One-4

She relaxed on the bench and spread forward her legs past the Hindkush mountains and almost reaching Katakhan-Badshkan,  kicked off her right shoe with her left toe all the way to Tashkent and sighed, " What a relief!!"

I said, " I know my pronunciation is really bad, but why do you bring that up to embarrass me?"
 She sat up straight and turned to face me fully and exclaimed, "What nonsense! WHo said, your pronunciation is bad? I said 'weird'. Does weird mean bad? Wait, let me find the right word. You know that musky smell you get when you open your grandma's old chest, your Persian feels like that. Other Hindustani's speak such a blunt persian."

I tried to reason, " But they are all Punjabis. I am from Bangladesh."

For the first time she was speechless. then he found her words, " The land of Bengal!!! But I heard that is at the edge of this world. After that is bottomless pit. As far as you can look, there is gaping nothingness. That is why there is a railing there, lest someone falls off that cliff. Even Bangalis don't ever leaver their house to venture."

I knew, the Kabulis that travel to India, don't go far past Bangladesh. These must have been the tales they brought back. I laughed, " What did you say? Bangalis never leave their house? Like me, I didn't leave my house, right?"

She softened a bit. "Look, Monsieur..."

I said, " My name is Majnun."
"Majnun!!!"
I confirmed, " Yes."
" But Majnun means lunatic. When the Djinn takes over someone's senses, then the past participle form of Djinn, Majnun is used to call someone a lunatic. Who gave you this name?"
I replied, " My father's fan. Look Ms. Shabnam Banu, not everyone is lucky enough to have such sweet name as yours. Shabnam means morning dew, snowflake. Correct?"
" I was born at the break of dawn"
I recited,

" I want to accompany you, my dear Shefali, 

You are my dream in an autumn night

but a tragedy at dawn, drizzled in dew. " 

"Explain please."

I said, " There is this flower that blooms in my country, named Sheuli. The poet is saying the autumn night dreams all its length for the Sheuli to bloom, but as soon as dawn breaks, the Sheuli withers off the tree, leaving the tree in despair."

Shabnam is a poetry lover. She exclaimed, " Beautiful! One flower mesmerizes the entire night. What is my name was Shabnam Sheuli? How would that sound?"

I said, "You cannot even imagine how sweet that would sound to a Bangali."

She smiled, " Do you know what Poet Kisaii said about flower?"
" I have only read Hafiz, Sadi and little Rumi."
"Then listen,

"Flowers are a gift from heaven

Heaven opens its gates for sinners through flowers

Dear flower girl, why you exchange them for mere silver

My beloved, would you exchange your beauty for them?"

I said, "What a marvelous poem. I have to translate it to Bangla."
" You know how to rhyme?"
I said, " Goodness, no! I am just a teacher."
" That I know. There are two types of Indian that come here. Either a merchant, or a teacher. But I have never seen you before. Tell me this, What do you make of all the restructuring Badsha AmanUllah is doing to the country?"

" Does it matter? I am but a foreigner."
" Foreigner but a neighbor, nonetheless. When I was returning from France..."
I was so surprised that I had to intervene, " From France..?"
" The English sent my father to exile. I was born in Paris. Spent ten years of my life there and nine here. But forget about that. When we were returning to Afghan, we travelled through Bombay and Peshawar. Wait, let me think. Yes, it was August, like now. The rain was pouring and pouring. From Bombay till Lahore. Splish, Splash, Splish. Its rhythm matched that of the train and sounded so harmonic. But from Bombay to this Peshawar, it has nothing in common with France. But Afghanistan does. Both are truly beautiful countries. Do you know what the Persian poets said about India?"

" Hafiz said saomething, right?"
"No. Ali Quli Salim. He said,

"Where can you fill your life's purpose in Iran?

For Mehedi to stain dark red it has to be in India. " 

I had to ask, " Henna grown here, doesn't stain red?"
" Nah. It's pale, yellowish."

I asked, " How ca you recite poems on every topic?"
She smiled, " My father, he recites all the time. Even when I was nine or ten years old, I was very self conscious of my Afghan identity. In paris, whenever someone recited a french poem in class, I had to reply with a Persian poem. "

She changed the topic, "There is not a soul on the main street. But I can hear an automobile going round and round for a while. Have you noticed it?"

I said, " Perhaps."
" Why didn't you tell me?"
I felt so embarrassed, my head bowed, but I admitted "because I was enjoying the conversation."
She fell silent.
I asked, " Is that your car? Looking for you?"
" Mmm"
" Let's go then."
" No."
" OK. But won't your family worry for you?"
" Let's go then." She stood up.
I said, " Shabnam Banu, please don't misunderstand me."
" Blyme. Why would I misunderstand you?"

As we walked she picked up the conversation again, saying, " It is pleasant to talk to a foreigner. Neither do I know anything about the person, Nor does he. Isn't there a poem?"

" Who knows the beginning and end of this universe?

Like an ancient book, pages are missing along its covers" 

Right then, the car with it's bright blinding headlights stopped in front of us. Shabnam Banu proposed, "Let me drop you off at your house."

So far, our conversation flowed casually. But now, in the presence of the chauffeur we both felt awkward. Even if he's from Paris, or a Kabuli from here, nobody would disagree that they are radically conservative. So I said, " Never mind. My hotel is very close by."

Shabnam is really clever. Said, " Fine. But, look Mister, Don't ever feel shy. I don't 'Porwa' anybody."
Porwa means to fear. It's a Persian word. Shabnam Used that exact same word.
" Adab Araj, My respects."
"Khuda hafiz, May god bless you."