Mom! Back, back, get back by RoyalStylePK (e novels to read TXT) 📕

“Mom! Back, back, get back”.

How to sit at sofa after thumping of work at office? When sofa entirely at tranquil roost, disturbance is thousand furlongs away from you? You might be thinking am that kind of lazy guy, eh! Not at all; I am talking about that kaleidoscopic splashing patterned rooster sofa, grandfather purchased for me when I used to sing in lowest base notes around.

I wake to dawn sunlit, it’s Sunday, a cheery wave of pleasure is prompting to inhabit in deepest part of my heart, making my right hemisphere of brain enlightened, and striking ideas are wandering near by bedroom. Simultaneously, all points develop into a single proverb that states as “Shama lets enjoy the charming spellbound beauty of aquatic aspect of universe, a pervading landlord for 70% of this whole globe, oceanic beauty.”

An additive to my refreshing personality, ever I used, well, without some exceptions is warm towel bath, a Japanese measure to keep body organs at right track. I am on the breakfast table, a digital glistening golden patched Time peace tinkles, “10 A.M, it’s time for outing”. I had to suffer Battering shrill of digital timekeeper, until “Stop” command is inputted. Don’t be impatient I am a couple of strides away from aquatic beauty; I pick picnic camera and keys for automotive, moves to estuary.

A sodden inexorable football rambles to me, as I lower down at the dump slightly golden rather silver dunes at sea-bank. A cute kid bobs over glistening coastal tides, burbling “Goal”. The goalkeeper desperately scrounges football from my straddle. It’s Clifton Bay Park -Karachi, Pakistan. With light frail deltoids, dimly frantic visitors having bright multi-coloured impeccable dresses – mostly ladies with Shalwar Qameez and gents with paint shirts – sea shore looks like a blend of beautiful spring flowers and well ever bright colour rainbow.

As I am wading through golden water, a swarm of white foreigners is enjoying the beauty of Clifton. it’s amazing, I can not bear the ecstasy of this panoramic view. Their dexterity of surfing over Clifton deltoids gives a new life to enthusiasm of young adults. It sets a marvelous example for locals to adroit the sailing skills.

Far way on a reef, I can see, a fish flails in the hands of a fisherman, as he un-hook the fish from barbed hook. However, Fish bustles, and slips into water. Magically, he pokes his hand, swoops and captures it again.

“It’s striking! Your so quick swoop enticed me here”. I blare. Waiting for his few word’s sneak, making my heart weak, coastal wind pushing me bleak, and finally, I am fumbling my hands to make his fishes sleek. It’s not advisable to develop amiable communication level with him, my intuitive sense warns me, a demure person. So what would have happened there with us? No croon under the bright beautiful moon, neither a mime.

Before long, I tranquilly perched at the same lichen patched reef; dump and glassy lichens stamp us down for wallow actions. With due permission, I am privileged to takes some snaps with him. In the meantime, a grumpy personal secrete make his eyes wet. This scene imprints a morose mystery on rear orchard of my head; this crumples me impatient and inquisitive.

A wave of vital energy staggers morose mystery to expose out vibrantly. He feels cordial bump, and explains the meanings hidden in eyes which are dump. His mother croons his name waiting at lunch table - a cornucopia of fried fish, cheese, glistening vegetables, cucumber, pate and eggs etc. On a topic of a particular interest, violence of perceptions counterfeits. Unscrupulous hostile behaviour intervenes, he blushes, bluster her mother to ramble for Old Age Shelter. She is forced to leave home, eventually she stride for Old Age House, leaving him alone.

A mother who, fed him her blood, catered him in flood, and, he is striking her in mud. Awe! My heart is bursting a hundredth time, the moment its physical colossus beat a single time. She is collecting her clothes - red thong dress, a gift of her deceased husband, a birthday gift – her eyes are shedding rains.

“Time rambles on day by day, Mother Hearts torn in every way”.

His mother rushes out, the tinny diamond drops are lashing down on her face, saturating her dress and finally on ground. Her stew gurgling brain flashes animated pictures of her past life. I love her crumpled up memory - even though extensively morose moment - projecting beautiful picturesque of his son’s life. She slept at wet place and roosted him on tranquil dry bedding, he stumbles and she lurches to him, he weeps and she perches him in lap, he morons and she dictates manner, he surfs fumbling she teaches dexterity, he finds girlfriend and she loves her.

Mother; “The Impeccable”, God has created, sheer, well a single, one substitute for mother, only death.

She slogs heading roadside, perpetually glancing backward, might some sound blares from indoor saying “Mom!.. Mom! Come back I can’t live with out you”. This was, merely, her inner soul forcing her to wait for her son’s sweet purr-call - but she did not knew - nothing was to come out. Yes, nothing at all, up-till the Day of Judgment.

She tramps wearily, crossing road. Who knew this was her last treed? Conventionally, we say “God, as He is, Who knows every thing – entirely - about a person”. But there was another person; who shrills, peeping through window frills, wants to save her mother at wills’, his son. He was peering through tinged – with his mother face crossing road glancing back – glassy glaze. Briskly, he breaks window glaze, and shouts with full force “Mom! Back, back, get back”.

His mother can only hear the sweetest noun - out of entire English dictionary – “Mom”; but not ending words, for what she had been waiting for all the time leaving home. As, a car abruptly hits his mother, she bobbed in the air, comes down to road, another automotive crushed her; while son was clinking his face on broken-window, his hands were fumbling, thumps thrusting on face like dumb-belling, lips were crying mumbling…. “Mom! Back, back, get back”.

Author:
Shama Mohyyu Din,
http://www.royalstyleinternational.com/FOUNDATION.html
[email protected],
[email protected],
SMS: 0092-343-5000270
Tel: 0092-51-5814157
Tel:0092-51-4418080

Publication Date: 11-07-2009

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY BELOVED SON SUFI AND HIS MOTHER NIGHI.