As the celestial white carpet descends, it captivates hearts and invites a playful rendezvous with nature

One fine morning, some days back, I sat in my room chair, adjusted the seat, and landed my fists on the desk. I leaned a bit forward to put myself in harmony with the studying position. As I forwarded my hand to grab the book on the table, the pitch-black hands of my wall clock, inlaid with diamond-shaped beads, caught my sight. It was striking twelve.
After a brief hiatus, voices began emanating from all dimensions – it was Friday; the didactic words of Imam Sahab of the Masjid were being hurled afar into the atmosphere by the high-frequency speakers. He was in tears and sobs, invoking Allah’s mercy to break the dry spell and shower “Rahmat e Baraan” on us. I instantly recalled the eschatological prophecies of our beloved Prophet (SAW) in the context of ‘Climate Change.’ I smirked, due to my own absurd interpretation, thinking that all this is bound to occur. In my own thoughts, I was pitying the preacher, unaware that such dry spells and other natural hazards are going to further exacerbate, let alone hoping otherwise.
Nevertheless, my wishful thinking was dashed just within a week. All the collective prayers metamorphosed into white flakes, descending over the valley in the form of Rahmat e Baraan indeed. On Sunday morning, the undaunted frostbitten winds not only trespassed into my room from the far-right window (that I always keep open) but also started rolling the cosy quilts of my sleep up. At first, I resolved to resist such bone-chilling gusts of this intruder and began to turn the sides of the bed. In retaliation, the wind stirred my earlobes and entered my nostrils, thus my plan to sleep for a little more came to a grinding halt.
The intrusive winds managed to move me out of my hitherto cosy warm bed. I was enraged and rushed to close the window. This was the only way out my semiconscious brain neurons could think of to chase away the interloper wind. I pushed the curtains aside and pinched the nose of the snib to latch it. The outside scene was no longer the same as earlier. Nature had employed all its machinery to embellish the landscape. It was as if a wedding ceremony of some celestial couple was being arranged. The white divine carpets were crocheted and laid down over the vast swaths of land in full generosity to welcome the heavenly guests. The carpets were still being woven by the sky artisan with white ice crystals of varying shapes and sizes.
I retreated my hand and poked my head outside to let the clamorous wafts strike my eardrums. They were singing in chorus, and I noticed:
Farshi Makhmal Ba’e Sajawe,
Chaany’e Mokhai Aaytan Zoo-Jaan,
Thavai Chaany’e Mokhai.
Saalé Yikhna Maa’le Hyeth Yitchkaal Goam,
Haal Kya Chum Laalé Hawai Chaany’e Mokhai
(I will roll out the silk carpet in thy honour,
Will sacrifice my life for you in thy honour,
Do come on my invitation, as it has been very long,
Will reveal my plight onto you, my beloved, in thy honour)
I was enthralled and as well as awestruck by their sonorous melodies so much so that I lost the sense of freeze which I stood to drive away a moment ago. My euphoria knew no bounds. I scuttled to join this cosmic wedding show. I went downstairs to the front veranda. All the salubrious environs were refurbished with royal white paint. Besides, the white petals of divine flowers were still being showered from above by celestial nymphs. Here my mundane world was awakening to the life which I feared would disrupt this ephemeral arrangement. I did not want to be pulled out of this ecstasy as soon.
My “Inner Child” coerced me to let him play around for a while. He became lost in his own wonderland and was hopping on the white blanket stretched for another purpose, thereby leaving beautiful marks of his puny feet. I too joined him, unmindful of the world around us. We began to carve out a small white ball from it and started rolling it on the floor: with every roll, the ball started devouring all the white stuff that came under its way, causing its size to swell, much like a black hole.
After a couple of circumambulations, gasping heavenly, I stopped. This inner child of mine must be mocking my physical health, I imagined. After this brief pause, the naughty child started nudging me, and I got what he was goading me for. Upon finding everybody at home asleep, we started to chisel out a snowman. Later I changed my mind to a snow woman. But this instigation was my own; my inner kid has nothing to do with this idea. He’s still unspoiled, unlike many kids nowadays.
Anyhow, this artisanship teleported me back to my childhood days when we, as kids, passionately awaited the first snow. As it happened, we used to create bunkers in “Naalimanz” (flood channel) out of snow, laden with a full load of white ammunition. The most lethal weapon, in fact, the only weapon, was Shingoll’e (snowballs). In the meantime, a voice of some footsteps crushing white crystals under long boots, I sensed. And my nostalgia tour was ended. The voice of boot steps was steadily growing louder. I fixed my gaze on the curvy edge of the rust-eaten tin roof of my neighbour’s house. I fastened the seat belt of my imaginative spaceship, waiting for its take-off to fly me and my inner kid into the heights of snow-bearing skies. But to my dismay, I could not soar higher; the vicissitudes of life had made me forget this childhood skill to fly!
The writer can be reached at [email protected]

Tmr Mohsin