Magic Mushroom I opened the cupboard and saw the transparent canister. Closed my eyes, my heart, and the door. Tensely I took out what I needed and walked away. The canister was still there. I think it mocked me, every utterance, every cry, every wail it had witnessed, was now being thrown back at me. Playback, though it stayed silent. This jar cannot speak like you and I, but it has its ways. I remember how it used to be. Now this foreign object, this mutated fiend, multiplied here. Layer upon layer. Too painful for anyone to suggest its destination. Pretend its not there and avoid it. Nothing ever happened. Once while cleaning the kitchen, I took out all the contents of the kitchen cupboard. I wiped the shelves, and instead of replacing the canister to its original spot, I threw it into the garbage bin. Feeling guilty for disposing of something I knew little about, I told mum. She thought for a while. Her eyes taking on that sad distant look. I knew I shouldn't have brought up its existence, I shouldn't have even admitted that it was there, let along discard it. It belonged to a certain time, came from a certain place, bore the burden of certain memories. It had become the only reminder of the events of those days, all the while without speaking a single word, or making a single decision. Only existing, because it was after all, no more then an IT. Here was the absolute manifestation of innocence on trial. The canister in the first instance, and I on the other, for bringing it into mum's view again. I stood in front of mum, fidgeting. Waiting for a response, gazing into her. Silent crying. I damned myself for causing this nostalgic pain. She open her lips to speak, I breathed a sigh of relief that a conclusion was going to be reached. She began as if she was going to make an order, an order of importance, to decide the fate of the jar and its contents. Then her voice fell and her eyes regained their silence. She spoke slowly; "Leave it where it is. Don't bring it up, your father will be upset". I walked to the kitchen garbage bin, took the canister out, wiped it and put it back. Restored to its post and former glory. Slowly rotting and blackening. "X" marks the spot. Since then my eyes fall upon it once in a while, and it takes me back to those days. The days of its birth and near death. It blackens and it multiplies. One day it shall be uncontainable. It speaks to me of those days when any noise which might have been mistaken for laughter, would have to be a cry. And always was. Mistaking a signifier of sorrow, for that of joy, was a common mistake I made. I think perhaps the reason for such misjudgments are due to a certain inclination of humanity. To interpret events in the way they wish them to be. Seeing what you want to see, hearing what you want to hear. Perhaps sometimes, if not often, we are all guilty of such foolish dreaming... Nowadays, things are nearly normal, and the jar still lives on that shelf. I take another look at where it sits. Ugly grayish Magic Mushroom, they said you could cure his cancer, but you let him go. Perhaps it wasn't your fault if his time had come, but now you have been woven in our lives. An inanimate object may never have played such a role in influencing, or dictating the emotional entanglements of a whole family. A whole people. A whole civilization. It's not your fault though; you were at the wrong place, at the wrong time as they say. And it makes me wonder, how for us, the Afghan culture is that very jar which has failed to cure the cancer of our displacement. Our culture at times has been the silent witness to change, and the signifier of painful memories. Each contact, with this manifestation of "Aghaniat" is a reminder for older generations of what "used" to be. It seems only fair that we look at this jar on the shelf, face it and confront it. Since we cannot dispose of anything that is so deeply rooted into the psyche of our people, the only other way is to build a co-existence. Thus, the ever-present canister and the emotional soul can be peaceful, despite the stream of nostalgia and despair. --Zaheda Ghani Co-editor Copyright © 1998 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.