By Sonya Rehman
The fog tonight is thick and surreal. No matter how difficult things may get in Lahore, in one’s birth place, it is moments like these which make one recollect old memories, past dreams, one’s youth and innocence – everything raked up again…reminding you of who you were, who you’ve become, reminding you that even though everything has changed, you have not. Perhaps that’s a good thing. Perhaps we never change. Memory is a beautiful thing – keeps you grounded.
As a child I always associated the shift in temperature from warm to chilly, to change – if the weather could change, perhaps there was change waiting for us too, mere mortals, change around the corner…good change. A sense of promise. Feel exactly the same way tonight. The sliver of window near the balcony door visible from my half closed bedroom door depicts my neighbor’s one story house shrouded in fog and thick jamun trees. There’s one, sole light on in the widow’s porch, its edges blurred in yellow by the fog. This could be a hill station, or anywhere. Quiet and still. The night moves swiftly along, my mind too alert.