A Grey Landscape

Tall, insurmountable, rugged, mountains draped in dried green grass and a shadowed grey   sky pockmarked with dense clouds.   An asymmetrical, amorphous and an apart picture.

 Not the picturesque countryside of a framed photograph which is usually the blue sky, yellow sun and green grass but dull   shadowed and mute tones of an overused crayon   that would usually  appear less appealing to the evolving canvas of a Childs mind.

Ashraf( name changed)loosely holds the picture   he had drawn in an old ,  drawing book  against the backdrop of a face. His mother’s. That’s what the moment  I captured in the camera said.

Another set of faded  words   all across the picture. Afghanisthan, as if, written long back,  which could be easily scratched and rubbed as easily one scrapes off the last remains of dried blood.   Yet the only light blue  color used  to  denote a  vast sky resting on a grey ground  made it appear so alive and pulsating,  as if an   attempt  to keep   a  vestige vigorous and vibrant.

Ashraf , comes up to me with an gleeful smile and keeps repeating my name to memorize it so he doesn’t forget it soon. He finds names in India difficult, long, unfamiliar, and foreign and something which doesn’t belong to him or he doesn’t own.   Explaining each color and stroke he abruptly informed that he  left Aghanistan with his mother  for India. I chose not to question further only looking images of high mountains, lush gardens and colorful mosques.

He kept flipping the pages to showcase his art when suddenly we come across a page that  was just grey with an unidentified man lying on the grey ground.  That’s the only content in the picture.

A forloned fallen man against the grey background, a background which is not uniform in its colour   but random and rought like the quick steps of a mischievous child.

The sudden, spontaneous spurt of words which maintained a strange silence  within  pauses and words “ My father was in the Taliban , mother forced into marriage, we left Afghanistan”.  Three sentences cut short with punctuation seemed enough to draw a picture or fill in  the  blank grey sheet of paper with the leftover memories of  Ashraf's childhood  lying in front of me.  His mother interrupts me and him by saying’ He cannot draw , he just scribbles”. Isnt that the thing what makes his every attempt to redraw a home that’s left behind, away and faroff, so special  and such an epic picture. Another picture where  he draws a mosque and a Flag of India. The colours were wrong. He answers to my laugh,” Hindoostan”, Gaa-ala-t ‘.

Its been few months of him in the Shelter and he is already friends with all. He tries his best to keep up with the hindi and keeps repeating my name lest he forgets it. He says he is learning hindi, he speaks , he understands and if he fails he tries. His mother keeps hearing our conversation when she finally peeps down when I mention “ Dr Najibullah" and " Heela Najibullah".

 Heela  Najibullah  , met during the Red Cross days. Ashraf  mother  pulls out her mobile to show me a Picture where Dr Najibullah being beaten by the Taliban. I look at the picture and pass a pressed  emotion, of what I am not sure. I suddenly remembered Heelas childhood photo clinging to her father.

Im brought back from that memory , when he  tries to explain to me why Dr Najibullah had been executed. Im surprised by the fine fluent and minuest details of a war or a massacre explained by a 10 year old boy. While I am still attentively listening  he drags his mom towards the door to buy a toy. He brushes past me while his mother refuses to budge and buy.

I felt relaxed the toy diverted his mind off the raging war. His wants too simple and childlike.

 I guess its time for me to leave, I say him im leaving. He didn’t say goodbye but replies “ When will you come next”. I say,” Next week”. He answers , “ Sure”. I further add, “ I promise” .

He asserts “ Everyone promises. I  whisper,” iwill”. I would surely.  He tells me” I don’t know the language , but I am learning, I can. “, “ I want a school”. 

 I start walking I see the little child in him pestering his mother holding the rails of the door a, a hidden remorse of an un-bought toy so evident in his eyes, his mother sat emptying a basket of old clothes. I remember demands to mothers are never met just like the ones I do. A car, A foreign tour, A short skirt. My demands too expensive and complicated and his still too simple and that could be easily met.   Ashraf  still keeps coming in the car and keeps me asking my name, his mother calls him to pick up her salwar from the  Iron wala.

He disapprovingly agrees and makes his way through the winding lanes.

I couldn’t see him anymore; he is too petite to be seen in a lost crowd. The wheels roll on , I got a Sms I open it,” Happy Birthday love, Your s worst critic dad”.

 Thanks dad, happy birthday to me.