught in his young daughter’s clothes when he brought her along promenades,

And he couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of annoyance plastering her face during the season.

“Papa! Me karakne madhat yhat thulnez maz?” she pleaded with a pout.

Papa! Won’t you help me take this off?

Oh, how he wished to.

The autumn breeze carried more than just the brisk whispers of the season.

Entering the village he was raised in, his mouth watered at a waft of freshly baked dough in the warmth of the air,

And he subconsciously led himself to the familiar kandur stationed at the end of Qureshi lane.

He was not alone, however. The baker’s dexterous hands produced czot for the morning and afternoon tea that left words of praise on everyone’s salivating mouths.

Sharifa aunty’s hands worked in years of expertise,

Her nails skilfully digging into the prepared batch of dough to allow the bread to breathe

Before pushing the mixture into the kiln her family had been using for generations.

Sweat rolled in beads down her cotton dupatta,

But the product of her calloused hands kept her content,

And she always ended her service to him with a smile that reached her eyes, uttering a “Maajas vanza salaam”.

Send my peace to your mother.

Oh, how he wished to.

The stinging sensation of asphalt left him with blisters,

But he urged his legs to linger around the bakery for a little longer.

He wants to forget,

But his memory fails to allow the recollection of the day he left escape into oblivion.

He needs to forget—but why is he cursed with remembrance?

He remembers.

He remembers the knitted orange sweater patterned with burr his daughter wore when they visited Sharifa aunty’s bakery in the afternoon.

He remembers how she greeted the younger one with a large grin and words of affection before making their share of bread of the day.

He remembers hearing the sound of a gunshot pierce the air,

A panicked shriek following the strike of a bullet.

He remembers instinctively enveloping his body around his daughter,

Only to crouch and drop at his knees at the sight of crimson coursing the embroidery of his beige kurta.

He remembers how his hand desperately attempted to cover the puncture in his chest,

And how he wished to shield the sight of his daughter from the gushing wound.

He remembers when his back finally greeted the pavement,

When his arms fell limp to his sides,

When his eyelids threatened to bid farewell.

He remembers when his daughter climbed onto his laid form,

Coiled hands pressed against his heart,

Confused eyes stained with injustice,

Chapped lips trembling as her voice quavered with a question she feared she would earn no response to.

“Tze vathak na, papa?”

Won’t you wake up, papa?

Oh, how he wished to assure her.

But the apples of his land had already poisoned his veins;

The thorned burrs of his land had scarred his skin,

And the fragrant memories of the nourishment of his land had intoxicated his lungs.

So he left—to find sanctuary six feet underground and into the arms of the soil hugging him welcome.