By Farhad Azad
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The old man was sitting by the cracked window of his
dilapidated apartment looking outside the filthy and dusty street
below. The hot, humid, polluted air of the city of Peshawar
made the old man fall in a intense daze.
The old man was sitting by the cracked window of his dilapidated apartment
looking outside the filthy and dusty street below. The hot, humid, polluted
air of the city of Peshawar made the old man fall in a intense daze.
He could see himself in his vineyard in the clear, crisp air of Paghman . His thoughts ran wild. He dreamt of the day that he could return and the days that he spent in peace. His life flashed by him-- his younger years and the later years. He remembered his late wife and how they had met in their youth under Gol Bibi's cherry tree. He reminisced of his three daughters and son. He remembered watching with horror when the Red Army came to burn his vineyard, and he recalled how his only son was killed before his eyes by the "freedom fighters" when his son would not give them the little money he had in his pockets. He could still picture how is young daughter was savagely beaten in the streets for she did not wear the veil to cover her face. He remembered how he and his family fled their home and native land because of the bloodshed and came as refugees to the dungy and dirty city of Peshawar. He saw his reflection on the shattered glass of the window, and saw an old broken man that had lost much and gained nothing but marks of pain that could be seen on his aged face. A tear fell down from his deep blue eyes... |
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