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The epitaph on the grave of time
The village began with a dusty road, flanked by an irrigation canal, leading towards an old culvert. Single-story houses stood on either side, their tin sheet walls acting as protective barriers. The village itself had a sense of history, like a forgotten picture from the past.
In this village, lived a young girl named Roshni. Her story, though seemingly ordinary, yearned to be shared. It was a tale of bitter experiences, like a tear drop suspended on eyelids of time. True to her name, she brought light to the neighborhood. Her infectious laughter and endless energy made her a cherished visitor in our home. Every day, she would arrive with her joyful presence, filling our humble abode with happiness. A special bond formed between her and my mother, as if they shared a deep connection. As Roshni's laughter echoed through the village, she unknowingly became the heart and soul of the community. Her kind nature and willingness to help others endeared her to everyone she encountered. In every household, she would lend a helping hand, easing burdens and spreading smiles wherever she went. Yet, amidst the laughter and camaraderie, Roshni carried a secret burden. She had fallen deeply in love with a young man from the village, a love that blossomed quietly on dusty roads and beneath the starlit sky. Their moments together were like stolen fragments of paradise, hidden from prying eyes.
However, the village, steeped in traditions and the weight of societal expectations, could not tolerate such love that dared to defy its conventions. The very air became infused with whispers and disapproving glances, threatening to expose Roshni's forbidden affection. Fear flickered in Roshni's eyes whenever she and her beloved stole fleeting glances or exchanged shy smiles. They were acutely aware of the precariousness of their love, knowing that the discovery of their secret would unleash a storm they were ill-prepared to weather. But Roshni's spirit burned bright and defiant. She refused to let societal norms dictate the course of her heart. In a moment of audacity, she declared her intention to marry the man who held the key to her soul, defying the expectations of her family and the whispers of the village. However, her declaration of love was met with a chilling silence that soon erupted into a tempest of rage. Her family, driven by the desire to uphold their perceived honour, conspired against her, determined to quash her rebellious desires.
One evening, as the sun descended behind the majestic mountains, a darkness fell upon Roshni's life. The man she loved, standing tall and resolute, faced the wrath of his family. In a cruel act of punishment, they unleashed their fury upon him, leaving him broken and bleeding on the same dusty road where they had once shared stolen glances. Roshni, her eyes brimming with tears and her heart heavy with sorrow, witnessed the brutality inflicted upon her beloved. Her eyes, murky orbs filled with pain, mirrored his anguish. The slap marks on her face and the scratches on her neck bore witness to the violence she had endured, all in the name of love. With a courage born of desperation, Roshni continued to wear her smile, even as her heart bled. She embraced the weight of her suffering, allowing it to settle deep within her, like a silent sacrifice offered to the gods of love.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the village murmured and conspired against her. Roshni's defiance had triggered a chain reaction, setting in motion a series of events that would forever alter the fabric of her existence. In a calculated move, Roshni's family orchestrated a marriage to a distant relative, a man plagued by fits of madness. It was a punishment, a bitter pill forced upon her for daring to love against the current of societal expectations. This union, tainted by torment, became a living hell for Roshni.
Within the walls of her new home, Roshni endured unspeakable cruelties. Her husband, a chronic abuser, inflicted pain upon her already wounded spirit. Each day became a struggle, as she endured the torments that fate had so cruelly bestowed upon her. The weight of her shattered dreams seemed unbearable, and even the act of drawing breath became an agonizing reminder of her stolen happiness. Yet, Roshni clung to the flickering ember of hope, silently praying for liberation from the chains that bound her.
And one day, that liberation arrived in the form of a divorce. The bond that had shackled her to her tormentor was severed, setting her free from the unholy union that had devoured her youthful dreams. But the scars remained, etched upon her soul, a haunting reminder of the love that had been mutilated and discarded. At the tender age of twenty, she had loved passionately, suffered intensely, and endured more than her fair share of heartache. The world around her continued its relentless march, its rhythms pulsating with life. But for Roshni, time had been frozen, her innocence stolen, and her once-bright smile now faded, a mere shadow of its former brilliance. The enchanting landscape that had once mirrored her vibrant spirit now seemed devoid of colour, its beauty tinged with the melancholy of her shattered dreams. And as the village carried on, the echoes of Roshni's pain lingered, a haunting reminder of the harsh realities that lurked beneath the surface. Her story, a tragic tale of love's undoing, spoke to the fragility of the human heart and the devastating consequences of a society governed by narrow-mindedness. We, as a society, must confront our own complicity in Roshni's suffering. We must question the false notion of societal norms that value conformity over compassion, that prioritize faux honour over genuine love. And in doing so, we must recognize the collective responsibility we bear for allowing such injustices to persist.
The last time I saw her, I peered into her eyes, and there, I glimpsed a vacant shell that once housed a vibrant soul. Through her hollow gaze, I beheld the tombstone of her dreams, adorned with an epitaph etched by the tears of love. In that moment, the weight of her sorrow spoke volumes, whispering a haunting truth: "You all failed me."
Her spirit, once ablaze with hope and passion, had been extinguished by the callousness of a world that could not embrace her love. The echoes of her silent plea for understanding and acceptance reverberated through the depths of my being, leaving an indelible mark on my conscience. I saw the shattered remnants of a heart that had been trampled upon, its fragments scattered amidst the unyielding winds of societal judgment. The once vibrant hues of her dreams had faded, replaced by the somber shades of lost possibilities.
And as I reflect upon the journey of Roshni, I am confronted with the painful realization that we, as a collective, let her down. We failed to nurture the values that should define us as human beings. We allowed our fragile egos and the shackles of societal norms to drown the purity of her love. The tombstone of her dreams stands as a solemn reminder of the love she dared to embrace, a love that was met with hostility and rejection. In the wake of her shattered spirit, we must confront our own complicity and question the foundations upon which our society stands. For Roshni, the vibrancy of life had been stripped away, leaving behind a mere semblance of existence. The epitaph on the grave of time, written with the tears of love, bears witness to the profound injustice she endured. Her story stands as an unwritten chapter, a tale left unfinished. But within the silence, there exists a profound message: we must strive to create a world where love is celebrated, where hearts can beat freely, and where no soul is condemned to the cold embrace of an unmarked grave.
© Shafat_Ibne_Ali
In this village, lived a young girl named Roshni. Her story, though seemingly ordinary, yearned to be shared. It was a tale of bitter experiences, like a tear drop suspended on eyelids of time. True to her name, she brought light to the neighborhood. Her infectious laughter and endless energy made her a cherished visitor in our home. Every day, she would arrive with her joyful presence, filling our humble abode with happiness. A special bond formed between her and my mother, as if they shared a deep connection. As Roshni's laughter echoed through the village, she unknowingly became the heart and soul of the community. Her kind nature and willingness to help others endeared her to everyone she encountered. In every household, she would lend a helping hand, easing burdens and spreading smiles wherever she went. Yet, amidst the laughter and camaraderie, Roshni carried a secret burden. She had fallen deeply in love with a young man from the village, a love that blossomed quietly on dusty roads and beneath the starlit sky. Their moments together were like stolen fragments of paradise, hidden from prying eyes.
However, the village, steeped in traditions and the weight of societal expectations, could not tolerate such love that dared to defy its conventions. The very air became infused with whispers and disapproving glances, threatening to expose Roshni's forbidden affection. Fear flickered in Roshni's eyes whenever she and her beloved stole fleeting glances or exchanged shy smiles. They were acutely aware of the precariousness of their love, knowing that the discovery of their secret would unleash a storm they were ill-prepared to weather. But Roshni's spirit burned bright and defiant. She refused to let societal norms dictate the course of her heart. In a moment of audacity, she declared her intention to marry the man who held the key to her soul, defying the expectations of her family and the whispers of the village. However, her declaration of love was met with a chilling silence that soon erupted into a tempest of rage. Her family, driven by the desire to uphold their perceived honour, conspired against her, determined to quash her rebellious desires.
One evening, as the sun descended behind the majestic mountains, a darkness fell upon Roshni's life. The man she loved, standing tall and resolute, faced the wrath of his family. In a cruel act of punishment, they unleashed their fury upon him, leaving him broken and bleeding on the same dusty road where they had once shared stolen glances. Roshni, her eyes brimming with tears and her heart heavy with sorrow, witnessed the brutality inflicted upon her beloved. Her eyes, murky orbs filled with pain, mirrored his anguish. The slap marks on her face and the scratches on her neck bore witness to the violence she had endured, all in the name of love. With a courage born of desperation, Roshni continued to wear her smile, even as her heart bled. She embraced the weight of her suffering, allowing it to settle deep within her, like a silent sacrifice offered to the gods of love.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the village murmured and conspired against her. Roshni's defiance had triggered a chain reaction, setting in motion a series of events that would forever alter the fabric of her existence. In a calculated move, Roshni's family orchestrated a marriage to a distant relative, a man plagued by fits of madness. It was a punishment, a bitter pill forced upon her for daring to love against the current of societal expectations. This union, tainted by torment, became a living hell for Roshni.
Within the walls of her new home, Roshni endured unspeakable cruelties. Her husband, a chronic abuser, inflicted pain upon her already wounded spirit. Each day became a struggle, as she endured the torments that fate had so cruelly bestowed upon her. The weight of her shattered dreams seemed unbearable, and even the act of drawing breath became an agonizing reminder of her stolen happiness. Yet, Roshni clung to the flickering ember of hope, silently praying for liberation from the chains that bound her.
And one day, that liberation arrived in the form of a divorce. The bond that had shackled her to her tormentor was severed, setting her free from the unholy union that had devoured her youthful dreams. But the scars remained, etched upon her soul, a haunting reminder of the love that had been mutilated and discarded. At the tender age of twenty, she had loved passionately, suffered intensely, and endured more than her fair share of heartache. The world around her continued its relentless march, its rhythms pulsating with life. But for Roshni, time had been frozen, her innocence stolen, and her once-bright smile now faded, a mere shadow of its former brilliance. The enchanting landscape that had once mirrored her vibrant spirit now seemed devoid of colour, its beauty tinged with the melancholy of her shattered dreams. And as the village carried on, the echoes of Roshni's pain lingered, a haunting reminder of the harsh realities that lurked beneath the surface. Her story, a tragic tale of love's undoing, spoke to the fragility of the human heart and the devastating consequences of a society governed by narrow-mindedness. We, as a society, must confront our own complicity in Roshni's suffering. We must question the false notion of societal norms that value conformity over compassion, that prioritize faux honour over genuine love. And in doing so, we must recognize the collective responsibility we bear for allowing such injustices to persist.
The last time I saw her, I peered into her eyes, and there, I glimpsed a vacant shell that once housed a vibrant soul. Through her hollow gaze, I beheld the tombstone of her dreams, adorned with an epitaph etched by the tears of love. In that moment, the weight of her sorrow spoke volumes, whispering a haunting truth: "You all failed me."
Her spirit, once ablaze with hope and passion, had been extinguished by the callousness of a world that could not embrace her love. The echoes of her silent plea for understanding and acceptance reverberated through the depths of my being, leaving an indelible mark on my conscience. I saw the shattered remnants of a heart that had been trampled upon, its fragments scattered amidst the unyielding winds of societal judgment. The once vibrant hues of her dreams had faded, replaced by the somber shades of lost possibilities.
And as I reflect upon the journey of Roshni, I am confronted with the painful realization that we, as a collective, let her down. We failed to nurture the values that should define us as human beings. We allowed our fragile egos and the shackles of societal norms to drown the purity of her love. The tombstone of her dreams stands as a solemn reminder of the love she dared to embrace, a love that was met with hostility and rejection. In the wake of her shattered spirit, we must confront our own complicity and question the foundations upon which our society stands. For Roshni, the vibrancy of life had been stripped away, leaving behind a mere semblance of existence. The epitaph on the grave of time, written with the tears of love, bears witness to the profound injustice she endured. Her story stands as an unwritten chapter, a tale left unfinished. But within the silence, there exists a profound message: we must strive to create a world where love is celebrated, where hearts can beat freely, and where no soul is condemned to the cold embrace of an unmarked grave.
© Shafat_Ibne_Ali
