Foreword
My life in Libya was quite 'uneventful'. It is only after my return to India that I realized that how much of ‘Libyanism’ is within me. I had started writing this short story when I was living there. Once in India, the story became a kind of literary artifact, never explored, but the yearning to do so was there. So time just went by…and it is only after a gap of five months that I re-visited the story which is given below. This is only the beginning; hopefully I should be able to tell all the tales of the old man from the land of the Olive trees – Libya.
Me, My Tales and the Olive Trees…
I am an old man and I live in Tarhuna. The English word ‘old’ is too short to describe my age. I do not have any grudges against the English people or their language. If at all I should be angry, it should be against the Italians not the English. I was born here and all my life I have lived in this small town, surrounded by hills. I do not have much to do in this place except maybe wait for Death. If, you, my dear reader, had noticed a tinge of self-pity in my voice please note that it is not self-pity. It is the voice of a man who has experienced much, has realized much in his life. Old people quite often are misunderstood. Please forgive me if I am talking too much about myself. It is a long time since I have talked to somebody. I am grateful to this writer who made me the central character of this story. It is not that I do not want to talk to people. They simply they do not have the time to listen to me. After the death of my wife Fathima, Oh! She was my best friend and the angel sent for me from heaven. I stopped talking to people. I lead a life of a recluse and kept all my words and thoughts to myself. It was only when I met the writer who told me to share my life that I started to speak out. After the death of my wife I became more of a listener than a speaker. I really am thankful to God for providing me with two ears and two eyes so that I can listen more and see more. Whatever I heard and saw became a tale. I have always felt that the whole world is made up of tales and Tarhuna was not different. It had its storehouse of tales and here I am ready with my tales.
Interestingly the first tale is my own tale or rather it involves me. I do not want to start with the usual way of narrating the tale, i.e. Once upon a time there lived… whenever I listen or read something like this. I feel sad. I feel as if the story happened in a different time and space. I was not there. But, the tale that I am going to tell you is still alive; I mean the characters and the location. It is all around me and I see it every day. The characters are not fairy creatures and the place is not a fantasy land, so far away so unimaginable.
I am walking on the streets of Tarhuna. This place is very familiar but at the same time, these days, it has become strange and alien to me. As a boy, I used to run through these streets feeling the cool breeze against my skin. As a teenager I felt self-conscious and walked with a manly gait conscious of the presence of the blue-eyed ‘hoories’ around me. Now it was during one of these gay sauntering that I saw Fathima for the first time. From that moment she became part of my life and she made me spent sleepless, sweat-love filled nights, and finally led me to clasp her hands in marriage. My walks through these streets continued even after marriage. Fathima always had enjoyed walking and we made the townspeople raise their eyebrows as socially it was not a normal thing to do. Some of them even branded us as the ‘Walking Couple’. This habit of us continued, undisturbed, till the day when Fathima fainted and had to be taken to the house in a cart wheel. She was pregnant and soon gave birth to a child. A boy named Ibrahim, now I felt that Allah decided to make me happy and sad at the same moment. Fathima left me and Ibrahim was given to me.
I used to oscillate between these two feelings for a quite long time after that. Whenever I felt sad thinking about Fathima, Ibrahim would lift up my spirits and filled me with the re-assuring spirit to live once again. I am thankful to Allah for allowing me to draw only momentary inspiration from my son Ibrahim for I knew that he would not be there with me always. I like to compare to him to a wild horse that is just waiting for his time and space to surge forward, never to return.
Thus I walk the streets, alone, once again…
Now the reader should not feel that I have finished telling my story. I have taken enough liberties from the writer to say the tale the way I wanted it to be told.
I am an old man and I live in Tarhuna. The English word ‘old’ is too short to describe my age. I do not have any grudges against the English people or their language. If at all I should be angry, it should be against the Italians not the English. I was born here and all my life I have lived in this small town, surrounded by hills. I do not have much to do in this place except maybe wait for Death. If, you, my dear reader, had noticed a tinge of self-pity in my voice please note that it is not self-pity. It is the voice of a man who has experienced much, has realized much in his life. Old people quite often are misunderstood. Please forgive me if I am talking too much about myself. It is a long time since I have talked to somebody. I am grateful to this writer who made me the central character of this story. It is not that I do not want to talk to people. They simply they do not have the time to listen to me. After the death of my wife Fathima, Oh! She was my best friend and the angel sent for me from heaven. I stopped talking to people. I lead a life of a recluse and kept all my words and thoughts to myself. It was only when I met the writer who told me to share my life that I started to speak out. After the death of my wife I became more of a listener than a speaker. I really am thankful to God for providing me with two ears and two eyes so that I can listen more and see more. Whatever I heard and saw became a tale. I have always felt that the whole world is made up of tales and Tarhuna was not different. It had its storehouse of tales and here I am ready with my tales.
Interestingly the first tale is my own tale or rather it involves me. I do not want to start with the usual way of narrating the tale, i.e. Once upon a time there lived… whenever I listen or read something like this. I feel sad. I feel as if the story happened in a different time and space. I was not there. But, the tale that I am going to tell you is still alive; I mean the characters and the location. It is all around me and I see it every day. The characters are not fairy creatures and the place is not a fantasy land, so far away so unimaginable.
I am walking on the streets of Tarhuna. This place is very familiar but at the same time, these days, it has become strange and alien to me. As a boy, I used to run through these streets feeling the cool breeze against my skin. As a teenager I felt self-conscious and walked with a manly gait conscious of the presence of the blue-eyed ‘hoories’ around me. Now it was during one of these gay sauntering that I saw Fathima for the first time. From that moment she became part of my life and she made me spent sleepless, sweat-love filled nights, and finally led me to clasp her hands in marriage. My walks through these streets continued even after marriage. Fathima always had enjoyed walking and we made the townspeople raise their eyebrows as socially it was not a normal thing to do. Some of them even branded us as the ‘Walking Couple’. This habit of us continued, undisturbed, till the day when Fathima fainted and had to be taken to the house in a cart wheel. She was pregnant and soon gave birth to a child. A boy named Ibrahim, now I felt that Allah decided to make me happy and sad at the same moment. Fathima left me and Ibrahim was given to me.
I used to oscillate between these two feelings for a quite long time after that. Whenever I felt sad thinking about Fathima, Ibrahim would lift up my spirits and filled me with the re-assuring spirit to live once again. I am thankful to Allah for allowing me to draw only momentary inspiration from my son Ibrahim for I knew that he would not be there with me always. I like to compare to him to a wild horse that is just waiting for his time and space to surge forward, never to return.
Thus I walk the streets, alone, once again…
Now the reader should not feel that I have finished telling my story. I have taken enough liberties from the writer to say the tale the way I wanted it to be told.
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