Chosen Prompt: Tramlines, Fiction. 2000 words. OU (Open University)
“When I the story of the dreamful youth had found,
It had told of a place both uncouth and unbound;
A place full of the frolic swallows;
Desolate of the painful sallows.
And if you of that story eager to know,
Wallow with me in the callow realms below.”
That day was etched into my psyche and kick-started my consciousness. The sun was at its zenith, looking down at us and lulling life into an intoxicating sleepless sleep when its soliloquy was interrupted by a mirthful voice, pulsing with a static noise, emanating from a wooden box:
“1913 shall be known as a historic day! The century-long-awaited revolution is here! Damascus is walking side by side with the industrialised world. The European ingenuity was commissioned by his majesty Sultan Abdul Hamid; may god prolong his life. The Hejaz railway is finally open to the public. Rejoice, brothers and sisters, we could finally reach Mecca on the wings of revolution”.
“I was a child of four then”, my grandfather had told me.
“We didn’t manage to get rid of our agricultural gown, but the Hejaz station helped us break free from the siege of time on our cities. We felt that we could reach out our hands and grab the world.
“I remember myself”, he continued, “dragging one of my toys behind me: a handmade wooden horse attached to a cord. Leaving my house through the garden, I descend into the back street. It wasn’t a street then. It was a muddy, rocky neighbourhood brimming with wild Cactus and Jasmin. But amidst the arid environs, there lays a new, shiny, and drawn-out object that spanned across in a panoramic view. I run towards it, dragging my horse and bumping it against rocks and vegetation. But when I reach the shiny thing, I bend over with shaky legs and touch it. Its brutal coldness seeps into me, forcing my heart to pump back in resistance through my palm against the cold surface. But the metal replies by shaking the earth below my feet. The vibrations build up within me into a giggle that gets disrupted by the shouts of my mother, followed by a monstrous shriek. I instinctively look to the left, spotting the approaching juggernaut: a black-eyed beast with a steaming nostril, foaming angry smoke in hysteria. I freeze, as you might expect, not in fear but in awe.
I survive, of course, because my father, alarmed by my mother, rushes over and grabs me by the waist. My old wooden toy gets smashed. I look up, and I see smiling faces waving at me through windows. I laugh”.
“Your great-grandfather was profoundly altered after that day”, my grandfather explained. “Change was approaching, rapid and fast, faster than our people could comprehend. The station was decommissioned in 1920 during the Great Arab Revolt, but the crescendo of developments never ceased to stop. The metaphoric train of revolution kept on going, and its force persisted. It survived through me, and I hereby attempt to kindle it in you”.
This is what I still remember of his story. My grandfather is long gone, but his house and the railway are still there. His story had so passionately altered me that in 2020, I decided, against the advice of my family, to visit the home of my ancestors.
Damascus, during that time, was a city downing in the marches of Styx. With the crescendo of catastrophes playing for a century, she was hanging between worlds in delirium. But when the stifling epidemic gave the war-torn country a breather, the lunatics and the emotionally chained saw an opportunity. I seized that chance.
I will save you, dear reader, the logistical troubles of my journey to Damascus. But what you ought to know is that I managed to arrive safely. And that I stood right there on the spot that my grandfather spoke of, the spot where progress was rolling, steaming with passion. Below is a detailed account of what I remember:
I leave the taxi three blocks from the decommissioned station because the taxi refuses to drop me any closer, scared for his safety. It is late in the afternoon. Street lamps are off, and shadows are invading corners and alleys.
As I approach the station, I notice its modern occupants: a local militia, a group of young boys claiming to uphold the neighbourhood’s safety. I do not attempt to sneak into the passenger quarter, but I look for an opportunity to get to the courtyard and into the rails without being spotted. Waiting for the sky to put on its concealing garments, I sidestep into one of the alleyways lurking. As I squint, probing the façade, I notice a yellowish moss possessing the building, covering its blackened corners and columns: survivors of bombings and fires. The once majestic herald of progress is now a rabid mule, a burden for its owners. But then I spot a chance. The side fence is unguarded and fully draped with the night shadows. I manage to sneak in, skipping into the courtyard.
I had once imagined it to be a facsimile of Eden, embellished with Arabic calligraphy, adorned with lavish Turkish gardens, and gushing with yodelling fountains. I had envisioned it full of muscled trains capable of dragging enlightenment forcibly across the continents.
The court is nothing like that. It seized to be the portal for adventure and became the bottleneck of misery. It is stacked with dilapidated tents, full of moving silent skeletons. They spot me, but their drooping, weary eyes seem unable to see me. And what is left of the dismantled trains is but the junk that is hard to sell, pilling in stacks of rusting corpses.
I walk past the tents and towards the rails. It takes a while to find them, or rather what’s left of them: continuous marks of rust marching towards darkness, towards its original destination: Hejaz.
I trudge forward, burdened with thought and anticipation for a good chunk of the night. When I finally stop and look around, I spot the Jasmin and the Cactus creeping up through cracks in the neglected asphalt. And to my right, I see a flashing sign:
No trespassing allowed, detention centre.
I weep.
The Book Of Life 