The Child is born.
The Mother feels anger towards the Child.
Fourteen hours of pain. Not like the Firstborn. Easy that was. Beautiful, the Firstborn was. This one ... she does not like.
The Child knows instinctively. The Mother does not love her.
The Child cries.
The Mother drugs her to sleep. Easier that way.
The Child wakes. The Child cries.
The Mother pinches the Child hard when she thinks no one is looking.
The Child is three.
The Child has a male nanny. The nanny loves the Child. The nanny knows the Child is not loved by those who should love the Child. The nanny gives as much love as he can.
The Mother is angry with the Child.
The Mother makes the Child stand in the bathtub. Naked. The Mother turns on the hot water. Only.
The Child screams. In pain.
The Child cries : "Mama please stop".
The nanny cries. The Mother stands and watches. Her face set. Hard as stone. Lips a thin line. Anger and satisfaction in her eyes. The nanny goes down on his knees. Begging the Mother to stop. The Mother cannot feel the anguish of the Child. Physical, emotional and mental. To be harmed by one's own Mother.
The Child is scalded. For life.
The family moves.
The nanny is left behind.
A maid and a manservant join the family.
The manservant molests the maid. The maid complains to the Mother. The maid leaves. The manservant stays. The Mother does not think that one day the manservant may molest the Child too. The Mother never thinks of the Child's well being.
The Child is twelve.
The parents are divorced. The Mother leaves. The Child with the Father. The Father is never at home. The manservant is in charge.
The manservant molests the Child. Repeatedly.
The Child is damaged. For life.
The Child is eighteen.
The Child is studying in England. The Child has a boyfriend. The boyfriend loses his temper. The boyfriend picks up the Child and throws her across the room. The Child crashes to the floor. The boyfriend kicks her in the stomach. The Child is bleeding. Internally. For two months.
The Child is scarred. For life.
The Child returns.
The Child is working.
The Boss asks her to be his mistress. The Child says no. The Boss says she is insubordinate. The Child is sacked.
The Child is maligned. For life.
The Child is weary.
The Child goes home. The Child opens the family album. To see her family. There are many photos. Her beautiful Mother. Her handsome Father. The Firstborn. Many photos of the Firstborn. When he was a baby. When he was one. When he was two. And so on. Many. A beautiful boy. Light brown hair. Big brown eyes. Fair skin. Happy face.
No photos of the Child.
Maybe the parents forgot. The Child searches. Still no photo. The Child remembers. The disappointment. The conversations of the aunties: "Oh what a pity the Child looks like that. Her Mother is so beautiful. What a waste." Even without the photo the Child remembers. What she looked like. The toothless grin. The "tempurung" cropped hair.
As she sits there she realises:
"Nobody loves me. From the time I was born. Until today. Nobody loves me".
The Child collapses.
The Child is sobbing. Her body full of lacerations. Inflicted by those who should have loved her. The Child hears. Her name being called. The Child looks up. And stares into. The kindest eyes. The most loving face.
"I love you."
He says. He extends his hand. "Follow me". The Child reaches out and holds the hand. He lifts her up. With her hand still grasped in his. She follows him. The One who loves her. From the time she was born to the time she leaves this temporal world. She follows him. The Child is healed. The Child is loved. Forever.
You are my Desert Rose.
The rare and beautiful rose that grows in the harsh desert. Alone. Strong. Waiting for someone worthy to discover it.
I love you my Child. My Desert Rose. Her heart fills with joy. Her being immersed with love. The Child follows him. The Prophet.
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7 comments:
Stunning imageries for the eyes of the heart. Poignant thoughts for the spirit and the soul. Lyrical beauty for the intelects of the mind.
If ever simplicity could be intricately beautiful, Desert Rose would be it.
Beautiful, where did you get the pictures?
Anoo, awesome, awesome. Loved the whole damn thing (especially the arrangements of the picture with the... uh... haiku/prose/poem/you tell me). Now don't leave us so hungry for so long! ;)
Thank you. You have all been very generous with your comments. Art, even your comments are poetic! Ryn, the pictures are from the net. Found them when I was searching for pictures of "Desert Rose". Daef, I "borrowed" your short sentences style from one of your earlier pieces. This piece is painful to write so I needed a simple style.
Hope to write some cheerful irreverant piece soon. One chapati coming up! In the meantime I have enjoyed reading all your posts.
Daef, love what you have done to the blog with the changing navel pictures.
As an avid Chappati addict, I was mortified to discover that this was no Chappatic (sic) moment.
Nevertheless, despondency soon gave way to a better emotion as I began digesting the new fare on offer.
Simply put, beautifully written Anom. In accordance with the finest traditions of our local judges - I have read what my brother Art Harun and Daef have said and I concur with their views. ;)
Thank you Niz. PROMISE one Chappati coming up soon! Price of flour gone up lah.
Better late than never - very beautiful Saz....how is your Palestinian child?
I wondered about the roti,eat with lots of kuah kari...
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