The Dandelion That Cried on Canvas

When grief needed a story, she borrowed a stranger’s grave. A reflection on loss, illusion, and the quiet rebellion of mourning without reason.

- Aisha Hasnain

I'm trapped in a cocoon of my own, and they don't fail to see me defeated every day. “Yeh kaisa ranj hai/ What sorrow is this?” He asks.

They ask what it is that I'm mourning. I do not find words to explain the chemistry of my tragedy. Why my lips are drooping. Why my gaze is lost. Why my eyes are pale. Why I say my chest aches. Why I barely see my neighbours. I have turned us into strangers. Ah, I look like a mystery to them. A mystery that they adore. It is sad, they say.

I need a dummy-reason for the paranormal sorrow I have felt. For the longest time I have been without a story to tell. But where can I find a parallel? It is the graveyard. I need to make someone's grave my own. Come Nooré Chashmam - the vision of my eyes - let's go.

I sit beside a grave. I stuff my mouth with my scarf and wail. I have given myself a false closure. I run my fingers through the earth. My tears burn my face. I grab the collar of my frock and I drag someone’s attention: “What is it?”

He helps me with my shawl and saves my modesty. “What is it, my dear? Is it him who you mourn every day?”

My eyes fish for the name on the stone: