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A military plane is flying. Late at night. Carrying 2 lieutenant colonels with 3 juniors. It crashes. Over a populated city. Over homes. Killing 13. Injuring many. Turning homes into ashes.

5 martyred.
13 dead.
12 wounded.

Media covers it. Everyone tells the names and ranks of the soldiers. No one mentions the names and jobs of the civilians. Bloody civilians!

Chief attends the funeral. Media covers it with pride. As if it’s a war. It is a war. For nationalism. Against nationalists.

‘Dushman ka mu torr dain gay!’
‘But there was no dushman up in the air.’
‘Traitor!’
‘Taak main betha tha…’

“Hey! You! Saki Nama! Bloody asshole, you didn’t speak last time, right?”

I don’t speak for those who are being spoken about by everyone sir.
I speak for mutilated dead bodies.
I speak for unidentified graves.
I speak for the farmers of Okara.
I speak for the poor against giant land mafias.
I speak for missing people.
I speak for minorities.
I speak for 444 encounters of Rao.

“You telling me you don’t give a fuck? You telling me that??”

I give selective fucks. Like you. I speak when I want to. And no, I don’t speak on every single dead body. It stinks.

“Bloody civilian!”

Bastard!

“Aye!”

5 martyred.
13 dead.
12 wounded.
220 million duffers!

People are very angry at Kulbhushan Yadav. The same people were not that angry at Raymond Davis.

People are very angry that PM didn’t mention Kulbhushan Yadav. The same people were not very angry when Shuja Pasha himself escorted Raymond Davis.

People were very angry when India claimed surgical strike on Pakistan. The same people were not that angry when America did the world famous surgical strike near capital of Pakistan.

You may live long and then die after years of health problems and hundreds of medicines.
You may die in a hospital after two or three surgeries.
You may die of battling cancer for five years.
You may die in a road accident.
You may die in an earthquake after being trapped under your own house for 10 days.
Or
You may die suddenly. Of heart attack. Or a bullet in your head. A young death… Least brutal of all but most mournful.

People shouldn’t be afraid of death. They should be afraid of life and afterlife. The only break and moment of peace will be in death only.

May your soul rest in peace.

I know this pain and living with it for many months now. But I hide it and I hide it very well.

Initially i mentioned it to some friends and peers, but no one has the eyes, heart, and aura which I have… because it is my pain. It is not because others are selfish but because it is my share of pain which I have to live with in this immense universe.

I am happy because I have seen others with different and insane kinds of pain too.

The biggest pain is the departure of a loved one. One is where there is no hope to meet again; at least not in this world. Then there is another kind of pain where there is hope but no chance. This latter one is ruthless… it gets inside until it reaches your bone marrow and then it turns out like a cancer.

I live in my own world. I live in my own abyss. I am victim of pain too, just like you. But my pain is cold blooded.

As they say about pain is that it should be felt. I not only feel my pain, but I feed it too. I nourish it. I will keep on nourishing it until one of us will die. 

This is a pain of a father living without his daughter. Both living in one city but forced to live apart due to the modern society we have developed in over 6,000 years.

Everyone is alone. So was she. She used to think about her loneliness. She loved to share her loneliness and misery with her friends and loved ones. Sometimes, she wondered how she was lonely if she had a lot of people to talk about her loneliness with.

This was not all. This is not all. She meant to be different from the others. She was not like most girls. She was not into fashion, jewelry, pearls, curves or attention. She was who she was. She meant to be unique.

And she was.

Her life had been defined… her gender by society and profession by her parents. She was a thinker. She used to think even in her profession. She was known to be a thinker among her friends. But she was lonely.

She remembers what went wrong. It was just a small incident of touch… a touch she didn’t allow, but she was never asked. She was touched where she didn’t feel comfortable.

With fire and fear in her eyes, she couldn’t stop him.

How could she stop him? He was a gentleman. A family member. He is still a gentleman and a family member. He resolves family issues. He is the one who is usually asked to recite naats during gatherings and performing ghussals in family funerals.

That gentleman took the basics of her life away. Her natural feelings from childhood to adolescence to teenage to a girl and to a loving wife; all were taken away. She was not normal. She was alone. She was deprived internally. Nothing had filled the emptiness inside.

How could she tell her newly married husband to stay away from this gentleman? How could she tell someone in the family that the gentleman is not a gentleman? The effects could be long and devastating. She was afraid. She was alone.

A boy came in her life after a year of marriage; a beautiful and healthy lad. That gentleman started to visit again more regularly. His gentleness was the same. She saw the animal. He saw a prey. A new and young prey. She was standing at the same place where she stood two decades back. Because she was alone.

She started to guard her boy like a lioness.

One day; an unfortunate day, her worst nightmare came true. She saw the same fire and fear in the eyes of her lad. That was it. That was enough to bring out the lioness in her.

Was she to blame? Her silence was to blame or her loneliness? Her fears were to blame or her nightmares?

She stabbed the gentleman. She stabbed him again and again and again… until she was done. Her husband was watching. Many relatives were present in the courtyard. They all saw. They all believed that she was wrong. She was mad. She smiled for the first time after her delivery. She laughed for the first time since who knows when.

Of course she was mad. Because she was the only one who knew the truth.

She doesn’t know where she is now. Sometimes she wakes up in a court; sometimes in a jail; sometimes in a ward.

But she doesn’t care because her other half is safe.

Is he?

Aren’t there more gentlemen around?

I wake up early in the morning, wash myself, have a forced breakfast (better than missing it as my doctor said), then a forced driving to reach office (better than being late or absent as my director said)… hence a day starts… a day which some people can only dream of.

On my 9 to 5 job, I spend time doing the least important things. Listening to rubbish supervisors about things we never do. One hour job surrounded within an eight hour day service. Then I question myself why I procrastinate? What else can I do?

I do read articles on internet on avoiding procrastination just to pass time. Liking and sharing procrastination on social media is a trend. It’s a highly-appreciated hypocrisy today.

Evening is the beautiful part of my day. I drive home and enjoy the sunset in the ugly smoke of traffic on busy roads. By the time I reach home, I am too exhausted to do anything… but then start the priorities of relations. Sometimes I do play football on a nearby ground, and sometimes on Xbox. Other times I do have commitments like appointment of my family members with doctors or dentists, visiting relatives, or something… something which requires driving through the road traffics to reach an un-wanted destination.

There is pursuit to reach destination after reaching destination… another of modern-day-internal-chaos.

By the time I reach bed, there is too much smoke in lungs through burning of both nicotine and oil which makes my head heavy. The same exact day is waiting for me which makes me over-excited to sleep well.

Weekend is another part of self struggle. On weekends, I over-enjoy myself by meeting friends, arguing with them on different macro-economic and political topics, life’s shits, cholesterol, lack of exercise, and similar interesting topics. By sleeping late on weekends, I make my Mondays very struggling. The struggle with eyes and head is so hard that I have to share something bad about Mondays on social media to get likes and similar feelings that we all had an awesome weekend.

But where was the “living” part. I don’t get it.

People say you earn “living” by having a good job, bank accounts, savings, good food, happy family, nice car, and house. But I didn’t meet any “living” standards the entire week, month or a year. How can I live with all these commitments around me?

So many commitments and so much procrastination.

Making excuses with friends and family members of hectic routine, while always finding something to pass time… thanks to smartphones and 3G.

Life is highly overrated. If this is the life, then we have to re-think and re-evaluate. Living is totally missing in these living standards. Saving holidays for future which never comes. Avoiding absents to avoid what? Always dreaming of holidays on peaceful mountains but never trying for peace. Always trying to buy expensive materials to impress all expect ourselves, but never trying to buy a cheap peaceful home in north. Why all our priorities are against living and for chaos? Why not internal peace?