If His Highness could relate to anyone, that would be Bahadur Shah Zafar. The last Mughal Emperor. Had Delhi Sultanate. Metaphorically. Was robbed of that too. Exiled. And died in Burma in 1862. Couldn’t even pay Ghalib enough.
But then, if Ghalib would have been paid enough, we wouldn’t have Deevan-e-Ghalib. His letters were all about pain, grief, poverty, and passing life on a day-to-day basis. With alcohol. Not without.
This reminds me of an actor who once said that you must become filthy rich before becoming a philosopher. That could be categorized as the most idiotic utterance of words. Socrates, Nietzsche Rousseau, Marx, and His Highness would be very offended.
Anyway. Deviation is an art.
Now here. From earning enough to managing life abroad easily to trying random restaurants randomly to driving around the city for hours without a reason to here. Now. Not day-to-day but month-to-month. By the end of each, its counting of days. To repeat the same.
Now imagine your whole life like that. Your 20s and 30s being spent that way, where you enjoy the first 10 days of the month to moaning in the last 10. Passing 10 out of 30 days in an upper middle to poor class in a loop. Now calculate this. Its around 7 years out of 20 spent in waiting for the cycle to end.
There is another cycle. For the uncircumcised gender. That too is monthly. You can relate to it through this if you cannot relate to it otherwise.
Now imagine another scenario. You have both. Both cycles each month. Too sad. That would be the most miserable character of the novel that I didn’t write yet. But I did try. Once.
A meeting was called in the dark around the fire. All the words were called. They were taught to assemble. To make a point that was supposed to be delivered in a single sentence. Words couldn’t gather well. New words were invented but it didn’t work either. A single sentence assembled into a fragment and into an essay and into a novella. The meeting lasted for months, yet it produced a disaster. A novella couldn’t deliver a message. Couldn’t make a point.
If it had one reader, the reader would have been more offended than the writer. How dare you write such a crap? Clap! Clap!
That’s the whole point. From day to day, from month to month, from year to year, from word to word; there is no point. There is only the mockery of existence that was bestowed without consent, yet consent was made a rule to be followed for the rest of the existence, yet – another yet – it was not bestowed enough to end the existence at will.
Relax! That wasn’t philosophy. One must become filthy rich before becoming an idiot.
