Karuna Ezara Parikh brings pleasure out of pain & other transgressions

Priya Chadha

Love, longing, grit and grief flavour this fable, and breaking monotony in the rhythm is fine poetry. Like two star-crossed lovers, Daya and Aaftab meet at a Cardiff park in 2001. Unbeknownst to the consequences of forbidden love, Daya, an Indian, and Aaftab, a Pakistani, embrace the challenges of their transgressive relationship.

When Daya was born, her parents decided not to impose any single religion on her. They had above their front door a carved wooden Jesus, and next to the entrance a Ganesha idol. What caught the fancy of visitors was a huge stretch of textile hanging on a wall, with a few lines by Faiz:

Kahan hai manzil-e-rah-e-tamanna hum bhi dekhenge,

Ye shab hum par bhi guzregi ye farda hum bhi dekhenge:

Thahr, ai dil, jamal-e-rhu-zeba, hum bhi dekhenge.

Daya never understood she was one of the children who had been taught the simplicity of sameness without any complications of difference. And, because she had never identified with any one religion, she had no sense of the other.

But Aaftab’s family’s believed in monotheism, the idea of one God. His father once caught him reading a book about Hindu Gods. Almost puzzled, he asked: “What could there possibly be to respect about a religion that cannot agree on one God?” Fifteen years later, after meeting Daya, Aaftab knew the answer: that it had goddesses.

After discovering her calling — ballet — Daya takes up a job at a library, often visited by Aaftab, a lawyer. Madly in love, the two succumb to their conflicting desires. Love ain’t no sin, but crossing the cultural divide ‘is’.

As news of twin-tower attacks beams around the world, everything falls apart. Daya flies back home to be with her father, who is on his deathbed. Aaftab leaves the city in the dead of night to avoid being harmed.

There is something fascinating about this tragic romance — a maelstrom of melancholy blended with a sense of relatability.