Allama Iqbal International Airport reeked of sweat and human frustration.
Eyes skimming the sea of strangers for my Abu’s familiar coal black eyes, I instead came across the sight of my aged Daada jaan and Sumbul. Sighing internally, I made my way towards them.
“Asalam alaikum, Daada jaan! I am surprised. I thought Abu would be here to pick me up.”
An expression of indignation dawned upon his wrinkled face and I instantly felt the need to repent.
“Is that how you meet your grandfather after two years of parting?”
“Two years and four weeks,” Sumbul corrected him.
It seemed as if the curtain of time had decided not to unfurl itself in front of Daaada. His eyes still held the greenish blue hues of Darya-e-Neelum. The smile that he had plastered on his face was that of a believer just having risen from his favorite sujood after his dua had been accepted by the lord.
Sumbul now carried an aura of feminine courtesy about her. Her eyes were just as silver as I remembered them to be.
I found myself reminiscing of the heart wrenching time when she had just been a child and lost her eyesight.
When it rained, she would twirl alongside me on her tiny toes. A gentle drizzle would envelop the two of us as she hummed like a tiny bird;
“Neeli parri aana
Chupke chupke aana…”
It was days like these when I wished I could tell her that her eyes appeared as ripples created in Aansoo lake, the one our Daadi had once told us a myth about.
The irony of the beauty of her eyes and the fact that she couldn’t see through them hit me every now and then.
“I apologize for my conduct earlier,” I murmured as I shook hands with Daada and wrapped Sumbul in a bear hug.
“It’s fine, beta. God bless you.”
“How are you, Sumbul?”
Sumbul smiled shyly.
“I’m alright, bhaiya.”
Daada cleared his throat.
“ Sumbul and I came to to pick you because we thought you’d be eager to join us on our little mission.”
“Mission?”
“Your Daadi jaan wants us to mark our presence at a ‘darbaar’.”
“A darbaar?” I echoed.
“We have to make dua for my vision,” Sumbul said in a tiny voice and it melted my heart right there and then.
Three minutes later I found myself being thrown against the passenger ‘seat’ of a deformed rickshaw. Finally it came to a halt and our driver announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Walled City of Lahore!”
“What do you see, Daada jaan?” Sumbul inquired as we paid our fair and headed in a foreign direction.
Ever since she was a child, it was their very own tradition for Daada to describe every scene he witnessed and for her to listen keenly.
“Oh, that’s just the crowd gathered around the local street book bazaar because of the variety of books at cheap prices”.
As we strode down the road, a street vendor stopped right in front of us. He jiggled his huge basket of handmade ornaments and it evoked an immediate reaction out of Sumbul.
“Chooriyaan!” she exclaimed.
Having got her prized possessions on her wrists, she looked giddy with joy.
All of a sudden, an aged man with blue eyes standing before a bazaar caught my attention. He had his hands raised towards the sky and soft murmurs of prayer escaped his lips. Eyeing the beads around his neck and his henna stained beard, I gasped.
A malang.
I reached forward and asked the seemingly disoriented man to pray for my sister. He nodded his head and raised his hands towards the sky.
Stepping inside Food Street, my stomach rumbled with appetite as aromas of cooked food wafted in the air.
I watched a man in a ‘kurta shilwar’ making impressively huge and rosy ‘katlamas’ (baked bread).
Feeling my presence in his shop, he looked up and smiled a lopsided smile.
“Free samples for new guests!” he said in a singsong voice.
Feeling embarrassed, I shrugged.
“Jinaab, aap humare mehmaan hein!” he chuckled as a bowl of ‘halwa’ and ‘katlamas’ was placed before me.
Humans of the walled city were of a different breed, it seemed. They were outpouring with compassion and kindness.
Soon, I found Sumbul and Daada next to my side, devouring on a plate of ‘sirri paaye’.
Our final destination was the darbaar.
Painted in powder blue, the darbaar was cocooned amidst Lahore.
“Welcome to the festival of lights!” Daada said as we unbuckled our shoes and stepped inside.
All around us burning lamps were blinking as they went out with utmost finality. A blanket of serenity surrounded me as I witnessed the sight of so many humans asking the same lord for aid. Maybe there was a silver of hope for Sumbul in this sanctuary too…
Finally paying our attendance on the Sufi Saint’s shrine, we cried until our eyes could no longer hold any more tears. I found myself reminiscing over the time Sumbul would twirl in the autumn rain and sing her little songs.
Suddenly, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and flipped around. A tiny man with a graying beard addressed me with a soft smile, “Never lose faith in miracles. God can make the impossible happen. You know what Jalaluddin Rumi once said?”
He continued, “Never lose hope, my heart, miracles dwell in the invisible. If the whole world turns against you keep your eyes on the Friend…”
The strangers’ miraculous words lingered in the air. In a flash of a moment he was gone, leaving in his wake the perfume of hope.
I felt a tug at my sleeve and glanced down to see Sumbul smiling at me childishly.
“Look, bhaiya!” she said loudly. “If I were you, I would not miss on the firework display!”
Leaning my head outside the window, I witnessed the sight of radiant fireworks exploding before my eyes. Daada jaan came and put his arms around me.
I felt a sudden sense of peace devouring my existence. Maybe this was it. The miracle moment. Sitting in a place you could call home, surrounded by people who loved you back and praying for something beautifully charismatic to happen.
Undoubtedly, the walled city of Lahore harbored many a miracles.
“I feel as if my heart has been healed,” Sumbul murmured.
That was the whole point, I thought to myself…
