Evening on the Porch

Amreen Naqash

Pic: Celine
Pic: Celine

It was the evening, and the sprinkle of droplets started. The smoke which was rising from the neighbour’s house was losing the thickness and power of escaping. And our very old pomegranate trees were shedding leaves in a welcome of the winter—a tribute to the autumn, and a company to the rain.

I was standing at the door of the back porch, waiting for the tea and admiring a beauty around. The outside cold, and gentle currents of the wind had already turned me impatient to have the sip of the Noon Chai—the traditional Kashmiri tea, or call it the saline brew in the English attire.

I was still waiting for the vapours to take off from the teapot, and condense over the ceiling when the three little kittens with their mother joined me on the porch. I rolled a ball towards them. And waited for the response. But all in vain! They were in a mood to have some rest. On noticing the three young ones, I was in too jiffy to make a response. “Mama,” I raised my pitch, “Out of the three the one with golden patches is awfully beautiful!”

But before my mother could have replied, the dark kitten sat in front of her mother. As if she did understand me, and wanted to teach me a lesson about the beauty. While the young ones were making the storyline, I was handed over a cup of tea.

First sip. The tea just changed the sense of climate. And the warmth already started gripping within. The mother cat had by now placed her hand on the head of the little black one—started licking his head, and cuddled him. While she was busy showering the love, the second one joined. And soon, she repeated her compassionate stroke.

Seeing this, the third one—whom I praised for the beauty, too joined to have his share in motherly love. She lifted her left arm quite gently above all three. Placed it over them, and started licking their heads. She patted them, one by one, as per their turn.

Now, this nudged me. Wasn’t I praising one? But to the mother, they all are one (irrespective of their beauty). And then, a flash of wisdom dawned: love isn’t the believer of difference; it is a stand for the unity.

I got a lesson to never guide a line of mark praising the beauty, instead speak of it unanimously.

This abundance of love reminded me of the message that I few days back had written for my friend whom I love unconditionally:

I have no idea about love. I don’t know what actually it sounds like. I don’t know the feeling of being into it. People say love for our creator is reality. Then same people say love for parents is unmatched. They further confuse me with love for a partner and thus they keep bringing on the definition of love for different identities and this way love turns more about individuality instead of being unified.

This text I couldn’t stop relating to the scene of minutes—where my message of questioning the individuality of the love is (was) being beautifully explained on the basis reality of the unity.

And now, the classification of the love on the basis of who we love stand dismissed, forever!

(A pharmacologist by profession, Amreen Naqash is a poet by blessing and a writer by experience)


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