Category: Prosem

The Fall

Autumn descends.
The fall.
November falls.
December rises.
Less sunshine.
More coldness.
In talks. In walks.
In memories. In contact.
That’s usual because it’s outside.
There is another fall.
Beyond November and December.
A fall that’s inside.
And cannot be seen among the fallen leaves.
But can be felt underfoot while walking on them.
In a dark park.
In solitude.
The fall.
That never falls.
Never has a falling.
Even when Spring arrives.

Homelessness

I make homes.
I destroy homes too.
But I have my home.
My comfort zone.

And while sitting in my zone.
With all the accessories around me.
Mine. Defined by me. Me, defined by them.
Like your bed.
And the bedsheet.
And the attached bath.
And the hanging towel.
And the entire yours.
The entire you.
In the comfort zone.
It’s your home.

It’s your home.
It’s my home.
We own our homes.
This way or that, we own.
Taken for granted or snatched…
Owned.

So,
I have my home.
My comfort zone.
Mine, defined by me.
Me, defined by the furniture.
I feel homelessness.

I don’t feel homelessness for all those who sleep on footpaths.
No. Don’t take me wrong.
I don’t feel for homes in Gaza. They are already demolished.
Not for Iraq.
Or Yemen.
Or Syria.
Or Libya.
Or Ukraine.
Or the whole Africa.

I feel homelessness.
In my home.
In my comfort zone.
Around products, defined by me.
Around me, defined by my consumerism.
I feel homelessness.

Suicide

Welcome to the abyss!

Before we shall be released.

Or not. Who knows?

But welcome, nonetheless, my fellow human!

When I departed, I had a grin.

But when I witnessed my funeral, I saw harsh gazes.

Unusual inquiries and cruel remarks for me.

Although I simply cut my wrist. Not someone else’s.

I didn’t explode myself in the market.

I didn’t steal anyone’s possessions.

I had a kaleidoscope of images in my mind.

Projected onto my wrist.

I just wanted to release the blood.

From all the burdens of my heart.

Flowing inside and out.

Pulsating regularly.

Generating a series of signals.

To dismantle my brain.

I simply liberated myself.

But I regretted it the moment I saw my funeral.

My parents were blamed of their failure.

My relatives were informed of their lack of relation.

My friends were explaining me to those who already knew me.

And those who were supposed to handle my funeral religiously,

Were telling everyone how I will suffer in hell.

Forever. For eternity. By cutting my wrist.

Again and again. In a loop.

I knew that.

I read that.

موت کا منظر، مرنے کے بعد کیا ہو گا

That was the first time I questioned my existence.

Why be here to endure?

Here and hereafter?

Then neuron signals started to create frantic signals.

To the beautiful world.

And flowers.

And children.

And smiles.

And skies.

Except my wrist. That I desired to cut. And explore. And liberate.

And I did.

And endured even more.

With more accusations.

With more people envisioning me suffering.

With more people raising their hand but not offering peace for me through lips.

With more people pretending sorrow but feeling disgust for me.

Even death didn’t erase existence.

For once you exist. You exist. And suffer.

But my dear friend! I’m at some peace now.

You are a victim, like me, of your own thoughts.

A beautiful kaleidoscopic mind.

And people are not condemning you as they did me.

They are conversing. Trying to comprehend us.

And our agony of doing what we did.

Just to ourselves.

To relieve ourselves.

From ourselves.

For ourselves.

Even the bearded ones are softening their tone.

And leaving everything to us and our God.

Thank you, my dear friend.

And welcome aboard.

The Missing

She can live,

Without him.

Like she did before,

Without another him.

And the one,

Who is about to come.

No one dies,

When someone leaves.

Parents survive,

When the children grieve.

And children divide,

When the parents leave.

The affairs evolve,

And companions are swapped.

Life partners are changed,

While tracks in the park, remains the same.

With the autumn’s death of flowers,

The grass stays and prevails.

But deep within,

Within the empty homes,

in the dark nights,

In between the vessels around the heart,

There is an absent voice.

A void.

A missing whisper.

A missing heartbeat.

While the life walks and breathes.

Its finesse diminishes.

The moments it could have embraced,

Become the moments it could never attain.

Yet, no one dies.

Except a voice.

A whisper.

A beat.

And a void.

Scratch

Not an inch to claim.
Not a soul to name.
Not a breath to spare.
Not a footing to share.
The world revolves like a circus around.
You reach the destination, no memory to be found.
No people.
No place.
Because,
There’s not an inch to claim.
Some nod and get.
Some wink and achieve.
Some smile and have.
Some point and reach.
But, no. Not he.
Perhaps a random parking space.
Or a no-man’s place.
Or a library without a soul.
Or a pit with a deep hole.
To scream the guts out.
A complete mental breakdown.
So to resume the journey again.
To reach a destination without a memory to be found.

Sidrah-tul-Muntaha

Through ups and downs

Further down to pits

From highs and lows

Lower to the lowest

From the misery of existence

From the fear of oblivion

From the old-world order to the new

From sultanates to McDonaldization

The questions are same

The issues are same

The pains are same

The love is same

The departure is same

The idea of being is same

From shaking hand at hello to not letting it go at bye

With a fear in heart and a little shivering in spine

From the curls of a cigarette to dismissal after the last puff

Like a whole life of a tooth, from birth to decay

The journey is same

The travelers are insane

Some, an inch taller

Some, an inch shorter

That doesn’t matter in holding hands

A little awkwardness before an invention

A little tension before the new rise

Yet, no body to stop because it’s the time of a new idea

A new beginning

Like the first kiss, a dry one

In a humid weather to give way to a spring

To another journey of the same life

To another decade beyond the early decades of freedom

Towards the unknown, from the unknown

To the destination inside the womb of the grave

Coffins are same

Death is same

Beyond death is the unknown

Unknown is same

Who cares beyond death? Beyond unknown?

Perhaps we all do

In this journey

From known to the unknown

Towards a single destination

The ultimate dream of the promised land

Sidrah-tul-Muntaha

And beyond that is nothing

Consent

Consent. The big argument. Yet, we are thrown in this world without consent. To suffer without consent. Emotionally. Physically. Psychologically. Financially. Socially. Suffer. Till last breath. Without consent. And then there are threats after death. Threats of eternal suffering. But where is the consent? Would you have consented to born in this world, if asked? Have you seen a 3-year old crying with pain in a hospital? Have you seen severe pain on an innocent face? Have you imagined a sexually abused 5-year old being stitched? Have you seen kids born with major health issues? Heart surgery at the age of 2? Dialysis at 10? Have you seen someone finding Operation Theatre in a public hospital with a bleeding girl in hands? Have you seen a son taking his unconscious mother on his shoulders from ambulance to stretcher? Have you seen people taking dead body out of the emergency room? Suffering emotionally and hurt financially and broken potentially. Have you seen the ordeal of people praying outside the ICU or CCU? Have you observed people lined outside emergency counter in public hospitals, while their loved ones bleeding on an stretcher in scorching heat? Have you seen pain in the eys of your kid? Or your mother? Or your father? Or a stranger? Have you stared into such eyes? Have you seen a very familiar gaze – like of your mother – looking at you for one last time? Getting stranger by passing time? Dying with all the unfullfiled wishes? And… have you seen request / plea for death? Verbally / non-verbally? People consenting to die? People trying to die? Wishing to die? Praying to die? ‘You don’t know Jack’ perhaps. I do. And I agree with him. But not allowed. Misery is allowed, freedom isn’t. Painful beats are allowed, free absence isn’t. Killing is allowed too in certain cases, suicide isn’t. Suicide is also allowed in certain cases, if benefiting a king or a barren land or a gory war. However, there is no concept of consent in nature. Not at all. Nowhere. A tiger kills any animal he wishes. One has the power to drill his teeth while the other is only born to be eaten alive. Nothing is consented. Except pain and suffering. We want the weak ones to give consent to the powerful ones. Isn’t diat / qisas consent? From the miserable to the powerful? Freedom denied. Suffering legalized. Questions and questions. Without solutions. Right? Read again. There is no solution. Because there is no consent. Or you can denounce. Denounce everything. That exists and that doesn’t. Maybe then you will see a light at the end of this miserable tunnel of being. Or maybe that will lead to another tunnel. Who knows? Were neither asked nor told. Post Script: Schopenhauer believed that the only way to avoid suffering is not to be born at all. For him, death was the only way to peace. Nietzsche tilted from Schopenhauer’s philosophy and blamed suffering to religion. Like Marx. But Marx mentioned it as an ‘opium’ too to ease the pain for the masses. But this way or that way – you suffer without consent.

Mothers

Away from all these conspiracy theories reside our mothers.

The mothers who send their kids to schools even when they know they aren’t as safe as they were once.

Over a hundred mothers saw their little kids for the last time when they went to school on 16th December 2014.

There are mothers who are embracing the dead bodies of their young sons; in police uniform, military uniform, and also in no uniform; on a daily basis.

There are mothers who see their sons and daughters dying daily in the desperation of meeting the basics.

There are mothers who see their daughters suffering because of society, culture, misogyny, and patriarchy.

These mother get hurt daily.

Yet they never ceased the process of reproduction.

They cook hope in the breakfast and clean wounds at the dinner.

Perhaps they inherited this from our fearless mother Fatima Jinnah.

Why mothers in Palestine never stopped having kids? They are suffering since forever, yet they are populated as ever.

Because it is not about death.

It is about life.