July 2020 – Ameravith

Bride and Groom

He just couldn’t believe that he was sitting here today. Actually present at his own wedding.

The wedding had ended and the hustle and bustle was mostly over. The couple sat quietly by the window, watching the snaking river outside the window, as it carried wild ducks and dry vegetation downstream. A few dark clouds in the distance couldn’t prevent strong sunshine warming up the grounds and the room they were in. In the hallway and dining area, laughter mingling with voices indicated that the guests, mostly family, were setting the table and probably had started with drinks.

The bride’s face was lit by the brightness at the window and she looked calm. Her long-sleeved dress hid the scars of the cuts she’d suffered, on the inside of both her arms. It reminded her of the places she’d been to before arriving here: The nightmare eleven months overseas. The baby. The embassy. What it took to get through to the right people eventually. Returning to your own country is supposed to be easy and the natural thing to do, but that wasn’t her experience. She pulled the sleeves of her dress forward, grateful to be seated there that afternoon.

He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. It was a specially monogrammed gift he’d received from his mother for the wedding. He squinted, allowing his face to feel the warm layers of sunlight in the silence. Behind him, outside, he could hear the voice of his uncle, as clear and eloquent as ever, making an impromptu speech. She was next to him, their thighs were touching, he could smell her perfume. A Moroccan scent from Body Shop. He’d forgotten the exact name, but it was exotic.

The funny thing, the thing he felt grateful for, was that his heart was beating normally. He didn’t feel any anxiety. Unlike what he’d experienced five years earlier, when an allergic reaction to his medication had triggered off panic attacks. Unable to leave home, wondering if he’d lose his job if he remained afraid to drive or visit clients. For many months, he’d gone to work in fear, afraid panic attacks would take place anytime. Which they did. Eventually, things improved. The internet had helped. He found advice, certain blogs. Faith helped. But there had been no shortcuts. He just couldn’t believe that he was sitting here today. To be actually present at his own wedding when he didn’t even have the courage to step out of his house for some time.

A hand pressed against his. He turned to look at her and realized they’d both been silent for a long time, lost in their own musings. She wore a look that said that she was with him even if she didn’t understand or know his whole story. He put his glasses back on and gave her a look that he sincerely hoped would convey the same intention. The sound of the door opening was followed by voluminous noise flooding in from the hall outside.

‘Bride and Groom, come on! We’re all waiting for you at the table.’

photo from Unsplash.com by Suhel Nadaf

She’s Leaving

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You were imagining the journey already, yes? The train thundering through the countryside but since the music was playing – and it was the kind of music that bathed you in a wall of sound – you weren’t paying attention to the scenery. Sure, you were looking out, but they’d notice if they paid attention that your mind was flitting between what he’d said and how the words of every song were somehow related. Your heart was floating in the air, surfing on waves of joy. They call it love. But you didn’t care for labels. It’s just a nice, warm uplifting feeling, that you don’t even notice how the greyness outside had been translated from walls of rain that seem to keep just ahead of the speeding train into a field of sunshine. Every song magical, every beat just right. Every song was an anthem for your state of being.

On Saturday, you wouldn’t need to be anywhere else. In the train, ploughing through the brilliant landscape, no other light shining anywhere could match the glow in your heart. Everything would seem possible. Leaving home. Changing religion. Becoming vegetarian. Not having to face the monsters at school anymore. Dealing with the loss of a parent. All driven continuously by the next song on your playlist. And the song after that. You are through a door and everything suddenly opens up. Finding the perfect someone at such a young age. For better or for worse, he’d said. And he’ll be waiting. Saturday, at dawn, at the station.

Where would you go, together? To Europe? Was it possible to dream of escaping to Europe? There were ways. He knew people who could arrange everything. You knew some people who’d made it across. Made it into Spain, then Germany and beyond. They’d updated everyone via social media. She was called a refugee, but it was her life – as documented on Instagram – that all the girls you knew wanted.

He’d asked you to bring your passport, clothes and whatever money you could find. You’d told him that you didn’t have much, but he said, not to worry about it. But you felt bad. If he was willing to go over, to cross the Straits, and was willing to make the arrangements and take care of the costs, you wanted to contribute. The days of the week were spent trying to figure out what you could sell to obtain cash. Your savings account – which your late mother had set up for you – only had a couple of hundred Moroccan dollars and these you’d already secured. There was the antique vase, the piece of pottery that had belonged to your grandma and that only your mother had seen the value of. You snuck it out of the house on Friday afternoon – while your father was at work – and traded it for a handful of dollars at the local pawn shop. You never spoke much with your father since your mother had passed away and that Friday, you did nothing different. You were home for dinner on time and sat through it patiently. You both exchanged token pleasantries. He went out for drinks with his friends. That was that.

Saturday, at dawn, you were at the station with your bag of clothes, money and passport. For better or for worse.

Photo from Unsplash.com by 30daysreplay (PR & Marketing)

The Ashvamedha Horse

The majestic white beast was descending gracefully down the slope. A couple of horsemen, bows and arrows distinguishable against the solemn sky, had appeared and halted to watch the proud horse below them. The animal’s coat glistened, highlighting its powerful muscles and wild beauty, as steady rain drew a thin curtain of mist over the hill. Concealed in a thick cluster of trees that carpeted the entire foot of the hill, we were watching. Behind us, the faint sound of the raging river was audible.

We knew this was the special horse, personally picked for the royal sacrifice by the King. For almost a year, the animal had been wandering wherever it pleased, watched from a distance by the King’s soldiers, who made sure no one harmed the horse when it crossed into neighboring lands and fought any party that dared to challenge the right of the King’s horse to trespass. We’d already been to the capital and seen the grand sacrificial house and fire altar. We knew that daily ceremonies were going on, in anticipation of the horse’s return. For weeks, we’d been following the beast, getting close enough for it to become familiar with our presence but not so close that we’d be noticed by the soldiers or worry the fledgling princes who, for amusement, came out to leer at the horse now and then.

The Ashvamedha horse lifted its head and let out a defiant neigh when it caught sight of the men on the peak. The beast spun impulsively and broke for the shelter of trees, where we were awaiting our opportunity. Get a rider on the animal’s back and plunge into the raging river. Even the most spirited horse could be broken quickly, given the right conditions.