Azam is an Arabic word, meaning great. There is hardly anything great about Azam. Azam, a ten year old boy, whose soul might be betraying his plight but his body perfectly reflects his predicament. Sunken eyes, lissom body, parched skin, ruffled unkempt curly hair, ragged clothes. That is Azam.
As fate had it, Azam’s father bode farewell to this Dunya, when Azam was yet to make sense of it. Azam was weaned off forcibly by her mother, Hajira, to elope with her new found love. Hajira, except her name had no resemblance to Hajira, the mother of Ismael.
Hajira with her son Ismael braved the uninhabitable conditions. Blazing sun, rugged peaks, terrifying wilderness, no visible source of food and water and no human. Hajira endured it all with her son. And Yaqeen in her heart.Believe it or not this Yaqeen, belief in God , as they say, can move mountains. It does!
Azam’s mother was not even like our own Hajira Apa. Hajira Apa, the mother of Ali. Her motherhood has become legendary in our neighborhood. Her story melts stones and shakes the unshakeable. As it happened, once there was a relatively harsher winter. Snow piled up, layer upon layer. It choked all the roads leading up to the village. The lanes and by lanes within the village were also clogged.The people, mostly the young made their way up to the thatched roofs to clean up roof before it collapses with the weight of the snow.
Ali’s was a newly built two storied house. Mud bricks with sharp edges, that were an improved form of the former dough shaped, irregular, blunt edged bricks and fresh paddy straw as the roof. Ali had all the reasons to be proud. After all Ali had the brand new house, perhaps the most beautiful too in the entire village.
Ali’s father, Hussan Kak went all the way to city to hire expert brick makers. They got with them a pair of moulds each, with metallic interior that would give the brick a fine shape. It was entirely a different mould than ours. Ours was a amaturely made with not so plain interior, which would ultimately reflect in the drawn out brick.
After walls were erected, straw put in place, doors, windows fitted, Nub Kak was hired to coat the walls, both interior and exterior with the thinned mud. Windows were painted blue with some primordial material. Same color was applied to the doors. So, the Ali’s house was markedly different house than the rest.
As snow accumulated, Ali’s family, particularly Hajira Apa became concerned about the newly built house. Ali, without wasting time, pulled his pheran out, wrapped a cloth around his head. He sneaked into the kitchen and secured two polythene bags to make a pair of gloves out of them to protect his hands from the biting cold. He went outside and got hold of the makeshift wooden snow brush. As he was climbing up to the roof, in the process of managing his hold over brush, he lost balance and came down crashing. His back fell on the nose of the step which damaged his backbone.
The family started wailing, crying for help. The word spread and the entire Gaam came running, wriggling through five feet snow. Although his condition was worsening with every moment, the young of the village decided to carry him through to the healthcare centre which was over six kilometers away.
The youth split in the groups. Some made way using shovels, spades and with even bare feet. Some carried Ali on the makeshift stretcher. Alas, Ali couldn’t make it. He lost the battle mid-way. They returned chapfallen. Grief engulfed the entire village. Snow dropped with more pace, mourning the calamity that had just struck the village.
For Hajra Appa this was the end of the world. For her, the news struck like a hammer. It made a deep impact. She didn’t weep. She didn’t cry or mourn. she didn’t utter a single word. The ace in the heart made her unconcerned about everything in the world. She didn’t respond to anything for many days.
She shut herself up for the outside world. She didn’t leave her home for many weeks.
Then on one day as the darkness was gaining over the light and the spring sun was in its den, I was distracted by a commotion outside. Soon it exploded into a more serious thing. I rushed and found that the Hejira Appa had attempted to dig Ali’s grave with her bare hands. Thereafter, it happened many a times.
Azam wasn’t as lucky. He didn’t get this much love in his life. His death will be as quit, obscure, as his life. Not a leaf will fall on his death. Sky won’t mourn like it did on Ali’s death.
As Azam’s mother left him, he fell on the shoulders of his distant relative.His childhood is a separate saga of pain, destitution and neglect. Farhan and Zehra , the children of the family that was in charge of Azam had all the things that Azam could only dream about. The swing, roller coaster, Kashmiri willow cricket bat and that small white rabbit.
Azam had to clean that very swing which Farhan and Zehra would swing on. While moving the velvet soft cloth over the iron arms of the swing, his heart would race, his mouth would secrete loads of saliva but his fate knew nothing of the sort that would smoothen his nerves.
Azam is a story of all that could break one’s heart to thousand pieces yet their is no one to stitch it together. It would cleave the conscience into innumerable bits yet their are only sighs. No real balm.Only scars.
On that day while cleaning the swing, the swing that he could only imagine swinging a song
from a passing vehicle grabbed his attention.
“Tell these cravings find another abode
There is no room in my scarred heart”!
