Category: Fragments

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 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.

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.

“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.

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.

Nothing has changed. Maybe a little, but not really. I would insist on standing correctly.

I still wake up as a believer. A man of faith. With the passing of the day, the belief system transforms – evolution or devolution. It adopts more of atheism. By the night, its agnosticism that wins. And then, it starts all over again with the next sunrise.

If I had to choose one, I would choose none. Each has its own beauty.

Peek a little at any religion and it’s beautiful. See their books. Their Prophets – or non-Prophets. See their scriptures. Their religious places. I love religious places of all kinds. Mosque, Church, Temple, Gurdwara, Synagogue, etc. Each beautiful in its own way.

None of the religion says to mock. None say to hurt. None say to snatch. None say to rob, rape, abuse, murder, or anything bad. Yet, their competition never ends. And it would never end. And that’s not fine. Or maybe it is fine because over a billion people would die of hunger if there wasn’t any religion.

You can say every religion is beautiful. Or each one is detestable. The meaning would remain the same. Do you know how many bloody wars atheists and agnostics have fought throughout history?

Yes. Blame the people. Not religion. A convenient offering. Denied. Dismissed.

Anyway. I was talking about my belief system.

A beautiful religion to look forward to in the day. And nothing to look forward to by the night except your own self. Your own guts, your own imagination, your own power of will, your own lethargy, your own words, your own keyboard. Your own stubbornness not to make a dua for another year. Then another. Then…

That’s His Highness’s way of life. Nothing to be proud of.

From offering ownership to the Divine in the day and debating to get it back at noon and effectively attaining it back by the night. How bright?

Poetic! How can it be that you talk about religion, and you don’t rhyme?

Are you interested in space and cosmos? It’s consistent expansion. The more we know, the more we don’t know. The more we see, the more is yet to be seen. From masters of the universe, we have not even been able to manage ourselves as a single dot in space. These spheres, these stars, these planetary systems, the galaxies, the cosmos and what not.

The black holes – the most fascinating aspect of the universe; after the scattered moles of Marla. But you don’t know Marla. I know. If she lies up-side down, there’s an entire universe at your disposal. Fascinating.

Well, I don’t know much about space. Almost nothing. Except that it is the most interesting subject in our history. And that is also a source of making the point that ‘nothing really matters’ as in Bohemian Rhapsody. Or maybe, the point is the exact opposite. Even then, it doesn’t matter.

Anyway, back to where we were before the usual deviation. Everything is beautiful. Religion too. The God too. The whole scripture too. But not you.

Seeing a child with cancer. Or a mother dying of hunger. Or a war killing thousands of children just because they were born in the unfortunate land. Or any other tragedy. Like a person living on dialysis for the last ten years. Something. Anything. And then you believe that this can’t be divine work. This can’t be a work of art. This is too ruthless to be appreciated.

Art. We made art. Even out of tragedies that were destined from the Lord for the weakest of all creatures.

You may disagree. I disagree with myself too. Because I know nothing. I know less than anyone I know.

There is not a single subject that I know of. Master of none.

Yet, there is not a single subject which I don’t know. Master of all.

Because I am you.

And we are all like that. I am you. You are me. We are all the same – with the only exception that I am writing these words while you are reading your thoughts. Am I not the echo inside your body?

Am I not Zarathustra? Yours truly Zarathustra?

Other than that, we all have the same source of DNA. We all may be children of God. Or not. But we all deserve to live the way we want to live. And we all deserve to be respected. Yes, except those. Bloody idiots and duffers.

In the end, you are all trash cans for others. Dumpsters.

If you try not to be, you fail. You don’t meet expectations. You are selfish.

So, you are. The closest ones dump more. Some only dump and dump until you are unable to recycle the consistent flow. You stink then.

And then, the obvious fall: you fail.

You are not what you were supposed to be: a trash can.

What are the expectations? Who sets them? Why are all expectations centered around to be a trash can?

A better trash can is a better person to market. To show to the world. Your worth?

Close your lid.

Let the people slide.

Or roll somewhere far – maybe towards the trash truck and get rid of all the garbage.

Neither dump. Nor let anyone dump.

In the end, a trash can is never enough.

Step aside angel! I was just torn apart rib by rib by a mob and now I don’t intend to wait in a queue. I am here and I can’t go back so please let me talk at this heavenly door I wish I wouldn’t have seen. No, not for paradise. I don’t want that. I am here to plea. To talk to the Lord.

My Lord!

You know I was shopping for my children. My four children. One child takes nine months… you know that already. The youngest one is very young. The eldest one… pardon me but she is very young too. No one is mature enough to earn. And feed themselves. The bellies. Small bellies. You know these bellies burn with fire when they are empty for days? We fear that fire more than the promised one, my Lord!

I’m here to talk. My God! We have talked before. I remember. But now I won’t leave until I get the surety of my children to be taken care of.

No. I don’t intend to intend. I have seen countless children dead in rubbles. Crushed under their own homes. Hundreds of them are lifeless in ICUs. With pipes and drips going inside their tiny bodies and their lives drop by drop. Minute by…

I’m not here for heaven. I don’t want virgins or wine. I don’t even need all this. I just want security. I want one memorandum of understanding. One on one. And then you can drag me to wherever You wish.

Who is he staring at me?

“He’s the one who killed you, awaiting his entrance to the heaven.”

Standing on the door, he thought, even after death, he was at the wrong door. Again.

And then the heavenly door creaked with a thump…

ALL RISE! IN THE NAME OF…

Just another week of fight. Then finances will be all right. For one week at least. Another two weeks to make a complete circle of life. Before halting into another void.

The void. Where you exist and function and feel nothing. But you are not entirely numb either.

The void in itself isn’t bad. Afterwards, after entering the void, I can feel your pain and all the pain around the world and can translate it into the words I know badly.

You may have realized it or not, but tight spaces and pain bring a lot of imaginations. A lot of words. Every stranger is a walking afsana (short story). Every road is a road to eternity. Every story is a sad story. Everyone looks miserable.

And you can relate to the real world. The real, real world.

Like that lady who walks a kilometer daily to her bus stop to save rikshaw money. Do footpaths matter?

Or that sabzi wala who is going to drag his cart with shaking wheels throughout the day to make enough that would never be enough. Do quality of road matters to him?

Or that guy wearing a dirty shirt over his clean dress-shirt with a tie and shining shoes; and speeding his bike to work where he would be listening to insults almost the entire day. Does he matter if his bike slips, and he dies in an ugly accident with his blood making a new lane on the road?

Or that new girl in town who came with the love of her life only to be sold out here. Should she take bath and scrub the skin, or should she pass another zombie day as every day is the same day? How many times would she serve today? She wonders, who she would be opening up to tonight?

Or that man who is going to court today again. For over a year now. All his savings have gone in the gutter of laws and justice. But don’t feel bad for him. He’s going to court to lie again about the property that doesn’t belong to him. The misery would stand on the other side of the courtroom. I don’t know her. But does air conditioning matters in the courtroom?

And among all these miseries and routine tragedies are those sleeping on footpaths. High on dose. Drugged. Away from the falling meteors of the universe. We feel bad for them. They feel bad for us. For sure they sleep better than us. Like the laborers who sweat all day and have no home to go back to and just sleep wherever they can. Without a sleeping pill.

Or that new Deputy Secretary going to office on his official car – the car that belongs to people mentioned above – to pass another day with nodding and some quotable quotes. Too drugged from last night. Got some fresh weed and consumed more than routine. Now, he would need four cups of coffee – yes, coffee funded by the miserable lot of people – to at least be able to sit and nod and look like the smartest one in the room. By that way that room too is bearing operating costs being borne by the miserables mentioned and not mentioned above.

Now tell me, isn’t tightness beautifully sad? Hundred stories day after day. Walking novels. Running mysteries. Sleeping nightmares.

Sorry for all that. Just another week…