Mud & Ashes

THE BURIAL

January 2026. The body was being laid in the grave. An overcrowded graveyard with fewer mourners for the wrapped lady. A 45-year-old Guriya. But there stood the father. Broken. Torn apart. Much older than yesterday.

And it was all a repeat telecast.

THE GOD.

My God. If cruelty had a blasphemous image.

“I’m not done yet,” the mighty voice echoed in his head and the chambers of his heart in 1990, something the father couldn’t understand. His heart was collapsing as he buried his 14-year-old son in the muddy graveyard. His picture still hanging right on the wall, above the TV, so he remembers his departure every single day. Nurturing the pain. The addiction.

Yes, it’s the same graveyard. Because it’s the same drama. Same theater. Same cast. Same story.

Before burying his 14-year-old son in 1990, the father had been here years earlier to bury the other one. Yes, they were twins. The one who didn’t live long introduced him to the theater where his life would keep playing its saddest melodies.

He was back in the graveyard in 1991 to bury the mother of the one he buried the previous year. The mother couldn’t survive the tragedy of the inexplicable death a year before, in which the boy who was getting ready for school suddenly couldn’t walk and gradually shut down within weeks. That was it.

And then the century passed. With martial law and without democracy. But God, up in the air, was as defiant as a great dictator. Never defeated.

And this time, he chose art. With just one tiny microorganism. Cancer.

Artistic. It spreads. Like a paintbrush. Inch by inch around the canvas. Spreading colors. Mostly red. Killing cells. Mostly white. Gradually snatching the soul out of a human.

Took 5 years to kill that guriya. Inch by inch. Around the kidney. Wrapping around the organs. The backbone. The liver. Intestines. Embracing her all around. ‘Till death do us part.’

Turning Mona Lisa into a dead body. Orchestrated by God. But God wasn’t alone. He had his man. The lawful husband who could bestow unlawful tragedies without breaking the law.

The husband ignored the first signs. He saw opportunities where she saw death. Shut the doctors. Bad surgeries. Rejected chemo and radiation. Fuck doctors. Let the tumor evolve. Pain. Pain. Only pain. Nah, no maid. The one who rarely liked her food started to prefer her cooking because the wedded-maid couldn’t cook anymore.

“I need to see a doctor for a strong painkiller…”

“Going to work, will take you in the evening…”

And then take her home. Ah yes, the husband was living in her home, which the father had gifted her. Yes, the same old man, getting older each day.

Remember The Metamorphosis by Kafka. That’s what cancer does to the human body. But not in one nightmare. It took around 1,825 nightmares for guriya. Because she wanted to live, laugh, and dance. She wanted to see her son graduate. She wanted to see a man out of him. But no, the 15-year-old is left to witness the story his mother lived without a mother.

Back to 1990. The father couldn’t understand ‘I’m not done yet,’ and so he was there, again and again. And again. Buried his mother there. Then his father. Then his son. Then another son. Then his wife. Then his brother. And now his daughter. A man living his entire life around this mud-covered theater.

THE MERCY.

May the soul rest in peace. If there’s a soul. And peace. And…

The Shadow of our own Darkness

On the flip side of the classes, poor people have higher birth rates than upper-middle and elite classes and they are in much larger numbers. Roughly half of the population is poor. That half is producing laborers and slaves for the top two classes.

A kid born here will serve a kid born there. No, let me rephrase it. Ten kids born here will serve one kid born there. Let me rephrase again. Ten kids born in Chungi Amar Sidhu will serve one kid in DHA after two decades.

Don’t empathize. Flip the coin again. These poor people are mentally pathetic. They just keep on producing more and more useless workforce with an idea that a number of children will be able to help them in the future. As selfish as parents of the elite class, but idiotically so.

Parenthood is selfishness – more on this later, but this idea that eight children will be able to bring eight times more in the future is a farce. In this nullah of sperms, some will be wiped out, some become addicts, and the rest will generate another generation of labor force, and the selfish parents will die exactly the same way they lived. Except, they will provide another generation of slaves to the bourgeoisie.

And this will never end. The poor are not only poor but dumb. The rich are dumb too, but they can afford to be dumb. The number of servant kids will keep on multiplying, and the rick kids will have battalions of their own. To be screwed. To be fired. To be deprived. To be rolled over.

Then we have a middle class. Once rising, now falling with the consistent militarized regimes one after another. This middle class produces educated battalions to serve another class. We call it service sector.

That other class is bureaucrats. They don’t have generational wealth in most cases, but they do make wealth by ‘101 ways to screw you’ as the Miss ASP said to the Doctor.

By the way, how ugly are the days for doctors since the new CM arrived? Handcuffed. Dismissed. Ridiculed. Deduction in salaries. More work hours. All that shit.

Recently, Punjab has passed a law that no more employees will be regularized. So, no more pensions. Gradually, the entire workforce will be of contract employees on lump-sum pays. This does not apply to bureaucrats (CSPs and PMSs). They’ll be regular and will keep on firing people on moods, mood-swings, and whims.

Now imagine a real case scenario. A female bureaucrat from a strong bureaucratic family with CM’s hand on her shoulder abusing her employees with words like ‘haramzaday’ and ‘kuttay kay bachay’ while shouting in their face. Imagine one of the employees getting a heart attack (himself a PMS officer – but PMS officers core duty is to swallow the spit of their CSP officers).

You know why she’s being able to do all that? Because she can terminate employees as the majority of the employees are not regular and will never be regular. And she does. On daily basis. They are destined to suffer.

Some will collapse. Just like the student of University of Lahore. But some of them cannot even think to collapse. They have mouths to feed. Folks and children at home. Rent and bills to be paid. So, okay. Being haramzada is fine.

These contract employees – engineers, data analysts, business graduates, economists, etc. – are not poor but the system is dragging them down. This is exactly the squeezed middle class. Serving the rich. They were born two or three decades ago to serve the ones born in GOR houses.

The world is cruel. But do you know who is the cruelest? Yes, that one. Followed by the parents – until we become the one and the dumb one. Because the cycle must continue.

Until we die and reach that promised stage of Sidrah-tul-Muntaha only to find that there’s another trial awaiting us to drag our wounded souls to eternal hell. Because there was no tree. And there was no promise. Only an illusion that smiled back at you in the dark park surrounded by the stars of the universe. To give you a message. That you, after all, were a jerk.

All lies. All promises. All blame on you. And you must suffer. Forever and ever.

The Gutter

The conception. The long nine months. The birth – the lone God-gesture only mothers can perform.

The nurturing of a new life. A woman giving her body, in return for heavenly pain, to become a mother. The prophetic transformation.

From womb to lap.

Day and night. Night and day.

The first word. The second.

Crawling.

The first step. The second.

The first smile. The laugh. The giggle.

The tooth.

The clap.

And then: death, right before her eyes. And an audience. A crowd. For the tragedy crafted by a thousand hands. Hand in hand.

The brand that couldn’t place a manhole. And the king who must reign. And the amendment. And the law. And the system. And the brothel. And the pimps. The mayor and the ministers. The secretaries and the bureaucrats. Thoo!

From cradle to grave. A snap.

And the mother: her trembling voice. Her falling heart. A dark night. And a gutter into eternity.

Such are the days, and such are the nights when nothing deserves attention. Not the 240 million. Not the billion-dollar scandals. Not the executive, not the legislature, not judiciary. Not the chief and his desires and his adamance to be the God.

Nothing.

I wish. I hope for an ending. With an earthquake or a flood. Whatever. But this may end. This world of men with greed for power and lust for bodies and chess of dead bodies – may end. And we all may have cancer. And the gods here and the God up there may finally be happy forever.

And ever.

Kill

To kill.

One of the first human instincts.

Then bury. The second instinct.

Then takeover the leftovers. Third instinct.

Then be remembered as a villain throughout the history. Not an instinct. It’s a lineage. A bloody lineage. The one who got killed, died. The one who killed, reproduced. Until, 8 billion.

8 billion galaxies. And so much deviation in the words. Like the galaxies themselves. Let’s all wish. For another Big Bang.

Choosing Death – Suicide

Suicide is a cowardly act. Until I, or someone very close to me, commits it.

We are the strong ones – men and women. We don’t fall. Not just because we don’t have an option to, but because we can’t. We are invincible. Unstoppable. And we roar like a tiger in our inner jungles – where we rule.

With materials around us, success on our badges, trophies in the cupboards, degrees in the drawers, and a sexy profile picture liked by hundreds – we are the warriors.

But we are the losers too and only we know that. Dancing and singing crap of the world. Our bank accounts. Vehicles driven by us. Tyler Durden…

Another CSP officer commits suicide only to tell you that CSS is not the end of the world. It can be the end of life too. But that’s not the point.

The point is: suicide – a beautiful way of leaving the world, but not the ideal one. I know.

Once upon a time, I wrote an application to my higher ups – a chain of CSP idiots. That application became a joke. The reference to the suicide of Bilal Pasha in that application became a laughter, and they all giggled, even made things harder for me for daring to question the ugly rotten system.

WhatsApp has ruined employment. Bosses keep a 24/7 tag on you. They text you anytime of the day and weekend, and they expect a swift response. They don’t care about you, your family, your mental health, your personal time. Nothing. They only care about the

And what does this 24/7 check achieve? Nothing. It’s like the civil secretariat of any province. Everyone is running, everywhere are meetings, and nothing is happening. That woman, yes, the one sitting on the bench in the shade of the British Raj’s tree, came from Rahim Yar Khan for creation of an OSD post of her dead husband. Yes, she took a loan to buy her ticket to Lahore. And yes, sahib ji is not available, and she may have to wait for eternity.

The applicant – His Highness, mind you – got reflected as “emotionally unstable being” on the ACR by the officer who was known as scum in the civil services among his own fraternity of scums.

Imagine how ugly and toxic these people with government provided car, petrol, chefs, servants, homes, electricity, etc. turn out to become in the end. For them, death of Bilal Pasha was nothing more than a joke – though they cried out loud on their social media and public gatherings.

Now come to civilians. Like you. Like me. And suicides that are young. Too young to be employed and gagged before burial.

Abdullah from Jamshoro committed suicide just like that 15-year-old boy from Chakwal – probably named Shaheer – who decided to depart this world on his own terms. Both were tired. Both had their own philosophies, which by any means were neither ordinary nor apologetic. Those words could be blasphemous for you, but they were sweet. They could be rebellious but peaceful. They had queries, anger, struggle, and nothingness. A void where they departed on their own terms.

I only wish they had lived longer so that they could’ve contributed in this rotten society by their words and poetry – and may have caused some damages for the betterment.

I don’t hate suicide. I can’t condemn it – even though it leaves painful relatives behind. Sometimes, the only cure is death. And committing it yourself is a victory over life in itself. Can’t condemn it. Can’t feel bad about it. Can’t empathize with it either.

How can you beat cancer? How can you beat leukemia? How to live forty years of your life on dialysis? Sclerosis. Parkinson’s. Arthritis. Weak heart. One leg.

Or.

The demons inside. Schizophrenia. Bipolar disorder. Nightmares. Anxiety. Trauma. Personality disorder. Insomnia. Mental masturbation. Blasphemy.

There are some glitches in humans that everyone around you knows that you don’t know. Like the beautiful souls with down syndrome. It’s fine.

Then there are some glitches inside that you know but others don’t. And sometimes, they get out of your hand. The rope slips under your skin, and your hands are torn, and the pain kills your guts, yet you can’t cry.

In such a scenario, there’s this option of death – by choice. Why to live on knees for decades than to die on your own terms? Why not?

[Half of the passage is deleted here. Apologies for that. I can’t make sense, and you can deliver verdicts instantly.]

I know. You disagree. I know nothing. You know everything. But let me try one more time with some old words of mine:

‘My Lord! You don’t know how much I’m going to love You and You cannot imagine the passionate sajdah that I will offer right on that moment of reunion… that sajdah which is better than a thousand nights of worship.

With all due respect my Lord! You cannot imagine it because you are not me.

Because you are not a human being

Because you are not in pain

Because you are not me, like I’m not You.

This is a relation between You and I

I ask,

I bear,

I cry,

I serve,

I accept,

I bleed,

I weep.

And You?

You give,

And forgive.

Just give me!

And forgive me!’

If that’s that, that’s fine. If that’s not that, then let me take what’s mine.

#SakiNama

You Complete Me

“You complete me.”

You may recall this iconic line from Jerry Maguire (1996), when Tom Cruise says it to Renee Zellweger. Second only to “you had me at hello” from that movie.

That was its romantic side: one person completing another, emotionally and spiritually.

This same iconic line returned with an impact when Joker (Heath Ledger) said it to Batman (Christian Bale) in The Dark Knight (2008) – in a completely opposite setting. A villain to a hero. A devil to a savior.

And so it is. In one way or the other: your best human and your worst enemy, both complete you. Equally. Your pain and your comfort. Your dreams and your nightmares. Your misery and your happiness. Your love and your hate.

The one who hugs you, and the one who pushes you over.

The one who holds you, and the one who lets you go.

Both complete you.

Urdu Literature – An Opinion

Words define us. Actions follow, but words lead.

Law, constitution, pledges, relationships, love, hate, marriage, divorce, disagreement, praise, criticism – are all words.

Since writing began, words have shaped the world. Religions, scriptures, myths, gospels, miracles – are all words.

Your social norms, acceptable behavior, ethos, pathos, logos, morality, absurdity, immorality – are all words. Words defining words through words to make sense of this chaos – that is life.

That is why literature is important. Literature defines you and everything around you. It impacts you even when you don’t read because someone around you is a reader. And the one who reads has a better way to express. Has a better way to impact and shape.

Now comes the recent post on ‘Maala’ by Nemrah Ahmed. Any writer / author – even if you disagree with him / her absolutely, is someone who can / could write. And that must be appreciated no matter what.

Nemrah Ahmed (read only Maala of hers) and Umera Ahmed (read 2-3 books of hers) are pretty much. A character who is as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes. Sexy. Fair. Religious (if not early on, then by the end for sure), to the point, rich, successful, and everything that a man wants to be, or a woman wants her man to be. A lead woman in their novels is also the same: beautiful, intelligent, fair, slim, religious, independent yet submissive, longing for the man mentioned above for about 500 pages.

Having said that, remember, this is not the downfall of our literature. There’s a huge fan following of these two, particularly women. They want such content. They want such TV dramas. They rarely read or watch anything different.

Urdu literature’s real collapse came much earlier.

Do you even know the story of Hafeez Jalandhari – the man who wrote our national anthem? A beautiful national anthem, no doubt. But he was an establishment’s writer and wrote their tunes. If not, then you need to read the story of Josh Malihabadi in this context who stood against him and the entire establishment throughout his life.

Jalandhari and Josh hated each other, and reasons were obvious. Jalandhari was director of the Writers’ Guild when Josh died in 1982. He ridiculed him by featuring an article in Nawa-i-waqt. He tried to defined Josh with following verse of Ghalib right after his death:

ہوئے مر کے ہم جو رسوا ہوئے کیوں نہ غرق دریا

نہ کبھی جنازہ اٹھتا نہ کہیں مزار ہوتا

That was the ridicule and hate fierce writers (true to their words) had to face from establishment’s writers in Pakistan.

But then came a group of writers that changed the entire landscape of literature.

In the 1980s, there was Qudratullah Shahab who wrote Shahab Nama – one of the most beloved books by civil servants / bureaucrats, an obvious reason why the suited-booted idiots have messed every single civil institution here.

He was Ayub Khan’s right-hand man when Fatima Jinnah was labeled as an Indian agent. He was there when political parties were banned, and water resources were compromised.

Just when he took the pen to write about himself, a new Shahab was born. The right man in all the wrong situations. A Sufi. A mystic. A divine Deputy Commissioner.

Shahab has authored a few books out of which Shahab Nama stands out because of its content and writing style. The “ninety” tale is dubious yet believed because he wrote it. He was one of those who schemed against Fatima Jinnah in support of Ayub Khan. He also supported martial law for a long time and made some constitutional damages as well. His books are in contrast to how he lived.

His book “Ya Khuda” (short stories) is a gem in Urdu literature.

But truth resists silence. The biggest supporters of status quo in Pakistan include Qudrat Ullah Shahab, as well as Ashfaq Ahmad and his entire gang of “Chad Yar Tehreek”.

Ashfaq Ahmad’s wisdom and teachings always brought peace of mind. He wrote nothing wrong. He never ignited anyone towards crime. But deep down, in all his words, he asked the reader to accept what is happening, wait for the promised future, and work on your own without indulging outside.

Ashfaq Ahmed, his wife Bano Qudsiya, and Mumtaz Mufti – they extensively wrote about Shahab. They made him larger than life. They all considered him their mentor. They even cut his toenails out of utmost respect.

Mumtaz Mufti differed though. He questioned religion, God, partition, everything; but even he didn’t question the state and the atrocities that were happening right there and then. He remained apolitical but was a swift supporter of asking questions, even blasphemous ones. He never asked to settle like the rest. His words focused on khudi. But sometimes, he also resonated words like: wait and have patience and one day Pakistan’s nod will be UN’s nod. The exact message of Ashfaq Ahmad.  

Among them, Mufti’s work in Urdu literature ranks exceptional. ‘Alipur Ka Aili’ and its sequel ‘Alakh Nagri’ are exceptionally beautifully written books. First part is about his own early life, and second part is about his spiritual journey with Ashfaq Ahmad and Shahab.

Mumtaz Mufti’s other books (Labbaik, Talash, Asmarain, etc.) are all worth reading. Jewel of Urdu literature.

They all lived in luxury and had government jobs. Government, Radio Pakistan, and PTV supported them. They kept the majority of the population numb with their words and the state propagated their books because they kept the readers calm. Look inward, not outward.

Remember: all of them were exceptional writers. Not undermining their writing skills. Their contribution to Urdu literature is unmatched and cannot be challenged. The contributions of Ashfaq Ahmed for PTV was extraordinary.

And what they did, didn’t die ever after their deaths. Came Baba Yahya Khan. His books are fine, and his way of writing is nice. However, his claims on having supernatural powers is something very annoying. In “Piya Rang Kala” he wrote:

جس کا نکاح میں پڑھا دوں نا تو اس کو طلاق ہوتی ہے اور پہلے سال ہی اولادِ نَرینہ عطا ہوتی ہے۔

He is considered as a baba gee and has a lot followers. Bano Qudsiya wrote about his books as “a good work of fiction”. Concluded it fine. But she never concluded like that for Shahab. Anyway.

Now flip the coin and you will find poor and untidy Manto. Always poor. In court. Being dragged for immorality. And what not. Stated tried to mute him. But even then, he kept on shining. And today, he is far more popular than any other Urdu writer ever. Because he was not a hypocrite. He wrote how he lived. He didn’t ask his readers to do anything different. Same goes for Krishan Chandar, Chughtai, Mushtaq Ahmed Yousufi, and Intezar Hussain.

By the way, in my view, Intezar Hussain is Urdu’s finest short story writer. Period.

The judgments I have passed can be mistaken. You can disagree with them and even criticize them. But I have read their works and words. I have read all the books of Ashfaq Ahmad, Bano Qudsiya, Mumtaz Mufti, Shahab, Ibn-e-Insha (excluding poetry), Prem Chand, Rahim Gul, Manto, and Patras Bukhari (because he wrote only one book).

I have also read Allama Rashid-ul-Khairi (his Subh-e-Zindagi, Sham-e-Zindagi, Shab-e-Zindagi, Noha-e-Zindagi, Fasana-e-Sayeed, Nala-e-Zaar), Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Ghulam Abbas, Krishan Chander, Naseem Hijazi (yes, around15-20 books), Tariq Ismaeil Saghir (even romanticized ‘Poonam’ in ‘Main Aik Jasoos Tha’), Abdul Haleem Sharar, Ibn-e-Safi, Shafeeq-ur-Rehman, Baba Yahya Khan, Rajindar Singh Bedi, Ismat Chughati and others.

Mustansar Hussain Tarar – read only one book: Raakh. That is one of the boldest books ever written on Pakistan. Fiction based on history. Events of 1971, Dhaka, military violence, etc. beautiful covered. If you people are into reading Urdu literature, you must read it. (Thank you again to the one who recommended it.)

Syed Imtiaz Ali Taj – his drama ‘ Anarkali’ is a must read for those who are into cringe dramas on our TV channels today. Small book to be read in a single day.

Ghulam Abbas – any book of his is a delightful read.

Ibn-e-Insha – to read travelogues, he’s best. But what he wrote is now outdated.

Writers should be taken as writers. Making them spiritual figurehead is not wise when they were not. Bulleh Shah, Bahu, Farid, etc. were spiritual poets. By the way, who can beat Bulleh Shah?

We are unlucky ones in Urdu literature. We had rebel poets like Habib Jalib, Bulleh Shah, Faiz, Josh, and some others. And rebel writers like Manto, Ismat Chughtai, Krishan Chander, and some others. Rest, we had the same genre of same writers. Same thing to written, read, and fed over and over again. To keep the mass population numb and dumb.

Both male and female writers wrote about patience. About accepting fate. About changing yourself and not the outer world. Big female writers romanticized ideas of misogyny and patriarchy indirectly if not directly – including Bano Qudsiya, Nemrah Ahmed, and Umera Ahmed.

Almost no one challenged the state. None dared to make a fictional story out of tragedies incurred by military, judges, etc. The whole Urdu literature is like a straight line.

That’s why Urdu reading was left long ago. May have read 4-5 books at max in last one decade.

With that, I rest my case. You cannot compare our literature with other literatures in the world. Leave the great classic writers aside, we don’t even have Gabriel Garcia Marquez of Colombia, Paulo Coelho of Brazil, or Milan Kundera of Czech. None of them is an English writer yet they are read all over the world because they wrote differently. They sided with the people, not the states. And they wrote what people actually felt or thought – unlike our ones who told the readers what to feel and think about.

Literature is an art. And art is responsibility.

You may disagree with every single word I wrote here. But unlearn validation. And seek invalidation.

Exhale!

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!”

Al-Pacino said that to Andy Garcia in The Godfather III (1990). Then the heart attack. Then that scene – ultimate acting – when his daughter gets shot.

Her last word: “Dad?” Not a statement. A question mark. What if she hadn’t even said that?

The silent scream in extreme grief is one of the most iconic and heart-wrenching scenes in the history of cinema. Yet, Al-Pacino didn’t win an Oscar for the Godfather. Marlon Brando gets one. Robert Di Nero gets too. But Al Pacino, nah!

Fathers don’t win like that.

It was 2 years later, in 1992, that Al Pacino wins an Oscar. A blind colonel, like any colonel in Pakistan. Hoo-ah! “Remember son, when in doubt, fuck.”

Oh! By the way, thank you for missing me. Not. Likewise. It was pleasure not meeting you. Yeah, yeah!

There are two parallel worlds. On one side is a father. Since the divorce, he is going in and out of courts. Adopting all the sane, peaceful, and legal means to get connected to her daughter. It helped for some time, but then the other party had better ways to follow. The illegal and corrupt ways.

It’s been 9 years since the father saw his daughter. In these 9 years, there are over 900 doucheags who said, “you will meet her soon. Sooner than soon. There is always that someone up in the sky…”

Hoo-ah! When in doubt…

The courts, which rarely are able to provide justice, provided injustice swiftly. The mother was able to get a passport for the minor, without the consent or the knowledge of the father. And flew abroad.

How beautiful is that? Like any Greek tragedy!

And honestly, meeting someone or not meeting someone – does that matter? Not really. The time passes and you finally hug death in eternity. How much such stories were in 250 BC? 500 AD? 750 AD? 12 century? Middle ages? Renaissance? Enlightenment? Industrial Revolution? Victorian Era? Romanticism? Any of those painful tragedies alive now. No. All dead. Dismissed.

Pains come with deadlines. You die; they die. Handle them with love. Nurture them. They stay loyal. They never leave. They never cheat.

Deep down you all know that the people who are corrupt are better. There is no other way apparently. They instill fear. They rule by fear. They know how to use the fear to kill your demons.

Consciousness and conscientiousness are nothing more than disadvantages with a good PR. The foresight on which you cherish is exactly the point where you lose the game of life.

The law of the land is based on lies and corruption. Here, you can either go to courts or keep on going to courts for justice – resulting in injustice. Or you can bribe the system. Lie. Cheat. And become the owner of things you don’t own.

But does it matter? Not really. You do what you can do. And the rest is absolute waste of neurons.

Just like any relation. Any word. Any promise. Any stare. Any hug. Any kiss. Absolute waste.

How many times do you wonder about the un-responded insults? How you wish, how cleanly and cruelly could you answer all the ugly words thrown at you? And how well do you know the answers? With examples? With words?

جواب حضرت نصیح کو ہم بھی کچھ دیتے

جو گفتگو کے طریقے سے گفتگو کرتے

But then, it ain’t worth it. Because the person on the other side of aisle ain’t worth it. At least not anymore.

So, let him / her die a hero. Afterall, it was an unpublished story. Let the villain be a hero and let the hero be a villain – or let all be the villains and antagonists so that the one – who doesn’t matter – may live in euphoria.

Remember, there are preferences. Some always want to be like “I left him / her.” Some wants to be like “I was deceived.” Some want to remember themselves miserable. Some want to believe they were cheated on. Some want to live in denial. And then some simply ctrl + z.

If a glimpse conclusions could have been seen at the beginning – or a mere sight of epilogue at the prologue – catastrophe of emotions among human affairs could have been avoided. But then, life is misery and without misery we don’t die. We must suffer before we are shown the hellfire. It’s a tragic comedy of existence.  

For example, a glimpse of divorce at marriage. Both marriage and divorce are legal / halal. So, no. Let the orchestra be played in entirety. Let the filth be spread from the bedroom to the house to the relatives to the court. Let there be some fun for the rest of the jerking crap of the world.

Come to the more passionate, more natural, more promising, and more emotional side of the two humans. Yes, the haram side, which is actually more honest and natural.

Into each other. In love and in songs. In drives and in arms. Over time, the true poison seeped through sweats, getting mixed with the expensive scents and bringing up the true stink. The true beginning of the affair. 

Only coming to know that the perfect other for the last two or three or four or even five years was a piece of crap. A waste. Years and emotions are not wasted as we grew with them, but they are definitely wasted on the wrong person. The one not deserving of it at all.

You ain’t deserving it either. You are part of the crap. Don’t imagine yourself a hero. Or heroine. Or ice.

It’s a two-way sword. If she’s stinky, so are you. If he’s ugly, so are you. If one is incompatible; well, both are. And realistically, no one’s compatible. There are compromises and transactional affairs. Give some, take some. Leave some.  

All decaying organic matter as every other reptile. Same compost heap. All singing, all dancing, crap of the world.

The charming, the beautiful – but it’s the ending that matters the most. It’s the one that haunts you or relieves you. Let the other party throw all the trash over you. Let them die a hero. Let them be the better half. Let them be. Be.

Let it all vomit on your face.

Let all the accusations land on your lap.

Let all the stink be yours.

Let your stars carry all the faults.

Let you be the ugly one.

Let it be “okay”.

Don’t hit back. Let the insults land. Let the spit dry. Let the stink wash away. And snap. Gone. You feel nothing. Not even hate. Okay, a little hate maybe, but it shall die too. At least with you.

You don’t need to win every battle. You don’t need to argue every time. You don’t need to respond all the time. You don’t need to give a fuck about everything. Your fucks are limited. And important. Save them for worthy spreads ahead.

You may now kiss the bribe. Bride.

Now you may kiss the arse. Fucktards.

Deaths Without Notice

Remember Bret Easton Ellis’s ‘America Psycho’? A novel written in 1991 and a movie made in 2002 with the same name starring Christian Bale. Patrick Bateman, the protagonist who was actually an antagonist, was into murders and executions – not mergers and acquisitions alone – and talked about killing a colleague but no one believed him.

Everyone was busy. Nobody cared. And city lives on even if some of the residents are missing all of a sudden. Nobody notices.

Two cases in recent times. Both from the media industry in Karachi, and both women.

An elderly woman dies in her apartment. Her body was found only after neighbors complained about the foul odor. Nobody checked on her in over a week. No friend. No relatives. No one panicked for her.

In the second case, a 32-year-old girl dies in her apartment. And she remained there for months. At least 6 months. Nobody checked on her. No one panicked for her. With over 700k followers on Instagram, she was as alone as a lone star in a moonless night with no one looking in the sky.

People have already talked about her cold-hearted family but what about others? Not a single friend? No one? Literally no one missed her. No one noticed that she wasn’t there anymore.

It is as if we are living in a post-apocalyptic era with zombies running around the city in the day. Yes, there is a war of views and likes, reels and images, wealth and material; but ultimately, we are all humans, and we all are vulnerable at least once a day. Yet, no one felt vulnerable for her. No one missed her.

Even if she was murdered or if there was any foul play of some sort – no one actually missed her presence anywhere. Not on social media. Not on some set. Not anywhere.

A friend of mine – an arsehole by definition – was out of contact last year for 24-hours. It was General Elections day in Feb 2024. Networks were off. Internet was not working. But I, with another friend of mine, panicked for that arsehole. We decided to check on to him at 1 am – with all the wild imaginations – only to find him alive.

By the way, how good was the landlord here. Sent multiple notices. Went to the court. Came to the apartment with the bailiff. Didn’t break into the apartment in all these months. Too nice to be…

Ayesha Khan was 77. Humaira Asghar was 32. One had children and one had parents – yet both didn’t matter for them. Both had a life in front of camera and limelight – yet their absence wasn’t noticed.

We all think as Bulleh Shah said, “I won’t die – someone else lies in the grave.”

Yes. For now. We feel sad for the gone ones once they are gone without realizing that they are switched-off, done and dusted from this world. It is us who are left to witness our death. Some of us will die exactly like that. Without making a ripple. And some will die in uglier circumstances. Terminal illness. Stuff like that.

Notice. Has been served.