She calls me Zeba

A dream… a story… a memory…

I lay on the prickly brown-green grass, reading a book. I have a lot of time here, in this dream. This little town in the lap of mountains pampers me. I feel like a child in possession of peace and happiness again. I don’t worry about the bills, the job, the monies, the false friends, and even the repercussions of being ‘myself’ with kin. I am far away from all that – I’m with happiness here.

Tiny white wildflowers shiver in the cold breeze, a few sheep graze around leisurely. The verdant grass is sparkly with the dew drops. The sun is out but the air is still thick and foggy. There’s a soft, rhythmic gurgle of the icy stream flowing nearby. Everything is quiet and tranquil, all around me.

The sun doesn’t let me out of its sight even for a second, it’s a cold day. My fingers are pale and frozen. There’s an old book in my lap, I turn its fragile brown pages carefully with my numb fingers. I love its musty smell.

Not very far from me, is a small hut, smoke escaping its top and floating in white unshapely globs. The clear blue sky looks a shade lighter through them – I like that shade. I remember the cotton candy and its sweet taste. It’s really cold. The fire should be kept alive all day long, I think. I love this house – it is warm and cozy even on the coldest day. It is very small though.

A very kind old lady owns the pretty house and I adore her. She has allowed me to stay there. We don’t speak each other’s language and communicate in signs and smiles. I don’t know her name, she never tells me, I call her khala. She never asked my name but she calls me Zeba.

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