Memories from an immersed land.

We gathered to help. From Montreal, we were trying to help people from a distant valley. And old civilization they say. Lands where thousand years ago there used to be an organised and prosper city called Mound of the Dead. There used to be.

Today, those lands are immersed. People who once were known to be masters of the most advanced irrigation system in the world are now fighting for a glass of water. Strange ?

The situation is such, that those people have to rely on helicopters to get something known as food which seems to be vital for poor people too. Some had forgotten that fact.

We gathered to help. From Montreal we were trying to help people from a distant valley. A valley we have visited all. Some came from Karachi, others from Lahore, some from Islamabad. We all shared memories of what that land meant to us. Spicy fries sold on the street, colourful rickshaws, funny taxi drivers, pathan trying to talk in urdu. Some recalled the rain, others talked about the shalimar gardens and the arches of ancient mughal architecture in lahore. Others recalled the wind from karachi’s beaches. Then came the topic of weddings, of cricket, of school life, family, friends, neighours, a whole new world was being drawn out, a different one from the one we were living in right now.

I havent visited that valey since recents events shattered it. I tried to imagine the country after those events. I closed my eyes and saw the picture of that valley before it was hit. I could see a frame full of life and sound, of colour and joey. Now i see myself pouring a glass of water on it. The water never stops, the glass never gets empty. I wake up in my dream and i see the frame. It is all wet. Colours are fading away and sounds are attenuated. Life there is, but joey there is not, and unfortunately, hope there will be not, soon.

With a spoon, i dig in that dream and collect water around the frame so that it can reach the surface, once again. It is a long journey. After every day of work i realise how much work there is still left. each and every spoon is a step towards rehabilitating those memories withing a reality.

I am not alone. My fellows around the world have gathered. Each one of us, with a spoon, is tyring to dry the ocean in which our memories have been drowned, memories which mean to us.

Sometimes, I see myself sitting on a karachi beach or in the shalimar gardens with a kid playing next to me. The kid comes to me and I hand him over a frame. The kid sits next to me and starts painting it. It takes hime some time to paint it. When he is done, he shows me what he did. He hands me the frame again and i can see joey, colours, sounds and life. I look at him and we smile. It is getting late. The sun is setting. I can hear the Athan. I take my son’s hand and we start walking.

I realise that having colourful memories full of sound, life and joey is now a privilege, a privilege i am fighting for with spoon. I want to meet myself that day on that karachi beach or that shalimar garden. That day, i know what frame i want to see my son painting .

dedicated to the 14 million displaced, and the dreams they all carried.

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