It’s another disgusting age. This time of audio and video leaks. Most recently, audios are taking a lead. Thanks heavens. Otherwise, it would have been a naked animal farm.
Sometimes, leaks are against judges. Sometimes against opponents. Sometimes against others dissidents. Rarely against the one on lap at the moment.
And never against the military.
Because it is the military. The intelligence. Setting another line of moral degradation of the society.
First, they came up with a plan of renting the state.
Then they came up with plans of Jihad and blasphemy and playing with fire.
Then they came up with plans of enlightenment modernization and abductions.
Now, the plans are to listen, record and leak.
Apparently, they are neutrals. Indifferent. Far away from politics. Hidden inside Cantts and DHAs. Yet, they are clearly listening to everyone. And they are clearly behind this mess of leaks.
Once, a PM defended the eavesdropping. Now he’s not defending anymore because he’s been excommunicated.
The current PM on the lap is fine. He got angry – a little – when his own conversations got leaked from the PM house, but then he was fine.
It’s time for all the civilian idiots to sit and shut the establishment first. Else, nothing is going to change. They will keep on listening. They will keep on releasing. They will keep on robbing lands. They will keep on building an empire.
You can’t pass the check posts without being checked.
You can’t enter their housing societies.
They start with Phase-I and then keep on expanding beyond X.
They start with Askari I and then never stop.
Today, the country has more Cantts than proper cities.
People just don’t get it. It isn’t much different like the situation in Palestine. Or Israel. Or whatever.
It’s like Apartheid of South Africa. Or Kashmir since 370. But no one gets it. Except His Highness.
Next time, when you shed some crocodile tears for others, spare a few drops against the evesdrops and all the mess that stands and builds around. Until then, know the problem. And sleep corrected.
Someone missed a century. Couldn’t touch the last ball. Millions missed an orgasm for the night.
No one will remember the great innings of Imad. And his useless sacrifice. Or chacha’s knock.
Imagine if someone could have played a similar, almost-orgasmic, innings from New Zealand, Pakistan would have definitely won.
Our great opener couldn’t make a century after staying for 20 overs. Their Chapman came at 5th and made a century in the 18th. Don’t take a bow. You can never get this.
By the way, isn’t this the most dead pitch in the world?
Anyway. We have had a recipe for years now. It is the recipe of juggling.
Drop the 3rd one who was an opener.
Put a new 3rd.
Put the other opener at 4th.
Bring 7th at 5th.
8th at 6th.
And keep Shadab no matter what.
Keep on juggling so that no one may settle. May never settle. And the argument stays intact that they all fail and the openers are the only two saviors we have.
The last major trophy we won was CT 2017. A remarkable win. The stars of that tournament were disgraced – some due to their own self and some due to politics of favoritism. Remember those stars? They didn’t get such hype on social media and they stayed in the domains of cricket. Fakhar. Sarfaraz. Hassan. Aamir. Malik. Imad. Junaid. And others.
The thing was, they were not juggled. Only Shahzad was replaced – justifiably – and then there was no stopping for Pakistan. A 180 runs win against India in the final.
But bless you. You may not remember those days. Now is the time of reels. Shorts. Short term span. And instant orgasms.
Another T20 home series is lost with ‘big stars’ in the squad.
Congratulations. Wake up now. The dream is over.
A lot of facilities – tangible and intangible – that you have today, were once prayed for madly.
You have a handful of things today that you begged for secretly a decade back.
Since, we grow by forgetting us and our previous surroundings, we keep on asking for more. Without being thankful. Without being happy. And without being at peace.
But then, there are those who have nothing. They are on the greenbelts. Getting injected. Snorting. Snoozing. Haven’t had a bath for months. Totally in a mess. Have you ever seen them sleeping?
They sleep like babies. Even in cold and scorching weather. In sunlight in summers.
Some questions and doubts rise. Are they better or us? Are they having a better sleep than us? Are they at a higher level of peace? Are their dreams as nightmarish as ours?
And now I am wondering not what I am writing, but why.
Do you wonder when you see a wrist with multiple, shiny, parallel, horizontal scars? Blade Marks or wrist cuts. Maybe you don’t. Why don’t they look unattractive?
Behind every cut is a story. Obviously. Could be anything. Lost love. Breakup. Goodbye. Death. Depression. Something.
Mostly, it’s love. Lost love. About the one you think is the one until the one becomes ‘the one lost’ and so… blade marks. Idiotic. But a huge portion of literature and poetry has been all about love, which has its branches and breaches deeply rooted in lust; but we prefer to call it love.
Writing, talking, and thinking about lips. Gait. Voice. Hair. Complexion. Height. Eyes. No one’s talking about the intellectual capacity of the other one or the conversations that talk beyond the universe. Maybe because that is not what love is.
There’s no ‘one’. Neo was the last ‘one’. Next is… wait.
Anyway, back to the blade marks of the lady behind the counter. Offering ice cream. Wonder how she executed the whole process? To let the pain bleed. Leaving the body. Making tiny paths through the sink. Dumping. Into the gutter.
Yet, pain stays. Because it cannot be bled out. It needs to be kept inside. It needs to be nurtured. Taken care of. Because it stays.
109 billion have died so far in this world. Your ‘one and only’ can’t be from those 109 billion. ‘The one’ must be alive in your time zone to initiate a love affair, that usually starts from lust. You can call it crush. Or cuteness. Or whatever your level of being an idiot is.
Comes the current 8 billion. 4 billion is the other gender. Then 3.99 billion are those you never meet. In the end, it leaves around 50 or so options. Out of which, max 5 would consider you as a partner. And then comes the one. Can lead to divorce. Pretty strong chances. Or it can be a suffering prolonged till one of the two dies. As vowed.
What if you find love later in life? After marriage? Then what? Extramarital affair? For the one?
By the way, if you convert ‘the one’ with ‘another one’; you may score a century.
The algorithm that runs the systems has its errors. Some errors are as idiotic as poetry. There is no ‘one’. It’s an illusion. That’s fine though. People must have reasons to live and reasons to die. I have some. Cigarettes among them.
However, Walli has a major reason. The one in which he has specialized with comprehensively crafted research of 9 years. It will be 9 years this April. This pain starts with M. It’s all in the name of M. Remember that story?
When Socrates had to die to live forever.
When Masur Al Haj had to be insulted to be elevated forever.
When Nietzsche had to get mad to become enlightened.
When Hussain had to bleed to live for generations to come.
And when Dante had to leave for hell so he could write divine comedy.
You don’t remember? You don’t remember Walli?
What if the wrist is clean? No blade marks. No wound. Nothing. Only blue veins neatly passing through the system that generates those illusions? Does that mean no story? No blade marks, no pain? No.
Some bleed once. Some bleed twice. And some bleed forever. They nurture their pain and keep it near their heart as a sacred message for the heavens and hells together.
Have you wondered what if you die with these cuts? Don’t you care about the trauma you give to the pain? Don’t you want to keep it alive? Don’t you want to live by it? Stand by it? And finally, die by it?
Walli doesn’t have blade marks. But he has a story. That story starts with M. And it lives as it didn’t pass through the sink. It lives.
How ironic are the cases when people die in stampedes for free food or zakat? A classic yet sad tragedy of dying while struggling to live.
Dying in the process to survive a couple of days more.
It’s so ironic. It’s so sad. As sad as rains consistently falling on wheat crops so that suffering may sustain another season.
The continuous moments of pain without a break for months. And when the prayers will be answered, I will not forgive. I may not forgive. I will not be able to forgive. Maybe I’ll forgive.
Or maybe I’ll be forgiven.