Category: Fragments

He believed he was old enough to suffer anything more. He was too old for any new pain. His legs couldn’t bear his weight, how could he bear a new pain?

He was sure about God letting him go now because he prayed for the release too hard.

But things don’t happen that way. Neither God is free enough nor does He indulge Himself in human affairs that much.

Sometimes, God goes on a leave from earth for centuries. The last time He was here was when 2^nd World War ended after millions of deaths, rapes, and murders.

The old man faced more pains. He suffered for years in pain. Both spiritual and physical. And then he died of pain. His whole existence was defined by pain. And misery because it sustained for too long to be neglected by another bad word.

Before his last breadth, he had an epiphany. A blasphemous truth. After wasting his whole life in pain, he finally found the truth. As Shaw said, all great truths begin as blasphemies. But it was too late for the beginning as he himself was ending. Miserable.

So how does God work?

This question is unanswered. It will remain unanswered.

After thousands of years, both God and humans are unable to maintain a good relationship with each other. Both are at war against each other. But it is like a war of pawns against a King where pawns are brutally punished, and the King remains King forever.

Again, how does it work then?

It works in an unusual way. Live your life. Enjoy it the way you want; without hurting others. Fight your own battles yourself. Focus more on practical things rather than dua and prayers. Stop wasting your time on prayers if you cannot do anything practically. Work hard and hope for the best.

I know. Sometimes, you lay low. Or turn a side in bed. To think about your miseries and mishaps. And then you shed tears. On your own fate. And failures. And how brutally life turned out to be against you. Well, those are crocodile tears. You are your own misery. You did nothing. You just let anyone to walk over you over and over again.

Don’t be your own misery. Don’t pray when you cannot walk what you prayed for. Or, when you are done with your favorite sins, then ask for forgiveness. That’s somewhat sensible. That’s the best way as religions work that way too. Do and then ask for forgiveness.

Also remember, you are after all a human. Sins define you as much as virtue. You are not an angel. You are not a spirit. Or a robot. You are God. You a miscalculated algorithm of neurons who will sin. Shall sin. Must sin. “Father! I have sinned.”

Maintain your relationship with God when you are done with life. At least, give it a meaning. How can you manage a relationship with God when you had no experience of having a relationship with a person. With parents. With people. With friends. And that someone special. The one you want to touch – sin. The one you want to hug – sin. The won you want to kiss – sin. The one you want to drink with between the sheets for the hungover morning – sins.

Only then you will be ready for the ultimate relationship with the God. Who has made you in flesh. And blood. If. He has.

This is how it works. And it works ONLY this way.

Your life is your life. Your problems are your problems. Your pain is your pain. Your battle is your battle. Walk yourself. Fight yourself. Pray if you want to but prayers alone do nothing. The world doesn’t work that way. Some can kill thousands of children and women and can bomb the hospitals and can close their food rations for months and months… and nothing changes with 2 billion prayers. Are you getting the point?

If a tragedy strikes during the Eid days, all the remaining Eids become tragic afterwards, till death do them apart. Eid brings pain and nothing else afterwards. Be it Eid of Summers or Winters. It hurts.

A traffic warden died yesterday. On chand raat, while on duty. Had a three-year-old daughter who was taken away from him by his wife. He was supposed to meet her on Eid day. Apart from his cumbersome father’s role – and a professional duty – he was a son too. A brother too. And a father figure as he helped his mother raising her other children. And just when he settled his siblings, he departed. Was not allowed to settle his daughter. Was hit, crushed, and left. Died. Or murdered.

For you, it’s just a statistic. A number. A traffic warden. Not the traffic warden. A father. Not the father. A son. Not the son. A brother. Not the brother.  

Or it can be a newspaper story for you. A TV ticker for any news channel. Newspaper story will die in a day. Tickers will end in two days. And that would be that. A life gone by. Crushed and dusted.

A life that was already tragic for a father and his daughter, ended just like that. And nothing happened. No earthquake. No tsunami. No eclipse. No apocalypse.

The left ones will mourn every chand raat from now onwards. And every Eid too. That’s how some Eids are. Tragic. For a lot of people.  

And that’s how our lives are too. Just like a cat crossing a road and getting crushed by a vehicle. At random. With no dots to connect and with no loss to grieve except for the scratches on the bumper. Or maybe not a cat, as it sounds fancy. Maybe a dog.

There were some right here with us on last Eid. Their profiles, numbers, DPs, and memories are still here; but we can’t call or talk to them.

We had it like they will always be here. As we take everything for granted until terminal illness finds its ways.

Then there are so many others who left us in our small span of life. The number of funerals we are destined to attend are decreasing every passing year. Until our own funeral. Which doesn’t occur to us. Because we shall never die.

Eid is one occasion where we go to graveyards and say our salaam. Fateha can be a beautiful gift one can offer to the deceased ones. It travels from the land to the heavens even there is no… connection.

Broken people, broken dreams; some with health issues, some breeding cancer deep inside, and some just having another Eid but nothing like the previous one when that particular loved one was around and sitting right across the sofa. Where do they all go?

Where has the father gone? Where is the mother? Open the old cupboard and sniff and try to get that one shot of their scent. Long and slow breaths and you will travel through the times to a hug that you have been missing. Smell has a memory. We don’t realize it until the perfume is gone.

Where is the aunt? The uncle? And the old man who used to sit at the bus stop?

And where are the kids? Sons? Daughters? Eid Mubarik? The parents who lost their parenthood cannot be happy for a moment. They can be seen laughing and smiling but they are not those laughs and smiles. No Eid or happiness can bring back their joy of life ever again.

Only kids can have a happy Eid till they are carefree and clueless. But not all kids. Naru cannot have a happy Eid. His mother died in pursuit of his father who is missing… like other missing people… in the deep hell of this deep state.

So many holes. So many pains. Yet, we stand and embrace and hug each other like we are actually smiling with happiness. Maybe we do! After all, we are all born with hypocrisy. I know. Wrong word.

Some are financially weak, and Eid makes them even more vulnerable. The better-off offering more Eidi to the kids and the weak ones being exposed around. Happy Eid!

And those old folks who made us, and the old lady who kept us warm in her belly for nine months, and the sofa with a missing spot and the cupboard with the scent, and the bricks in the house, and the leaking tap in the bathroom… everything has a missing. Everything has a missing point.

Some of us run away from the bricks and the cupboards and the sofas as we don’t want to travel through time while time itself is sneaking away right through our hands like a fistful of desert sand.

Mirage! This is all a mirage. Tell me, how many years since 2018? I can count to 2. See! We are a missing point.

Anyway.

This is how we are supposed to carry on the burden of legacy and humankind. Evolution. Reproduction. Death. Decay. Without a choice. Without consent.

So, Eid Mubarik! With all the pains, nostalgia, time travels, and missing points. The Sofa across you is empty today. Your sofa will be empty tomorrow. And you think you two will meet afterwards when both the sofas will be empty and that’s the point where…just kidding. Let’s not open the pandora box today.

Not today, Zarathustra!

Remember those who are not with us anymore. Say a prayer for them.

And meet those who are with us. Show them how important they are for us and for this entire world.

May Allah be happy with us.

May people be unharmed by us.

There’s a version of me. That wants to melt. Not like a molten lava cake served to you. But like a smoke. A melting smoke. You won’t get it. It gradually flows towards the destined slope where it touches the shore of the ocean and enters indistinctness.

Without a want.

Without a need.

Without a consent.

There’s another version too. The one that is visible. Shallow. That never melts. That stands like a rock. Can’t melt like smoke. Only – once in a while – when lava inside gets intolerable, it explodes and shakes the earth around –  trembling while faking jolts – and is visibly melted in the sky with smoke. Making a point. Without a sound. Without any further jolts.  

In between the two resides the existential crises of being. The philosophy of life.

That’s cringy sometimes.

Adorable other times.

With that… comes… the art… of spreading… love… and… venom. And venomous love.

#JusticeForAmmar reminds the following rules of the world:

1. There is no karma. There never was. Except for some random incidents that happened randomly to make people believe otherwise. Else, million dead bodies don’t kill a single tyrant.

2. There’s only power and nothing else. Those who can exercise power, can exercise anything to attain it perpetually – from one generation to another.

3. Power doesn’t die with a person. It shifts from one generation to the next. People in power gather wealth for their generation. As their fathers did for them. Like Mughals ruled for at least 300 years with utmost glory. If you actually had to take power from someone, you had to annihilate the entire lineage.

4. A single death doesn’t matter. Even a million doesn’t matter. In the end, one of the two oppressors or tyrants wins. Not the oppressed. Hitler killed millions for his power in the name of glorifying a single race. Nothing matters in this game. By the way, Hitler is the person who gets more movies, novels, and books to his name than anyone else. Every year. Consistently.

5. Sometimes, the masses are fed up. They stand and retaliate. Even that doesn’t matter for the masses. When Louis XVI dragged people to hunger, people killed him and his royal family. Maximilian Robespierre stood tall with the revolution, only to be beheaded by the revolution itself. And the revolution ended up in the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte. It was just a journey from one tyrant to another. Nothing else.

Mind you, this is that French Revolution that is romanticized by everyone. Just like Foucault romanticized Iranian Revolution in the beginning only to end up in silence later.

6. Prophets came. And the ones we remember were themselves in the leading game of power. Had followers. Had wars. Had leadership roles. For a common person like you there was nothing except to follow the orders of the one in charge at that time. Or death awaits you. Or gallows of fire after death.

7. 144 were killed once. In daylight. In school. Telecasted live. What happened? An escape. Any karma? No. Any vengeance? Nothing. Don’t be an idiot. Have faith. Sure. It helps to keep going in dark tunnels. But even faith doesn’t matter in these bigger games except to keep masses silent and hopeful for as long as it can.

If 144 dead bodies couldn’t do anything, 1 won’t do anything either. Have faith. Sure. Have hope too. And when you recover, I pray you may neither have faith nor hope. Only vengeance matters. Be it for a couple of days. Because that’s the only dish that tastes better when dripping and cold.

P.S. I know that’s not the way I was back in the days. But the days also are not the way they were back in the days. If the days can change, thoughts can change. Nights can change. If pen won’t kill the thirst, something else will. Be it vengeance.

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے بند دریچوں میں
اپنے گھر کے اندھیرے میں
اپنے سسکتے خواب میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے چھپے رازوں میں
اپنے جنونی خیالوں میں
اپنے انجان امراض میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنی مسجد میں
اپنے مندر، کلیسا میں
ان سب کو ڈھانے میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے چھپے مسلک میں
اپنے مرتد سوالوں میں
اپنے مزہب کی سزاؤں میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنی محبت میں
اپنی نفرت میں
اپنی یک طرفہ آزمائش میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے رنگ میں
اپنی نسل میں
اپنی خسلت میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنی جزا میں
اپنی سزا میں
اپنی قضا میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
رخسار کو چھونے میں
ہاتھ کو تھامنے میں
گھائل ہونے میں

آپ سب کو یاد ہے
جب سدرہ المنتہیٰ تک آپ کو لایا گیا
لازوال حسن دکھایا گیا
اور پھر پٹخ کر زمیں پر مارا گیا
اور پھر پیغام نازل کروایا گیا
کہ آپ سب آزاد ہیں
آپ سب برباد ہیں

Still, the doubling of cigarette prices hurt the most. Rs.500 per pack. That was too personal.

By the way, you must have purchased expensive shoes with some fault. Some fine linen with issues. An expensive perfume with a milliliter less in it. A branded phone with error on unpacking. A broken screen of a gadget on delivery. Expired products and eatables.

Something. Anything.

But you will never find a pack of 20 cigarettes short of 1 or 2. You will never find a pack with a damaged cigarette. There is no error. Never. The packaging is clean as a whistle.

You can have a problem with a person for whom you purchased cigarettes, but not the cigarettes themselves. The choice of a person can be wrong. Tobacco, never.

Even then they had to tax the art of perfection. It’s like taxing Lionel Messi for playing football.

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.

Those who condemn violence would have condemned Bhagat Singh too. Like Gandhi. He didn’t approve of the revolutionaries.

Without violence, French Revolution wouldn’t have been possible. That same Revolution gave Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.

Napoleon too. But that’s deviation from the topic.

Maximilien Robespierre – known as the incorruptible – was known for his violence. Without his violence, French common people couldn’t have survived.

Che Guevara. Too cool. All his life was based on violent struggle. Apart from his motorcycle diaries.

And the list can go on and on.

Today, people condemn capital punishment. Even for mass murderers and rapists. I don’t. I’m too pro for capital punishment for murderers and rapists. The world is already overpopulated. Let’s get rid of the scums. At least.

A deviation. Again. No apologies.

But such are the scenarios that are too complicated to have an absolute answer. Because there is never an absolute answer.

Today, with social media stuff, and fragile activists with egos and their faces to be known as recipes for clickbait, and podcasts, and noise, and references to the outdated ideas as if they were the holy scriptures… too much…

Much ado about nothing. But their faces and feces that they spit from their mouths. For fame, name and the game.

These ones would have condemned Bhagat Singh, Che Guevara, and others. And we would have been deprived of the beautiful history of struggle of mankind that we have. At least something to cherish in the books. And nostalgia. For the places where we haven’t lived.

So, I can’t condemn. Can’t condemn everything. Because sometimes, when fires are flamed and bullets are fired, in the right direction, with the right aim, I love that. And that’s absolute.

It’s not Cillian as in Sicily. It’s Killian Murphy. As it’s Kylian Mbappe. That’s the pronunciation.

By the way it’s ‘pronounce’ as it is. But when it’s ‘pronunciation’, it’s proNUNciation. Not proNOUNciation. Because it’s not noun. It’s unnoun.

Like in desi ‘fees’ it’s already plural. ‘Feeses’ is not a word. It’s feces. But that’s another world altogether.

That’s the best His Highness could do. Thank goodness he’s not a teacher. Would be His Lowness.

Still want to learn English from the one who doesn’t even know the definitions of adverb and adsense? Or the types of tenses and the tensions they amass?

A story could be written on that particular lighter. A story could be written on each cigarette lit up by that lighter. Then on all the lighters. And all the cigarettes.

But that lighter was purple. Like the book: the color purple. Only one cigarette has been flames by that one. No. Two. Two cigarettes. At the same time with a small interval of time that was passing through the black hole.

And that’s that. No story could be written on that lighter. No more cigarettes to be ignited by this one. It’s going in the archives without any spark. Or flame. Or shadow. Or anyone to blame.

There’s no story.
No touch.
No tip.
No spark.
No tobacco.
Hence, no ash.
Nothing for this lighter.

Only history of an untold story.