The once beautiful and large house was old, and beginning to decay. In fact, the chimney tops had clogged from under use, perhaps stonefied, in contrast to the ever-changing clouds. The inmates belonged to forgotten royalty -- the kind which took more than a tree to trace its roots. Indeed. Days crossed over to years and passed in the realm of rotting legacy like vanilla essence being smoothly swallowed by the buttery, sugary flour. The inmates -- clocks which initially stopped turning, took in the colour of the wall; first edition books, first yellowed now stay torn in extreme peace; while silverware now wore rust paintings wore off their colours.
Usmaan stepped into the property with the propriety of a predator having located its prey, sharp and reticent. He took out the key from his waist-coat pocket, and the lock revealed it annual envy. The ritual involved pulling the curtains apart and letting in the sunshine. The chair placed beside the window had also gathered the dust of a year, and very carefully Usmaan placed a newspaper on it, to sit upon. This was his spot. People crave for spotlight, and often have their own spots. This was Usmaan's. From here he faced the wooden cupboard with the fitted mirror, reflecting the sunshine. Well, it tried to. The mirror too, was dotted in dust-spots and wore scars of its timeline.
Ever since Usmaan left the behind the face of his surname, his tale became one with the many -- the story of the lost yesteryears, the narrative of the once-rich who gave it up to live in newer, faceless riches. He took this one day off, away from his wife, son and apartment to return to this house. Nobody knew he had bought it back. Nobody knew he came here once a year. Nobody knew he came here to meet Auraang.
He took his seat on the newspaper pile and looked ahead. It is such a pleasure to take a day off, away from the knowledge of one's most own. "How have you been, Auraang?"
"How have you been, Usmaan?"
"I have missed you."
"Liar. You could have come earlier."
Usmaan smiled, "It's that easy, correct!"
"You could have tried once before saying it isn't really." Auraang looked dejected.
"Auraang, cmon..."
"What Usmaan? I long for this day, everyday!"
Usmaan walked up towards him. Only the dirt on the mirror looked more clear than the photograph of a young Auraang on it, his eyes evoking conversation nobody could hear. Nobody but Usmaan. He touched the photograph of his brother, removing the dust off it. But he could never clean the guilt.
"You killed me Usmaan. This house knows it, I know it, you know it."
"Yes Auraang, Abba had written this house only for you. I could not have it that way. I had to push you out of my way. I wanted it."
"Push me out of the way, Usmaan? Who does that to his own brother? Who does that? How do you look into the mirror, Usmaan?"
Usmaan punched his hand onto the mirror. "I don't, I can't. I still can't, Auraang!"
Auraang laughed. "Here is your house, Usmaan, still mine."
Deaths, they say, can mock the greatest of rivalries, and trivialities. Between brothers, they knew better, who won and who won better.
Usmaan stepped into the property with the propriety of a predator having located its prey, sharp and reticent. He took out the key from his waist-coat pocket, and the lock revealed it annual envy. The ritual involved pulling the curtains apart and letting in the sunshine. The chair placed beside the window had also gathered the dust of a year, and very carefully Usmaan placed a newspaper on it, to sit upon. This was his spot. People crave for spotlight, and often have their own spots. This was Usmaan's. From here he faced the wooden cupboard with the fitted mirror, reflecting the sunshine. Well, it tried to. The mirror too, was dotted in dust-spots and wore scars of its timeline.
Ever since Usmaan left the behind the face of his surname, his tale became one with the many -- the story of the lost yesteryears, the narrative of the once-rich who gave it up to live in newer, faceless riches. He took this one day off, away from his wife, son and apartment to return to this house. Nobody knew he had bought it back. Nobody knew he came here once a year. Nobody knew he came here to meet Auraang.
He took his seat on the newspaper pile and looked ahead. It is such a pleasure to take a day off, away from the knowledge of one's most own. "How have you been, Auraang?"
"How have you been, Usmaan?"
"I have missed you."
"Liar. You could have come earlier."
Usmaan smiled, "It's that easy, correct!"
"You could have tried once before saying it isn't really." Auraang looked dejected.
"Auraang, cmon..."
"What Usmaan? I long for this day, everyday!"
Usmaan walked up towards him. Only the dirt on the mirror looked more clear than the photograph of a young Auraang on it, his eyes evoking conversation nobody could hear. Nobody but Usmaan. He touched the photograph of his brother, removing the dust off it. But he could never clean the guilt.
"You killed me Usmaan. This house knows it, I know it, you know it."
"Yes Auraang, Abba had written this house only for you. I could not have it that way. I had to push you out of my way. I wanted it."
"Push me out of the way, Usmaan? Who does that to his own brother? Who does that? How do you look into the mirror, Usmaan?"
Usmaan punched his hand onto the mirror. "I don't, I can't. I still can't, Auraang!"
Auraang laughed. "Here is your house, Usmaan, still mine."
Deaths, they say, can mock the greatest of rivalries, and trivialities. Between brothers, they knew better, who won and who won better.
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