Mushtaque B Barq
On the terrace of his old house, Latif would often immerse himself in the crimson hues of the dusk. While the rest of his family attended the mosque, he found solace in witnessing the fading sun. To him, dusk was like a new dawn, and since retiring from his job a month ago, he rarely left his room except to bid farewell to the setting sun every evening without fail.
From the opposite side of his terrace, I would observe him intently. Initially, the terrace to me was only a vacant space, but then a varied crowd of men, woman, birds , hanging clothes and debris moved me besides the closed window of a widow who had recently moved into the top floor of the adjacent building as a paying guest. I would guess to cook stories , however, my wild speculations lacked substantial evidence to justify my conjectures. Like-minded people often weave tales based on guesswork, but realizing the futility of my fears, I ceased my vigilance on the terrace and let the terrace to talk.
Ram Singh, a jovial fellow, would frequently spend leisurely hours on the terrace, while Madan, a talented singer on the neighboring terrace, practiced his melodies on the harmonium during the twilight hours. Ram Singh and Madan had formed a camaraderie, and Ram Singh would sometimes playfully toss his glass as a source of inspiration for Madan.
Latif would neither show approval nor raise an eyebrow at the duo, but like a weary bird perched on a windowsill, he would steal glances at the widow through her window. However, she never opened her door, and I observed everything from my position like a birdwatcher on a mountaintop.
“Madan, come to my side; let music and wine unite tonight,” demanded Ram Singh.
Latif merely smiled, but Ram Singh’s waving hand served as an open invitation. Madan responded, and Latif joined in. I remained the sole witness to the events unfolding on the terrace.
The table was set, glasses arranged by Bhabhi and Latif and Madan helped each other cross over to the other side.
As the setting sun bid its farewell, a bottle placed on the table marked a significant moment. Bhabhi shared her glass with Madan, who raised his glass in a toast with Latif and Ram Singh. The harmonium beckoned the widow to the window, and deep within his heart, Latif silently expressed gratitude to the bottle for affording him a glimpse of the widow.
She cast a disapproving look at them but partially closed the window, leaving the crimson to crimnalise the walls.
Latif crossed back to his side with Ram Singh following him to terrify the terraces, leaving Madan and Bhabhi at the mercy of the bottle and I realised why terraces hold open sky and thatched roofs absorb rains.
The following day, Ram Singh was spotted on Latif’s terrace, Latif on the widow’s terrace, and she on Latif’s terrace. Bhabhi and Madan were left to face the consequences in court with Ram Singh wating eagerly for Latif’s decision and the widow on the wide open window looking for a match.
Mushtaq B.Barq is a Columnist, Poet and Fiction Writer. He is the author of “Feeble prisoner, “ Wings of Love” and many translation works are credited to the author like “ Verses Of Wahab
