Wounds of no colour

Looking back almost seventy years, at the pages of faded memory is like reopening a healed wound. I was born in Rohri, a small town, now in Pakistan. I remember as a small kid, jumping and rolling with friends on dusty powdered narrow lanes. This town was known for its numerous Sufi Peers and Faqirs, for their mysterious miracles that I heard from my grandparents. We spoke only Sindhi, in and around house. Hindi was foreign to us and we listened to it only through old songs on gramophone records on ancient winding machine. Life was simple with modest dreams.

I do not remember when and how, a slow turbulence of rumors started emerging. They turned into reality and we all had to quit our homes leaving behind all our sweet memories. We held our parents’ hands and followed them to the destiny unknown. As I look back, we were told we would be walking into a bright future called ‘Freedom’. Today, having walked years of my life through different layers, I don’t know that, nor do I have answers. But one thing I can say for sure – I wouldn’t have been a painter or had anything to do with the world of creativity that I am enjoying with intoxication today. We had huge farms in Sind and I might have been a rich farmer. The injuries are dried and painless today, with no colour on wounds left.