They say that the good comes with the worst.

It used to puzzle me as a kid, but now, thirty years later, it makes sense. 

For someone who was a writer, breaking their working hand was nothing good. It all started (the writing) when my brother, who worked for some publication house, got his hands on my drafts. He had rushed me to a hospital because of all the blood, and I was immediately taken into special care.

I don't know how and why, but I remember seeing this beautiful woman sitting in the cabin. Out of nowhere, she looked at me. She might have sensed my stare cause that was what I was doing.

She had this weird expression while looking at me, and then she stood up and walked toward me. She showed me a photo of myself printed on the back of a book.

I never knew I was this famous.

I admitted it was me. She told me that her sister, the doctor, read all my stuff. I smiled at her with a 'thank you.' I somehow managed to ask if she read, and her response pleased me.

"I seriously don't need to read. Life has taught me enough."

Those who didn't appreciate reading never interested me. But the sincerity with which she spoke, I was intrigued. I wanted to know more about this woman. I could do nothing about it.

The doctor was kind enough to talk with my enigmatic woman. Her name was Zoya. She was everything her name was; loving, caring, alive, joyous.

One day, after several months, I saw her outside a cafe. The clouds were pouring down, leaving me no other option but to stand beneath the roof till the rain stopped. Then this blue car stopped in front of me, and there she was. She gestured for me to get in, and I didn't think much before compiling.

"Small world! I hope you remember me."

How could I ever forget her? She asked me about my hand, the books, and other casual stuff till she asked me my name.

"Sahir. It means charming. I must say your writing shows that."

There, a non-reader read my dark, cold-blooded mysteries. That was some progress. Contacts were exchanged, and a date was fixed. Mind you, I initiated none of it. The dates started becoming more frequent. Orphanages, NGOs, gardens, around kids and dogs. On one such day, we, moreover, she was playing with kids. I don't know what was so beautiful about it. Their happiness, or the pain they were masking behind it.

I made a point to play Tum Itna Jo Muskura Rahe Ho on our way back to her place. She was silent. But in this one instance, we were waiting for the green signal, my hand on the gear. She held that softly, tracing random patterns on my knuckles.

"Why don't you shave and get a nice haircut?" She looked up at me. I thought I wasn't ready to talk about it, but I did tell her about Bhumika. She simply had left, just like she had walked in. Not that I was invested in her, but it did leave a kind of void in me.

"This is common for all artists, I guess. From everything, I've heard and read. But, you've got a very Sahir face. Rather keep it clean."

I couldn't get myself to talk about the symbolism I imposed on her to listen, but that sure got her attention. I called down a couple of meetings after this. Maybe, I was just scared to let this woman get to me. Though she was already up there constantly and undoubtedly, she was the muse of my current one. It was as dark as her purity.

One day, after a month of this conversation, a freaking month without seeing her, I got a call from her sister, my doc. She told me to get to the hospital immediately. That scared me. Karma bites back, yes. After all these years of triggering people with my work, it was my time to be scared.

I was sent through a door in the ICU, and there Zoya lay on a bed, a beep constantly irking me but keeping me at peace. After what seemed hours, she ever so slowly opened her eyes. I was tightly holding her hand all that time.

Her breathing was short and quick. It didn't settle well with me. Before my mind could ponder upon that, she tilted her head to face me. She appeared in so much pain, that I don't know.

"I have cancer." She managed to whisper after lifting that oxygen mask from her face. I immediately placed it back on her nose, caressing and kissing her hand.

"I'll be outside," I said and left. I couldn't see her that way. Her sister told me she has mesothelioma. She talked biologically, but all that I could grasp was that she was suffering from cancer that was damaging her lungs, and it might spread to her heart and abdomen, and she wouldn't survive for long.

Okay.

I didn't know what to say, feel, or think, but I was there, listening to them, waiting for her to be the Zoya I knew. After about an hour, she was shifted from the ICU. She had quite a family. Both her grandparents, parents, a sister, a brother-in-law, and a nephew with all the adults working in that hospital.

I was told that the disease was gruesome, and the survival rate was the lowest. A nurse called me by my name, and I went to meet her. Her mask was partially there, the mask of 'I'm okay.'

"I should have told you." She sat up with a groan and held my hands tightly. I shushed her, and she asked me to move in with her. She lived where there was a lot of greenery to help her lungs. I agreed, and she was discharged the other day.

Her flat was full of aesthetics, cylinders of oxygen, and boxes from Big Basket.

"I cannot go out that frequently to buy fruits and vegetables." She replied. All she ate was raw fruits and vegetables. She said this is the new diet system that could reverse her cancer.

"I hate those meds and chemo. It's as if I can feel that I'm dying." She explained. I don't know why but I hugged her tightly, and her legs wobbled.

"You know you've given me a reason to fight."

I got drunk that night. I had lost that freaking hope long ago. How could I give other people hope?

The next evening when I got home, she showered me with questions.

"Why did you kill Nina?" She didn't tell me the context. Nina was the main protagonist of one of my four books. She endured all kinds of crime, and when she finally got everything, she was killed by the one she loved.

"She did so many bad things. I had to." I never knew I could sound this low about something.

"Why did you kill her?" We were sitting on the couch by now. I tried to respond, but nothing came to my mind. She sat on my legs and hugged me tightly. The grip was tight enough to elicit a tear from me, maybe two, or maybe enough to drench her dress.

I don't know how she managed to stop me from crying or take me to her bedroom, but there I was. The sweet nothings were literally nothing in front of the physical haven she provided me. I had stopped by then, thanking her and kissing her forehead before attempting to get away from her.

"I live with these very words to keep me going." She spoke, gesturing toward a huge painting in front of her bed. It had nothing but words scribbled on the frame;

अपना ग़म ले के कहीं और न जाया जाए

घर में बिखरी हुई चीज़ों को सजाया जाए

जिन चराग़ों को हवाओं का कोई ख़ौफ़ नहीं

उन चराग़ों को हवाओं से बचाया जाए

ख़ुद-कुशी करने की हिम्मत नहीं होती सब में

और कुछ दिन अभी औरों को सताया जाए

बाग़ में जाने के आदाब हुआ करते हैं

किसी तितली को न फूलों से उड़ाया जाए

क्या हुआ शहर को कुछ भी तो दिखाई दे कहीं

यूँ किया जाए कभी ख़ुद को रुलाया जाए

घर से मस्जिद है बहुत दूर चलो यूँ कर लें

किसी रोते हुए बच्चे को हँसाया जाए

It was hauntingly motivating. I wanted to reciprocate the solace she offered, but I didn't know. I ran away from her.

The next day, I woke up to screaming sounds. She was crying and yelling out of pain. It was unbearable to listen to. I told her to open the door, but she continued venting. That was when I broke my cowardice and pushed at the door. Luckily, it wasn't locked. She immediately held onto me, crying her heart out. I lifted her to move around to grab her meds or water or something.

It was in those moments when I felt the word 'heart-wrenching'. I had used it often but never really knew how it felt. She soon fell asleep, and I ripped apart the search engine in hopes of finding something which could reduce her pain. She woke up after two hours, and I told her to take some rest, but she refused to let go of me.

That night, I was on fire. I wrote the way I thought, obsessively, incessantly, with maddening hunger. I had no idea what I was writing, but I was, and oh, that was definitely good. She told me she lived away from her family because of her parents.

"They are hell-bent on treating me with their meds. I don't want to feel like I'm dying. The fact alone is more than enough."

I always appreciated people who were sensitive about their mortality, but this gave me chills. I could lose her anytime, and I guess that scared me. I looked at the NDS she told me. It had great results in reversing fatal diseases. I somehow convinced her to talk to her parents, and the very next day, they were sitting on our couch.

It felt good to be surrounded by family. They all talked and shared and laughed, masking the pain beneath. They all shared a big bear hug after the raw lunch she offered, and then they left. Later, she dragged out one of the air cylinders to where I was sitting with my laptop. She snatched it before kissing me full on the lips. She pulled away to suck some air from the oxygen tank and then looked at me.

I hadn't thought about any of this until that day as she gazed at me with all the passion she could offer. I took her to bed, and we made love. I didn't claim her. It was all about breath, and I couldn't take that risk. I made sure to caress every inch of her skin to tell her that I was proud of her and that she was beautiful. She was insecure about this one scar on her chest from one surgery.

"Scars make stuff more beautiful,"

It was this way for about another month till she coughed blood. I knew nothing but to call her family so that they could do what was needed. Her sister told me that the problem was increasing rapidly, and they would have to take her through medical treatment. I hadn't seen her so defeated and lost. But the way she geared up and managed to smile in front of her family, I stan this woman.

She had to give in to the chemo and meds. It was going well for about a week. She was getting her hair done one night, and quite a lot of hair fell off. That was enough to break her down.

"They'll cut my hair. I don't want to go bald."

I rocked her till she was relaxed. She looked up at me with those red, puffy eyes and hit me on my arm.

"I hate you for breaking your hand. Then, if I hadn't met you, I would have saved myself from all the pain. I would have given up. It'd have been easier."

"I don't want to die just yet, Sahir."

The next day we both were hairless from the head. She laughed at me. She laughed so hard that she was in tears and eventually bawled her heart out. I tried my best to keep her in good spirits and remind her how much I appreciate her presence, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I thought I would have massive writer's block, but it was the very opposite of that.

There was no improvement in her condition, and she was advised to stay away from the outdoors. Still, she made sure to meet the kids she knew through the social events she did, the second thing that kept her sane, according to her.

"First has to be you, of course."

I never knew I was capable of loving and that I deserved any kind of love. Her birthday was a week away. The week we spent sleeplessly. We usually cuddled and talked, watched, read, anything. But one night, she pecked me on the lips.

"I love you, Sahir. I always will."

I kissed her forehead, and she pulled away to lay on her back, her eyes firmly closed. It was eerie. Something about it was unsettling. It was silent. I couldn't help but stare at her as she struggled with her breath. I helped her with the oxygen mask. She breathed quickly in short intervals. Somehow, it all lost its efficiency.

I couldn't help but focus on the mask as she inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. And then, she never inhaled. I felt something wet beneath my knee, affirming my doubts.

She was gone.

I wanted to scream and cry, but I was blank. After the last rites, I typed my fingers out. It was insane, but I couldn't help it.

"Sahir, don't ever forget Zoya. Please remember this liveliness."

She left me with her love, a name, and a poem. Sahir; the name. Zoya; the poem. Someone had rightfully said that the shortest poem is a name. My brother was worried to see me devoid of any pain. But why the hell was I supposed to feel sad? Zoya wasn't there with me. And I wasn't never one of those to be after the physical.

For me, she will always be there in those pretty smiles of children, the books and poems she read to me, the intimate places she took me to, everywhere. A part of me wishes that she was here with me, physically, to save me from the charade of meeting kids to visit all those places. But then she had to return the hard time I put her through. So be it.

She once asked me why I didn't write poems. I couldn't answer her back then. But now that I think about it, I'm glad to have words visit me in paragraphs, for one could learn those very poems and couplets as Zoya did. But one could never keep prose in their heads. If you want to go through that very pattern of words, you have to open the book and visit that.

And undoubtedly, Zoya was this very prose for me, at least till death snatched my memory.

****

Hey, ya'll. I just have some free time on my hands and I totally want to spend it in writing. Republishing this to manage the uncountable drafts and other stuff properly.

by the way, my other account, RandomKaahani has a new story published on it. It's called 'Paper Flowers', do check it out and let me know what you think xD

Loads of Love!