Category: Walli

He’s John Doe.

Those who love John, love John.

Those who hate him, hate him.

Nothing can change this, except a rare epiphany that strikes in some minds that’s not even an epiphany but a junk spark.

Those who loved John, loved Jane too. His wife.

But when Jane took divorce, the lovers turned into haters.

Interestingly, the haters started to love Jane afterwards.

Are you getting it? It’s all about the topic of your interest. Or disinterest with interest. Right now, the topic is John.

Those, who love John, see their algorithm altered according to their love for John. They see more loving videos. More loving content. Everywhere. With music. With a little eroticism and goosebumps.

Similarly, the haters see their algorithm altered otherwise. They see more hating videos and more hating content all over their social media. With music. Less eroticism and no goosebumps at all.

Hence, love is being intensified as much as hate is being intensified. The two poles are poling apart. Further and further. The differences are becoming wider. Disagreements will turn into hate. And hate will turn into abuse. Then violence. Then another religion. Another sect. another nation. Another demand for another separate land in the name of freedom that will gag the residents sooner than they think.

The crux is: no one is ready to think otherwise. No one is ready to look beyond the newsfeed. No one is ready to view the alternate version. Everyone is becoming more intensified version of him/herself.

John can be anyone. Or anything. John can be a politician. A celebrity. A sports star. A speaker. A model. A religious podcaster. John can be your religion. Your patriotism. Your nationality. Your pain. Your misery. Your anything of any interest available in public domain.

Who is your God? Have you ever looked for other Gods? Shook hands with them? Had a tête-à-tête. Or a rendezvous? Random meetup in a mosque or a church? A temple or a tomb?

What is your religion? Ever dared to read some other religions? The similarities? What religion introduced all the major concepts of Abrahamic religions? Any coincidence? Any question? Any if and but you get in your brain that shivers your backbone?

What has your politician done? How is s/he so different? How is s/he so great? How did you become a blind follower of love or hate? Weren’t the greatest ones in the past known for the biggest blunders too? Those greatest ones died too early and couldn’t see what the aftereffects did to the generations to come.

Your piece of land, your country; any different than the rest? What’s so special about it, apart from you being born here? A random X and Y mess.

Your cyst. Your cancer. Your disability. Your inconsistent heartbeats. Are those specially yours too? Patriotically loved and owned?  

Your race. Your color. Your identity. You know you are the superior and chosen one. Yet, you also know deep down that you are the same decaying organic matter, and you were never superior. In fact, you were the child of a less god. You finally know.

Empathy.

Look on the other side. Travel the bridge. Or make one. See for yourself. See the one you hate. Talk to the other god. Sit in the strange temple. Listen to the liturgical music of Church. Listen to the ones you hate. Read the ones who are banned.

Billions came and billions went without an impact on this minor second of history of our interstellar. What matters is: NOTHING.

Walli have prayed a million times. To be rejected a million times. Of course, for his own good.

I object.

He travelled to that anciently modern city of underground railways and saw her and looked for her. And found her. She turned. She looked back. Just when he thought a million-and-one prayers have been heard after a million rejections, she talked back.

She turned and disowned. She told him that he doesn’t exist. He doesn’t matter.

Now tell me honestly, does that matter?

Absolutely NOT.

I object.

And he wished for one last wish so he may burn this whole interstellar into ashes for the history of NONE.

If you get the nerve of the universe, the way it operates and functions, you will know that Walli wasn’t insane. He was a bit odd at times – fine, all the time – but not insane.

He was there, passing through the Mall Road in 1866 when the foundation was being laid – just after a year of the Museum. He doesn’t remember what he was doing in that life. Maybe he was going to the court. He was a judge, yes – he was a judge. A lord. Or maybe he was fighting a case which ultimately led to the formulation of the Guardians and Wards Act of 1890.

You don’t know Walli at all.

Time was at his disposal throughout the times. You may not get it till you get the bending curve of the gravity that spreads through out the space making it stronger around the denser beings; but then everything adopts new rules just outside the giant black hole. For you. These are all just objects to mess your cleanest measurement tools, for example time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Simple. 60 seconds a minute. 60 minutes an hour. 24 hours a day. Simple. Clean and straight. But no.

Forget 1800s.

All of you cannot see 1990s again. Saddening, isn’t it? Some of you may not even had seen it at all. It was the last decade of evolution. A halt in 2000s. Devolution since 2010s.

You cannot imagine the beauty of 1980s.

You cannot ever witness what it was like in 1960s.

You cannot smell the flowers of 1910s.

You cannot understand the glimpse of her mole on her neck when she’d be angry, and her neck stretched a little upward… that was 1822. You cannot see that. Yet, Walli had the courtesy to travel through all these times and moments to be trapped in a single action that he didn’t commit but to become a slave of his own self for the generations to come. For another glimpse.

For a glimpse of a newborn girl, a decade back.

For a glimpse of the crawling baby, a year later.

For a hug, a year later.

For a long uninterrupted chat, a year later.

For a long stare, a year later.

For another crusade, a year later.

For the 3^rd temple of Jerusalem, a year later.

For the demolition of all the holy places all over the world, a year later.

For the first conquest of the one who was awaited by the massive crowds, a year later.

For the final revelation that it was a very harmful and bloody joke on you, a year later.

10 years it is. It is not. The time doesn’t run as linear as you think. It bends around the denser objects… like Walli. I wish I could explain but you got only five senses. Or six as you claim at times of being a complete waste of DNA.

What would be the 7^th sense? Or 8^th? Imagine. You cannot. Because you have only 5 senses and they will never let you think beyond them. Hence, you will never ever understand anything, except the joke that’s on all of you. Glamorous one.

Anyway, he saw that white structure coming out of the garden like trees making their own way. Upwards. It’s always upwards. Against gravity. Pillars were raised. Like nails on the land. The ceilings and the two halls were designed in the Victorian style with chandeliers in the halls. The Raj looked into the work, and they did their Victorian jobs really well.

Have you seen Bahawalpur Library? Nothing. Mentioned it for no reason.

Later in years, Walli saw that structure turning into nothing. Renamed. After Jinnah. And nothing more. Became a library of random books. Not a place worthy enough to be called a library.

But then this structure is too precious for Walli. He saw that from the womb. To this. From 1886 to 2024. The first draft of the law of the guardians and ward act was written around this structure, not inside. And just like knowing it for over a century, he couldn’t own it. Couldn’t give it a name. Orphan. Orphaned.

Ignore those irrelevant details.

Have you held a hand between the aisles of books? The hand, that must not be left ever again. I know you cannot relate to this part of human behavior – hint: devolution – when only one hand was supposed to be held forever. Walli’s case is different though. He had to live a number of times to hold different hands, but in the end, it was also for one hand that he wanted to hold one time before ending his journeys through irrelevant and parallel times.

You can also debate that there was never a time of holding one hand ever. Irrelevant debate.

Have you ever heard how wasteful time is in itself? Of all the creations, the most wasteful is this: time. A ridiculous concept that does not even exist. Anyway.

Let’s cut the story to today. Imagine, Walli sitting in Jinnah Library’s main hall in the year 2024 to write a brief history of M. It was all about M. Not the library, not the Victorian style, not the Raj, not the gravity, not the denser objects, not time travel, not even time… but M. Maryam.

In the name of M. You have been bestowed with fortune and the favor of the Lord. Yes, the Lord. Who gives. And takes. Makes you happy. And sad. Gives you reasons to be blasphemous. And then sends unreasonable crowd to burn you. Infidelity.

“I object.”

“Drag him back to his cell where his years will repeat in days.”

“I detest.”

“Send him to the infinite frames of time where the loops will punish him without killing him.”

“10 years, Lord.”

“Your Lord is not done yet.”

“A thousand crimes are forgiven after 10 years, Lord.”

“Your Lord shall not forgive. Not yet.”

“I object.”

“Your Lord doesn’t care.”

“That’s why you are not my Lord. Not today.”

Wait for another year. Because another year, is just a joke in the Divine Comedy of thy Lord.

Do you wonder when you see a wrist with multiple, shiny, parallel, horizontal scars? Blade Marks or wrist cuts. Maybe you don’t. Why don’t they look unattractive?

Behind every cut is a story. Obviously. Could be anything. Lost love. Breakup. Goodbye. Death. Depression. Something.

Mostly, it’s love. Lost love. About the one you think is the one until the one becomes ‘the one lost’ and so… blade marks. Idiotic. But a huge portion of literature and poetry has been all about love, which has its branches and breaches deeply rooted in lust; but we prefer to call it love.

Writing, talking, and thinking about lips. Gait. Voice. Hair. Complexion. Height. Eyes. No one’s talking about the intellectual capacity of the other one or the conversations that talk beyond the universe. Maybe because that is not what love is.

There’s no ‘one’. Neo was the last ‘one’. Next is… wait.

Anyway, back to the blade marks of the lady behind the counter. Offering ice cream. Wonder how she executed the whole process? To let the pain bleed. Leaving the body. Making tiny paths through the sink. Dumping. Into the gutter.

Yet, pain stays. Because it cannot be bled out. It needs to be kept inside. It needs to be nurtured. Taken care of. Because it stays.

109 billion have died so far in this world. Your ‘one and only’ can’t be from those 109 billion. ‘The one’ must be alive in your time zone to initiate a love affair, that usually starts from lust. You can call it crush. Or cuteness. Or whatever your level of being an idiot is.

Comes the current 8 billion. 4 billion is the other gender. Then 3.99 billion are those you never meet. In the end, it leaves around 50 or so options. Out of which, max 5 would consider you as a partner. And then comes the one. Can lead to divorce. Pretty strong chances. Or it can be a suffering prolonged till one of the two dies. As vowed.

What if you find love later in life? After marriage? Then what? Extramarital affair? For the one?

By the way, if you convert ‘the one’ with ‘another one’; you may score a century.


The algorithm that runs the systems has its errors. Some errors are as idiotic as poetry. There is no ‘one’. It’s an illusion. That’s fine though. People must have reasons to live and reasons to die. I have some. Cigarettes among them.

However, Walli has a major reason. The one in which he has specialized with comprehensively crafted research of 9 years. It will be 9 years this April. This pain starts with M. It’s all in the name of M. Remember that story?

When Socrates had to die to live forever.
When Masur Al Haj had to be insulted to be elevated forever.
When Nietzsche had to get mad to become enlightened.
When Hussain had to bleed to live for generations to come.
And when Dante had to leave for hell so he could write divine comedy.
You don’t remember? You don’t remember Walli?

What if the wrist is clean? No blade marks. No wound. Nothing. Only blue veins neatly passing through the system that generates those illusions? Does that mean no story? No blade marks, no pain? No.

Some bleed once. Some bleed twice. And some bleed forever. They nurture their pain and keep it near their heart as a sacred message for the heavens and hells together.

Have you wondered what if you die with these cuts? Don’t you care about the trauma you give to the pain? Don’t you want to keep it alive? Don’t you want to live by it? Stand by it? And finally, die by it?

Walli doesn’t have blade marks. But he has a story. That story starts with M. And it lives as it didn’t pass through the sink. It lives.

She lives.