Caught in the 'Net'... By Fahima Zahir January - March 1998 Lemar-Aftaab she opens her mail and sees among her messages a letter from him and with an expectant smile and pouting lips, clicks on the message to open. she slowly reads the poem and thinks of past poems sent her ways.. her mind drifts.. to the past .. near and distant.. she reads on, the smile playing on her tired face, turning wider and brighter. there is a moment of contemplation.. as the images in the poem ring through her mind.. the smile flickers on her face.. and more images come to mind... she thinks of what and how she might reply as she starts typing, her face frozen to the screen.. knowing that these same words typed by her would soon appear on his screen and cause a reaction on his part and then a reply and another response.. a thread of words spun by the master.. depicting and hinting at sentiments... she blinks and closes her eyes for a minute..picturing the veiled moon.. unveiling herself.. she imagines being in a lover's embrace.. among the stars who flickered their knowing winks at her..she looks out the window at the silent and still night.. silent nights.. nights of unfullfilled desire and arms that sought to hold.. and a body that sought to be held... still contemplating, she looks into the distance and is taken away for a brief moment. fate works in its subtle clockwork, she says to herself.. the machines turning .. the tide washes in stories of the past.. past voices..and cleans away today's sorrows and joys.. she thinks of the waves.. as they float inwards with their rhythmic motions and then back outwards towards the great void, sweeping all that comes in their way... they carry voices and past stories.. she wonders what thoughts they bring to his mind.. what thoughts are being entertained in his poet's mind... she turns away for a second.. scrutinizes her typing fingers.. how do these words come to be.. is there anything real and true in this world.. everything seems to have been done and said before.. ours is simply a replay in the tiring Play of life.. a rewind button pressed so often that it has ceased to function and rewinds ad infinitum.. sometimes rushing through certain scenes. sometimes taking its scratchy time. .a tape worn thin, words and sentiments worn thin. souls worn thin.. she contemplates as her fingers type on..not aware any longer whether the fingers type first or her mind spins out thoughts.. she stops for a minute.. catching her breath.. and wonders of a different reality.. a different life.. she is on God's lap..looking through the shrouding clouds.. it is a warm feeling.. and she breathes deep and turning slightly on His lap.. slowly reaches the gates of slumber... feels she's on a small boat running down a stream on both sides of which are sleeping hanging willows.. the birds sing their tune. . the breeze blows its tune, the boatman beats the oars with his own tune... and she hears a distant drum .. at first loud, it turns faint.. but, the tune becomes more distinct..as she listens.. and hears the drumming droning beat.. ever so slow with a warm cadence and a sweet resonance.. and she listens... Copyright © 1998 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.