Refugee

She is fleeing her homeland. Not out of desire, but to survive. She is not nameless, yet a name robs her of the unique identity, she shares with many, who had earlier fled, or are fleeing, and will flee till the very end of time.

Refugees are a race of their own. Moving in space, settling in time.

She is packing her baggage to be carried for the journey and hard times peering at her. She has acquired a sudden adeptness at judging the usefulness of her belongings.

This one goes there. That one is left scattered. She occasionally stops, and holds some of her belongings in her hand for too long. By too long, one should not infer a period of minute or so. Given the pace of events surrounding her, a couple of seconds is enough to reach her decisions.

Therefore, when nostalgia holds her hand, she only takes moments to relive the memory associated with the concerned belongings. Then she moves on, but not without sighing. With each sigh, she feels the weight of memories increasing in her, for she believes, that sighing sucks out the past trapped in those physical objects. She clearly has less understanding of time and its doings, for we know, with each passing moment, the past already gets buried in her, making her a mound of time.

Suddenly, she has become aware of her condition. The weight of memories is compromising her movement. She looks for one thing, in which she would condense all that weight. The metaphorical spade as some would say, to dig the mound of time, that with each digging would disturb the contours of time, and thus the past itself, but that is how memory works, and isn’t past a sum total of past, present and beyond?

Past, with time, changes.

She is beholden by a sudden desire to return, in time and in space. One would say, what a travesty, an urge to return to a place, where she already is, and which she would soon forsake. But, that is how nostalgia, a child born out of wedlock, between time, space and the individual, works, preserving past in its sheen and pristine, making it a home in time, to which a traveler forever travels to return and take refuge.

Forever travels.

She acts on her desire, for a refugee’s actions are not entirely shorn of inner desires, and we must not, in sympathizing, strip of whatever residual free will is left in her.

She makes the selection, and swiftly moves on.

She now divides her jewelry into two parts. The more valuable ones, she carefully seals in a piece of dirty cloth, as if conferring on them a cloak of invisibility, against the prying eyes of bandits and other such creatures, whom she expects to meet in her journey ahead. She knows her trick to be old, and would be exposed, by the discerning eyes, for they would know where and what to search. Yet, she goes ahead with it, acting on a slim hope, which for her, a refugee, is a reason enough to act.

The purity of a refugee’s hope is unmatched.

She hides the sealed jewelry in one of her bags, the one she would put under her head, as a pillow, for a restful sleep. An object that would provide, by virtue of its form, and deny, by the quality of its content, her sleep at the same time. If the content of the bag is not enough to make her attentive during her somnolent hours, she would loop the straps of the bag around her neck and armpit, almost making it a noose, which would tighten, if the bag is covetously pulled, hurling her to awareness in an instant.

A refugee has to foresee direst of consequences.

She is now putting on all her less expensive jewelry, not out of aesthetics or sense of fashion, but to be noticeable to the greedy eyes of some official, and to offer them, when need be, in return of some favors, for favors would be few and seekers many.

And, when she would reach her destination, if any such thing would ever exist for her, she would deck herself and other members of her family, with all her jewelry, for she cannot afford to put them in some hotel rooms or whatever.

And, then she would sleep, with an actual pillow, adorning all her jewelry, and not the other way round. Should anyone rouse her and ask, where are you, she would reply, I am in such and such place, always naming her hometown, one way or another, for she really drifts back there, for she, a refugee, never rests, travelling even in her sleep.

Refugee first appeared in Temper Literary Review