Love and Devotion

 

                                                                (Fiction)

I met Sindhu much later in life.
But I already knew her.
I had first encountered her name in relation to the River Sindhu (the Indus).
Later, I met her again in the pages of Amar Jaleel’s book “Sindhu, in My Company” through the character named Sindhu.

The river and the character together stirred within me a deep love for Sindhu—
a love that kept growing, drop by drop.

And then one day, I finally met her.

It was one evening, on the road in front of the Marvi Hostel at Sindh University.
We walked together for a long time.
The days in Jamshoro are hot, but the evenings are magnificent—
And that evening remains unforgettable to me.
Perhaps she remembers it, too.

That was my last long conversation with Sindhu.

Some people feel like strangers even after multiple meetings,
while others seem familiar the very first time you meet them.
You don’t need several encounters to truly recognize someone—
Sometimes, one is enough.

Sindhu’s words still echo in my mind, fresh as if spoken yesterday.
She is no longer with me,
but we are still together.

Once she said,
“There are two types of loneliness—physical and emotional.
I may not always be with you physically,
but emotionally, I will always be there.”

She was right.
She is always with me.

Her take on people was unforgettable too.
“Some people,” she once told me, “are like onions—layer upon layer, hard to reach.
And some are like tomatoes—transparent inside and out.”

I laughed and asked her,
“And what about us? Are we onions or tomatoes?”

Without hesitation, she replied,
“Tomatoes—because we hide nothing. There’s no pretension between us.
A person should be transparent—like water.”

Sindhu once gifted me a copy of Shah Jo Risalo and a rose.
Since then, the poetry of Shah Abdul Latif has seeped into my consciousness,
my subconscious, and even the recesses of my unconscious.
And the scent of that rose still lingers in my thoughts and nerves.

One day, while descending from the hill path that leads from the University’s administration block,
Sindhu stopped suddenly in a grove of trees.
She bent down to look at a tiny mango sapling.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

“This mango plant... It’s too small. It won’t survive here.
Even if it does, we won’t be around.
Someone else will eat the fruit.”

“I don’t follow—what are you trying to say?” I asked.

She said,
“This is a country where there’s no tradition of nurturing life or guiding it to the right path.
Even if something wild grows from the soil, it’s rarely allowed to live.
That’s why neither forests remain here, nor thoughtful, aware human beings.”

I was silent.

Then she gently pulled the sapling from the earth.

When I asked why, she replied,
“I’ll plant it in the hostel courtyard—as a memory.”

After meeting Sindhu,
I didn’t just fall in love with her—
I came to revere her.

Whenever I passed through her region,
I would remove my shoes and close my eyes.

Once, when we were travelling together, she noticed and asked:

“What are you doing?”

“I’m paying my respects,” I said.
“When someone becomes sacred to you,
You show them reverence.
Whenever I pass through this place,
My body responds instinctively.”

She laughed.
“You’re crazy.”

“How am I crazy?” I protested.

“Crazy people don’t have horns on their heads—
it’s their actions that give them away.”

Smiling, I said,
“All the great acts in history—be it world wars or groundbreaking inventions—
have been the result of some form of madness.”

“You call my words philosophical,” she said,
“But yours are utterly insane.
If people heard us, they’d definitely think you’re mad.”

It was our last day at university.
Our last journey together.

Sindhu said,
“My parents have found a match for me.
Maybe we’ll never meet again.”

I said nothing.
I just looked at her quietly.

She glanced at me once,
then turned her face toward the window.
The long ride passed in silence.

Eventually, the bus entered the city.
Her stop came first.
Without a word, she stepped down.

And I had already removed my shoes

and closed my eyes.