Walli – In the Name of M. (Part-II)

It is about the pain which gave his words meaning. It is about Walli who writes in red ink. He writes and bleeds. He humanizes his pain, to decorate your bookshelves, which you put in the history section. 

It is about the pain which kills your organs gradually inside you, like cancer, but cancer is nothing; comparatively speaking. 

It is about cancer inside itself. Cancer has a chance. And cancer is inside you and is yours. You own it. It grows inside you like a child in a womb. 

How do you suffer chronologically? 

There is no chronology to Walli’s life. Lives actually. I have narrated fragments of his life in different eras. 

He drank the poisoned hemlock to be Socrates. 

He went astray once – not actually – and shouted Ana al-Haq to be Mansur. 

He rebelled once and his rebellion was so harsh that his own brain ate himself. He declared ‘God is dead’ to be Nietzsche. 

The world is Walli’s stage. An ugly stage, for experimental purposes. Sometimes a million die because of a bad experiment. 

And there is no chronology. How can a story be narrated when it has neither a beginning nor an end? 

For example, in the year 2014, on this very same day, the sun was embracing his skin like a usual April sunshine. She arrived around Zuhr and the journey of separation started. 

In the year 2015, it was exactly 246 days of separation between the two. 

In the year 2016, her 2nd birthday was celebrated in a family court. 

Since then, it’s a journey in a black hole. 

Is there a deadline?

The life, as we know it, is an illusion. The pains, the gains, the rewards, consequences; everything is an illusion. Tangible illusions. Perhaps your dreams, when you sleep, are the reality. You only wake up to sleep again. You work hard to sleep better. You get your health checked to have uninterrupted slumber. Sleep is the cause and dreams are the reward. Simple.  

But Walli hasn’t slept in ages. During his first birth around 470 BC, he was conscious before coming out to the world. He was ready to be delivered to the world of pain. A world with questions and no answers. Hence, experiments. Bad ones mostly, causing terror and havoc. 

What is love?

What if I tell you that your soul-mate – apparently – has said “I love you” to his/her ex more times than you? Will this objective information be useful? What if you haven’t heard “I love you” not even half the times of the ex? Does it matter? 

Where does your existence fall exactly?

And what if you have never said “I love you” to the person you love the most? 

Love is an illusion too. Delusion, to be accurate. Walli didn’t say “I love you” to the person he loved the most. He didn’t. Yet he is travelling. Coming again and again, in different shapes, in different times, to die, again and again. 

Drinking the poisoned hemlock. Rebelling to be killed. Writing to be blasphemous. Fighting with his own self. Getting defeated every time, to be resurrected again and again as victorious. 

One time, in 1974, he chose another path of rebellion. He wanted to take the kings by the collars to hang them. He roamed around with his sword to kill the rulers. The hunger he has always cherished. He went so far that he became incorruptible. The incorruptible Maximilien de Robespierre. And in standing corrected, he got executed. He was executing to get executed. He did. People don’t see that. They see history. Walli writes that. He sees the other way. 

Who is Walli actually?

Imagine a big war – like World War II – where bombs are being dropped from planes and you are lying in a field with an injured leg. And you look in the sky and think about the war and your potential death. You think about the person – who you have never met – for whom you have sacrificed your life. Your life. Your family.  Your children. For what? For a land which is going to bury you. That’s all.

So, where are you actually? One among the million dead soldiers. One of the soldiers lying in the field. Looking at the sky and absorbing the color blue, while painting the field red with his wounds. A no one. Mr. nobody. This is the part of history which no one writes. And this is Walli; but no one knows. 

And like Socrates, who smiled before taking the final sip, because he knew everything – before and after – was nothing more than a piece of crap. 

And like Nietzsche, who proclaimed that God – God forbid! – is not anymore, and you are Übermensch. Like Walli. 

Let the drums beat. Let the sand of the desert shiver with the coming army of Saladin. Let the hearts burst with fear. Let the swords rise high in the air to dissect. Dissect arms. Dissect bodies. Kill at will. For the Promised Land. But that doesn’t matter. Who wants to get into the Promised Land to die? The bar has two sides. Richard’s side and Saladin’s side. But it is exactly the same bar. And Walli doesn’t want to die in the field, looking at the sky, thinking of nothing. That will happen after 8 centuries. 

Here lies the final question for us. Why is he roaming around times and creating havoc everywhere? Because he has a reason. He was torn apart once. The system, the world, the people, the dots, the plays, the characters; everyone took from him his most valuable presence. His part. To whom he never said “I love you”. 

So, let it burn. Let the world burn. Turn everything into ashes. Because nothing exists; and what exists doesn’t matter.

For him, she is the world.

This is the part of history no one writes about.

But Walli is history himself. 

And that is all in the name of M. In the name of Maryam.

For him, the Promised Land has no promise and nothing to offer. Not to him at least. So, he has been enjoying. While sitting in the desert, he watched the giant approaching army. Drums were making a beautiful rhythm. A little rustle in the wind. A little vibration in the sand. With a chilled Coke can and a Dunhill, he has been having his time of rest. 

Now you must be wondering that there wasn’t Coke and Dunhill in 1187. Right. Doesn’t make sense. But you should be asking whether he was Saladin or Richard at that time. Well, none. He was sitting in the desert. With a Coke can. And a Dunhill. 

Makes sense? Doesn’t matter. 

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