“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!”
Al-Pacino said that to Andy Garcia in The Godfather III (1990). Then the heart attack. Then that scene – ultimate acting – when his daughter gets shot.
Her last word: “Dad?” Not a statement. A question mark. What if she hadn’t even said that?
The silent scream in extreme grief is one of the most iconic and heart-wrenching scenes in the history of cinema. Yet, Al-Pacino didn’t win an Oscar for the Godfather. Marlon Brando gets one. Robert Di Nero gets too. But Al Pacino, nah!
Fathers don’t win like that.
It was 2 years later, in 1992, that Al Pacino wins an Oscar. A blind colonel, like any colonel in Pakistan. Hoo-ah! “Remember son, when in doubt, fuck.”
Oh! By the way, thank you for missing me. Not. Likewise. It was pleasure not meeting you. Yeah, yeah!
There are two parallel worlds. On one side is a father. Since the divorce, he is going in and out of courts. Adopting all the sane, peaceful, and legal means to get connected to her daughter. It helped for some time, but then the other party had better ways to follow. The illegal and corrupt ways.
It’s been 9 years since the father saw his daughter. In these 9 years, there are over 900 doucheags who said, “you will meet her soon. Sooner than soon. There is always that someone up in the sky…”
Hoo-ah! When in doubt…
The courts, which rarely are able to provide justice, provided injustice swiftly. The mother was able to get a passport for the minor, without the consent or the knowledge of the father. And flew abroad.
How beautiful is that? Like any Greek tragedy!
And honestly, meeting someone or not meeting someone – does that matter? Not really. The time passes and you finally hug death in eternity. How much such stories were in 250 BC? 500 AD? 750 AD? 12 century? Middle ages? Renaissance? Enlightenment? Industrial Revolution? Victorian Era? Romanticism? Any of those painful tragedies alive now. No. All dead. Dismissed.
Pains come with deadlines. You die; they die. Handle them with love. Nurture them. They stay loyal. They never leave. They never cheat.
Deep down you all know that the people who are corrupt are better. There is no other way apparently. They instill fear. They rule by fear. They know how to use the fear to kill your demons.
Consciousness and conscientiousness are nothing more than disadvantages with a good PR. The foresight on which you cherish is exactly the point where you lose the game of life.
The law of the land is based on lies and corruption. Here, you can either go to courts or keep on going to courts for justice – resulting in injustice. Or you can bribe the system. Lie. Cheat. And become the owner of things you don’t own.
But does it matter? Not really. You do what you can do. And the rest is absolute waste of neurons.
Just like any relation. Any word. Any promise. Any stare. Any hug. Any kiss. Absolute waste.
How many times do you wonder about the un-responded insults? How you wish, how cleanly and cruelly could you answer all the ugly words thrown at you? And how well do you know the answers? With examples? With words?
جواب حضرت نصیح کو ہم بھی کچھ دیتے
جو گفتگو کے طریقے سے گفتگو کرتے
But then, it ain’t worth it. Because the person on the other side of aisle ain’t worth it. At least not anymore.
So, let him / her die a hero. Afterall, it was an unpublished story. Let the villain be a hero and let the hero be a villain – or let all be the villains and antagonists so that the one – who doesn’t matter – may live in euphoria.
Remember, there are preferences. Some always want to be like “I left him / her.” Some wants to be like “I was deceived.” Some want to remember themselves miserable. Some want to believe they were cheated on. Some want to live in denial. And then some simply ctrl + z.
If a glimpse conclusions could have been seen at the beginning – or a mere sight of epilogue at the prologue – catastrophe of emotions among human affairs could have been avoided. But then, life is misery and without misery we don’t die. We must suffer before we are shown the hellfire. It’s a tragic comedy of existence.
For example, a glimpse of divorce at marriage. Both marriage and divorce are legal / halal. So, no. Let the orchestra be played in entirety. Let the filth be spread from the bedroom to the house to the relatives to the court. Let there be some fun for the rest of the jerking crap of the world.
Come to the more passionate, more natural, more promising, and more emotional side of the two humans. Yes, the haram side, which is actually more honest and natural.
Into each other. In love and in songs. In drives and in arms. Over time, the true poison seeped through sweats, getting mixed with the expensive scents and bringing up the true stink. The true beginning of the affair.
Only coming to know that the perfect other for the last two or three or four or even five years was a piece of crap. A waste. Years and emotions are not wasted as we grew with them, but they are definitely wasted on the wrong person. The one not deserving of it at all.
You ain’t deserving it either. You are part of the crap. Don’t imagine yourself a hero. Or heroine. Or ice.
It’s a two-way sword. If she’s stinky, so are you. If he’s ugly, so are you. If one is incompatible; well, both are. And realistically, no one’s compatible. There are compromises and transactional affairs. Give some, take some. Leave some.
All decaying organic matter as every other reptile. Same compost heap. All singing, all dancing, crap of the world.
The charming, the beautiful – but it’s the ending that matters the most. It’s the one that haunts you or relieves you. Let the other party throw all the trash over you. Let them die a hero. Let them be the better half. Let them be. Be.
Let it all vomit on your face.
Let all the accusations land on your lap.
Let all the stink be yours.
Let your stars carry all the faults.
Let you be the ugly one.
Let it be “okay”.
Don’t hit back. Let the insults land. Let the spit dry. Let the stink wash away. And snap. Gone. You feel nothing. Not even hate. Okay, a little hate maybe, but it shall die too. At least with you.
You don’t need to win every battle. You don’t need to argue every time. You don’t need to respond all the time. You don’t need to give a fuck about everything. Your fucks are limited. And important. Save them for worthy spreads ahead.
You may now kiss the bribe. Bride.
Now you may kiss the arse. Fucktards.