Author: Saki Nama

چن  کِتھاں  گُزاری آئی رات  وے

مینڈھا  جی  دلیلاں  دے  وات  وے

Dearest! where did you spend the night?

My heart may need proofs to calm down.

Every rendition of this couplet is sad because the meaning is sad and the whole scenario is as dark as the night when reasoning is trying to hurt. But it’s too old and outdated. The world doesn’t work this way anymore.

Modern world is of IT, Google, and online profiles on different platforms of every other person. Close Interactions started from MSN messengers to poking on Orkut and went ahead to chatrooms to one-on-one chats to Skype videocalls to today where run-time locations are known. What can you do if the insignificant other is insignificant not just metaphorically?

Modern world has modern problems too. Digital blackmailing. Actual or edited pictures and videos. The mistake, which never felt like a mistake, becomes a life threat. A picture or a video can become a scandal and then you are needed to accept it and heal the insignificant other. Neither you committed the mistake, nor you had the fun, yet you have to carry the baggage. It’s a modern world of enlightenment and evolution and you need to have an open skull.

In old times, an ex would have been an ex. A mistake would have been a mistake. Past would have been a forgotten past.

Today, an ex is a connected ex on social media. A mistake is not a mistake but a surprise to cherish. Past is revived whenever a chance is there.

More exes. More connections. More chances. More fun. Sometimes, there are two exes in a single location. Cousins, close neighborhoods, and joint-family system stuff.

And more rendezvous. Which are not rendezvous but carefully crafted plans where you are left out strategically. You don’t know that. You may never know. You may remain stupid who cannot connect the dots – like stars in a dark night.

Now the final point: What if you know?

Nothing changes. Misery may enhance. Your curse to fate and destination may get abusive. Your anger and frustration may hurt yourself. And… nothing else. It is all part of fate which is planned, and you are just left out. Sometimes, you may get to know things directly from the insignificant other when threat looms; like digital blackmailing or surfacing of an archived picture or something. Then you are needed to carry the luggage and deliver it safely with honor, because it is the honor at stake. Apparently. Ironically, the honor never even existed; only you were unaware.

Anyway.

Just when you were running domestic errands, the insignificant other may have been in another world, igniting the passion of past. Because you are too boring like an old salad and everyone deserves a different platter occasionally. Right? Absolutely.

Truthfully writing, there is no significant other. It’s an illusion of an idea that hides, cheats, and creates an impression of a perfect being. This idea failed right on its inception. You are your own castle to stand and to defend. You are your own honor. Your honor!

P.S. just in case, the ‘Insignificant Other’ is you.

Thank you!

When you get to know that the previous tragedy was way better than this current one, then you realize… you realize that… nothing. Nothing matters. Except tragedies.

There should be music. And dance. Yes, in tragedies.

Feeling nostalgic about the ex-tragedy is a tragedy in itself.

By the way, what’s not tragedy? You are a tragedy. Existence is a tragedy. Death is a tragedy too. That’s hypocrisy? And hypocrisy is a tragedy as well.

That’s all so tragic. Over and out!

Emotional meltdown. Disappointment. Disappointed. All kept under the carpet with a façade of all’s good.

All’s not good. Not since… let’s say since the first rhyme in the right ear.

The destination was defined. Step by step to catastrophe of self. To annihilation of the existence. Unbeing of being.

Then there is this need to share. To woe. To slander. To get a verdict from a friend that you are doing fine. Or an affirmation from a relative that you are too good. Or someone else to confirm that there’s no fault at your end.

The idea of shrinks. There was no need of them. Then the need came with consumerism. With too much to spare and spend, came the need of shrinks for validation of all the wrongdoings that you have committed.

Even you know that. You hide your bad deeds. Tell bad deeds of others. And the shrink keeps on stamping them. Approved. Dismissed. Move on. Be happy.

What is the purpose?

One of the finest ayahs – which comes as a reminder on my handheld daily at 9 am – in the Quran is:-

وَيْلٌۭ لِّكُلِّ هُمَزَةٍۢ لُّمَزَةٍ

Translation: Woe to every backbiter, slanderer.

Yet, you need another soul for validation. You need another slanderer to make your own faults look better. These are default settings of every human being. So, with the default needs came a product to be marketed with pretty good pricing: shrinks – psychologists and therapists.

Or you know too much. Already good to go. Handling your emotional meltdown all alone. Managing a decade of deep personal recession all alone. Without a need for a slanderer’s ear.

You can write. You can whisper. You can talk to yourself. You can talk to God – depends on the belief system you have updated inside. Your inside person will tell you better. Your own faults won’t be kept under the carpet. Your inside person will not forgive you for your sins. That person won’t let you sleep with all your wealth. You will be dependent on antidepressants and sleeping pills in a cozy expensive bed. Or you will have to bear insomnia.

Insomnias are also unexplainable. You are awake even when asleep and are asleep even when working without committing errors. Two worlds in parallel move together in insomnia and both exists. Only one is physically painful and the other one emotionally. Hence, meltdown.

Unlocks a phone and tap tap and an email is read or a text is sent and back to a small episode of sleep and later the day you see a new email but it’s open already or a sent text which you don’t remember and then your narrator self talks to Tyler Durden and things prove to be as messy as expected. Reminds me of Messi.

We are all Jack’s narration. We all have a Durden inside. You can mourn or moan. Depends on the Durden you are feeding.

Even if you have no faults and you are at the receiving end – situation remains same. Pills are needed and then they don’t work and then more pills are needed.

A shrink will make you sleep better by killing your own narrations. A complete market exists for that. Your inner person won’t let you sleep but a shrink will.

But sometimes – after months – you are pinched too hard. And then you spread venom through your tongue and burn the souls around you who were busy burning you all the time. You don’t need an ear of a human to bicker. You prefer a crowd and after all it’s better.

So much better. No slandering. No woe. Job well done. However, things and events are not sequential. It’s the second worst phase and it’s not ending. After all it’s about all the bad choices. A never ending punishment. It’s not like a 14-year or death sentence because both ends.

The trial is not even explainable. Ironically, all the characters are dependent on the protagonist – one way or the other. Even those characters who live far apart but the roles are so deeply defined that antagonists have taken the story to another level. Protagonist is the antagonist now. Not invited anymore anywhere except when needed.

Still unexplainable. Too confusing.
Bad to worse to worst. Disappointing.

Now that’s the therapy. That’s that. Too relieving. Isn’t it? Who needs another shrink – paid or unpaid – for this? Not His Highness.

Bad decisions define us. Pains define us. The words that are decorated with blood don’t come out of the stars in heaven. They come out from the inferno of heart where a fire burns all the time.

So let that be. To be. Not ‘not to be’.

All rise! And pray! “Those who keep the flames high – may peace be upon them too“. Amen!

Session dismissed. You may pay at the counter.

No one can know what it is to be you.
No one can know what it is to be me. To me.
How hard is it? How bad? How tough? How rough?

Can there be happiness? Eternal sunshine? Perpetual peace? Silence?

We are defined by the choices we make. And the choices we let go. Both. I wonder what the un-opted choices would have brought? Must be better. After all, you know you make the worst of the decisions.

How can you know this one is going to be the best one when you don’t even know the remaining options?

How can you choose when you have only one life? How can you evaluate the two when you are one? How can this all work, with all the blame falling on you? On us. On me. The dispensable!

This is how it is but it’s wrong. Would you do it again? Yes. You are going fine. But people don’t really mean yes. Never do.

You are not asked before life. But you can’t take one. Not even your own. The absolute slavery defines you. You can be conceived in a pit or a bed of roses but you ain’t the choice. You never were.

Have you wondered why suicide is not allowed? Because it is pleasurable. Just like all the sins in and around alcohol and sex. Banned. Because suicide is next to ecstasy. A final ride up in the air. A never ending ride.

Imagine your wrist. A cut. Fine one. And blood gushing out. Beat by beat. Gradually slowing down the flow. Along with the rhythm of the heart. Dhumb dhumb. Snoozing out. Zooming out. Eyes seeing the other side of the coded world. Everything decrypting right in front of you. And it all shines on. Like the moon. Like the star. Like the sun. Sorry Lennon!

How dare you think to get out of your enslaved body? How dare you think to get out of pain? Freedom is banned.

Once a prophet asked God that he wants the whole prophethood lineage through him until the last prophet. God accepted. This is a divine acceptance of dynastic rule. Or monarchy. Yet, you can’t… I know… You know… Resist.

Even when the greatest of prophets knew a lot, and had direct contact with the God, they couldn’t resist. Musa couldn’t resist his questions. Khizr couldn’t bear Musa. The two great men had to part ways because the two were incompatible. But we – the imperfect ones – are not allowed to part ways. We are blamed. Judged. Stoned. Punished. Labeled for life.

I am Musa. I can’t bear myself. That’s the whole point.

How bad it is? How worse could it be?

Sometimes you connect the dots backwards. Reverse engineering. Going reverse in mind and yet there is no apparent contingency choice. Until or unless you go backwards in time so deep that the Butterfly Effect happens and you cut your own umbilical cord inside your mother.

After all, you cut your umbilical cord all the time. Only that you just don’t die because you are not allowed to die by choice.

Do you know what hospice is? Do know. There are ways to reduce pain without cutting the wire. But I do believe that concept from ‘You Don’t Know Jack”. There must be a choice. At least when the pain is unbearable and there is no hope ahead. The hospice system should enhance for all age groups.

Isn’t it too frustrating? Let’s cut the cord for now. There are times when we all wish there was no time. No existence. No existential crises.

And no words.

First IV in life. The world is different from the other side. But not bad.

Prick. Wrong prick. Prick. Tapes. Fluids going inside making your life better with one drop at a time.

Old ones. Young ones. Very young ones. The very young ones make you angry. Question. Question the whole process of SOPs since evaluation until you realize oh! This is all random. Just randomly random messed up shit of the world.

Fused brain. Fractured leg. A pipe going inside from nose to stomach. A pipe coming out from bladder to genitals to the urine bag.

Oh! His Highness had a bad throat. Very bad. Kinda choking the pipes with a swollen tonsil. The problem with a bad throat is not the bad throat itself but the curls of smoke that still come out. Very sad.

Not bad.

Some patients just break your heart. So young and so messed up. Clueless trigger somewhere inside. Imagine a 16 year old with a bad brain. And then compare. No major problem till now. Not even now.

Empathy. Empathy with a needle is the road to awe. Be it on a hospital bed. Be it on a green belt. Empathy!

And those who prick. Those who prick must prick your heart too. Otherwise it hurts more.

Happy. To be happy is a compulsory subject. To be hopeful is compulsory too. To lose patience is optional with low scoring probability.

But to be happy is compulsory. Even if you are not happy. Even if you are suffering. Because suffering is life. Both happiness and suffering are comparative.

Everything is comparative. Health. Wealth. Pain. Gain.

On Instagram, everyone is happier than you. No. Just wait and let the system fall. Delete pictures. Delete. Delete. Delete.

In real life, everyone is more composed. No. Touch the wrong cords and you will hear sad songs. Sadder. Saddest. Like Marla. She had testicular cancer.

Make happiness compulsory even when you are unhappy. Walk around a hospital. Public hospital. Random corridors. People running cluelessly here and there to get the right directions finally to the vein of their loved one. Visit an ICU or CCU. Or a ward. Comparatively, you are very fine.

Dialysis patients have to get their dialysis done twice or thrice a week. Forever. Till death in most cases. Comparatively, your kidneys are very happy.

Or visit an orphanage. A mental hospital. Or a darbaar with tens of people lying around. Or a road with green belts and people sleeping on them and dreaming about cars and big homes.

Even dreams are comparative. I get bad ones. Always bad ones. Struggling so hard to run and chase and be on time and getting frustrated and tired.

Even life after death is comparative. Better than those. Layers. Hierarchy of heavens and hells. 70 times of this. 3 times of that.

Or you can switch off the television altogether.

Be happy. Even when you are unhappy. Comparatively, you are finer than others. Way finer than the majority. And you know that already.

Don’t be a Jack with breast cancer and Marla with testicular cancer when things are not that sequential.

Suffering is optional. Happiness is compulsory.