We don’t want a relationship like a broken guitar string, nor like a soaked shirt clinging uncomfortably
The letter left in the pocket of the pants that were washed in the laundry!
Nisar Banbhan
Distance, though painful, is often a fleeting wound; what we need are just a few moments of understanding—moments we haven’t been able to give each other. All I ask for is those two fleeting moments, to step into each other’s world, to touch the soul with bare fingers, and discover the parts of us that remain unspoken, hidden behind the busyness of life. It’s as though time has never ticked for us, as if the hands of the clock have never turned in our favor.
There are feelings buried so deep inside, burning quietly on the far edge of existence. Sometimes, the pain seizes my breath, filling my eyes with a haze of smoke. It feels like my heart is being torn apart, much like the fragile thread of a kite fighting against the wind. Somewhere within me, in that small, quiet village inside, our love is tethered to a bond forged through countless deprivations. And yet, that bond is love.
We both watch as this love gets crushed between the grindstones of our compulsions. Sometimes, I wish I could cool this feverish intensity with something as simple as Panadol, but that too seems out of reach now. I yearn for your hand, your three fingers resting against my forehead, a gentle comfort, but even that has eluded me.
My eyes long for the day when the curtain between us—placed there unwillingly—will finally be lifted. No matter what happens, I know we are intertwined, bound in ways that will never unravel. This connection, this feeling, will grow like a tree within us. I am as certain of this as you are.
But despite everything I do, the pain lingers. A moss has gathered around my heart, stubbornly clinging, refusing to let go. Perhaps it will vanish only when the weight of our untouchable feelings falls away, like a soft, white sheet that banishes the fog with the promise of peace.
You are not some fleeting charity to me, but rather the feeling of cool shade on a scorching day, a sip of cold water to a parched soul. I hold you to my eyes as one would a blessing. Have you ever sat in the shadow of an old mud wall? It’s the kind of feeling like walking under the blazing desert sun for years, only to stumble upon a small tree offering solace.
Have you ever seen a tattered, half-burnt newspaper flying out of a window, carrying a small, insignificant false headline? The kind that says a poet died by self-immolation, though the poet’s name and the details of his death are already half-consumed by the flames.
There are nights when it feels as though fire courses through my veins, as though I’ve been pinned to the bed by some invisible force. The only thing that pulls me from this burning sensation is the thought of those precious moments with you—moments I can’t live without. How can I rid myself of this heat when I’ve been living for those few stolen breaths with you?
You’ve often said you don’t know how to celebrate, but I don’t know how to cry. The salt of tears has never been mixed into the soil of my soul. Instead, my heart tightens like fingers caught in a door, throbbing in pain. I can’t bear it anymore. My eyes close, and my sobs remain silent, trapped within me like the cries of the mute.
Have you ever seen a tattered, half-burnt newspaper flying out of a window, carrying a small, insignificant false headline? The kind that says a poet died by self-immolation, though the poet’s name and the details of his death are already half-consumed by the flames. That half-burnt piece of newsprint is my destiny. It flew from the trash and landed at your feet, and for some reason, you gave it value. Perhaps it doesn’t deserve it, and it should be swept away like debris. Yet still, I cling to it—just as I cling to your support.
Read – Short Story: The Knock at the Door
That piece of paper, fragile and marked by burns, stuck to my hand as I picked it up. I thought, “What if a holy name was written on it?” And so I treated it with reverence, folding it carefully. I’ll find a place to tuck it away, perhaps in the tin box hanging on that old utility pole. But I say, throw it away somewhere else.
Among a bundle of keys, there’s a small one—long rusted—that once belonged to a lock opened and closed by a mischievous little girl years ago. That lock and key are our relationship, held together by trust, while our constraints mirror that girl’s playful hands.
In an old, broken cupboard lies a small, forgotten hair clip, seen and ignored countless times by everyone in the house, even by the young girl who’s grown into a beautiful woman. Last month, her uncle called her unworthy of marriage. That clip, forgotten yet significant, is my feeling. It wants to be shown, just as our daily quarrels emerge. It’s the same argument of uncles and brothers—the need to stay hidden in that wardrobe. What do we do now? I find myself lost.
Also read: Love and Relationships
Sometimes, in an old purse, you find a blister pack, half-empty, with a few grains of medicine still intact—forgotten for days, only to be discovered when you crave a sweet treat after lunch. Those grains are you and me, tiny fragments, yet carrying the sweetness of our shared moments. That joy, however fleeting, is ours. Its intensity, our love.
We don’t want a relationship like a broken guitar string, nor like a soaked shirt clinging uncomfortably. We are the water flowing freely in a canal, and our love is the leaf drifting along its surface. Where it will go, how far it will float—none can say for certain. But what we do know is that this journey, this unyielding truth, is our belief. And that belief will endure, always.
Read – Between Bonds and Belonging: The Lost Art of Relationships
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Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 24 years of diverse experience, including 3 years in journalism, 21 years in a public sector organization, and a longstanding career in writing and freelancing. He specializes in content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyricism, poetry, short stories, and the crafting of articles and columns in both Sindhi and Urdu.
