Through the Sandstorm
I loved writing the rebirth/old life piece here and I have a mind to write another one like it. Here goes nothing.
The dessert was a majestic entity, enchanting, arousing, mesmerizing. The sand dunes a symmetry of shapes, half circles jutting towards the sky. As far as the eye could see, Sand. Its rich orange so much like the life giving sun that the villagers bowed in reverence. The dessert was a taxing tenant. She exacted a pricey rent, her beauty a tough taskmaster, her mode of attack sneaky. Towns and cities buried beneath its mighty power, the sand was an old friend, as well as a bitter enemy.
The camels snorted in lazy amusement, their eye lashes shocking longer in real life than the vivid pictures that tourist guides contained.
A motley crew of folk singers lounged around, their turbans containing every color of the rainbow, the sunlight bouncing off the cloth creating a prism of breathtaking beauty. They tuned their instruments, clicks and booms echoing in the vast expanse of barren land.
Women in intricately woven fabrics carried earthen pots, balancing the precariously precious weight of water on their demure heads. Their hands were adorned with countless bangles, the elegant curve emphasized by the mammoth jewelery.
Children no older than five walked alongside men, learning the ropes of professions proudly passed on from father to son.
The very air contained a mysticism so hypnotizing that you couldn't help but feel like you were in a time capsule, transported to a different time, different place. A place from which you'd never wish to return.
Zenab held onto the duppatta, the mischievous cloth escaping in the wind. The atmosphere reminded her of a memory. A memory that suddenly seemed so real, that every other paled in comparison. She could feel the wind on her face, the slight saltiness lining her lips and the sand beneath her feet as real as the flimsy piece of cotton in her hands.
A thousand sounds rushed at her, almost as if a damn had burst forth. Like a flood of barely contained water, images bombarded her mind.
Almost as suddenly, everything stopped.
Time.
Heartbeat.
She remembered this land.
She remembered this feeling.
The memories came fast now. Of a time old, of a woman who was a friend, almost a sister. Her face a reflection of her own.
Zenab blinked, as a sudden bout of depression assailed her senses. Her eyes watered on their own volition, her emotions no longer her own.
They brought her here, her parents. They did.
Years ago.
Maybe even centuries ago.
But here they did bring her.
And here she did die.
Her ghost still roamed these hills of sand, still swam the currents of air. Her soul, it belonged to this place.
Would forever belong to it.
"Zenab, honey? Is everything okay?"
"Yes," she nodded. She turned towards her husband, his handsome face a blur in the face of other memories still imprinted on her eyes. "I think moving here will be perfect."
ps: The first picture can be found here:: http://pixdaus.com/single.php?id=76893
The dessert was a majestic entity, enchanting, arousing, mesmerizing. The sand dunes a symmetry of shapes, half circles jutting towards the sky. As far as the eye could see, Sand. Its rich orange so much like the life giving sun that the villagers bowed in reverence. The dessert was a taxing tenant. She exacted a pricey rent, her beauty a tough taskmaster, her mode of attack sneaky. Towns and cities buried beneath its mighty power, the sand was an old friend, as well as a bitter enemy.
The camels snorted in lazy amusement, their eye lashes shocking longer in real life than the vivid pictures that tourist guides contained.
A motley crew of folk singers lounged around, their turbans containing every color of the rainbow, the sunlight bouncing off the cloth creating a prism of breathtaking beauty. They tuned their instruments, clicks and booms echoing in the vast expanse of barren land.
Women in intricately woven fabrics carried earthen pots, balancing the precariously precious weight of water on their demure heads. Their hands were adorned with countless bangles, the elegant curve emphasized by the mammoth jewelery.
Children no older than five walked alongside men, learning the ropes of professions proudly passed on from father to son.
The very air contained a mysticism so hypnotizing that you couldn't help but feel like you were in a time capsule, transported to a different time, different place. A place from which you'd never wish to return.
Zenab held onto the duppatta, the mischievous cloth escaping in the wind. The atmosphere reminded her of a memory. A memory that suddenly seemed so real, that every other paled in comparison. She could feel the wind on her face, the slight saltiness lining her lips and the sand beneath her feet as real as the flimsy piece of cotton in her hands.
A thousand sounds rushed at her, almost as if a damn had burst forth. Like a flood of barely contained water, images bombarded her mind.
Almost as suddenly, everything stopped.
Time.
Heartbeat.
She remembered this land.
She remembered this feeling.
The memories came fast now. Of a time old, of a woman who was a friend, almost a sister. Her face a reflection of her own.
Zenab blinked, as a sudden bout of depression assailed her senses. Her eyes watered on their own volition, her emotions no longer her own.
They brought her here, her parents. They did.
Years ago.
Maybe even centuries ago.
But here they did bring her.
And here she did die.
Her ghost still roamed these hills of sand, still swam the currents of air. Her soul, it belonged to this place.
Would forever belong to it.
"Zenab, honey? Is everything okay?"
"Yes," she nodded. She turned towards her husband, his handsome face a blur in the face of other memories still imprinted on her eyes. "I think moving here will be perfect."
ps: The first picture can be found here:: http://pixdaus.com/single.php?id=76893
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