"How can you expect a man who's warm to understand a man who's cold?" - Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
How can you expect a man who has love to understand the barrenness of life; a body without a soul. A purpose without passion. To wake up each morning with depleting hope. When "living life" becomes an irony. Would a man who was not as marooned be able to understand and be an impartial judge and jury?
A trial must be fair and it would not be so in his case. He had considered revealing himself and bringing an end to all the madness that ensued.
But would that be fair?
No.
Should the future be held hostage by the past?
Maybe.
Was he in prison?
In a way he was. And he had been all his life. He thought that with an act of madness might break free from his confines.
So let the world go on by embroiled in love and its half-brother, hate. He was not part of that world and consequently beyond the jurisdiction of its laws of love and hate.
His actions were driven by madness derived from love but not love. And certainly not by hate. Sylvester had acquitted himself.
And so he asks and wonders:
" Where do we go from here?
How will I reconcile to a lifetime without you?
My mind is fogged. If there were one thing that I could forsake, would it be love?
- its joys and its eternal pain.
This deciet-amour has cost me more than my breath; I will never smile again."
The city still burned. He could smell that fiery serpent; hate. Hate slithered through the cluttered streets of the city, making its way into citizens' dwellings through crack, window, pipe, gutter and door. Leaving behind a bitter trail of venom, fatality and revenge. It spared no one. The poison was spreading, the pupils dillating and the tempratures were rising in the middle of the coldest winter. Life and its ironys; associated with living and death.
Sylvester had his eyes closed but he could see everything through his pulse as it beat faster than a dragonfly's wings. It only slowed down when he heard a faint knock on his door...
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The answer of sensitive souls to an insensitive society (2003)
In a dark corner of a tiny room lies Amjad on the bare floor. Only a beam of moonlight illuminates the room, or whatever is left of it. The walls are falling apart, piece-by-piece, brick by brick, just like the Mughal regime in India. The water pipes are leaking, revealing the perpetual cracks in the ceiling. The door is hardly a barrier, being held up by a series of cobwebs indicating it's seldom use and lack of visitors in Amjad's life.
Except, perhaps, for one man called Rungoo, who would visit him every fortnight to replenish Amjad's supply of heroine. He was oblivious to his surroundings and the state he was living in or maybe the state that he was dieing in. He was oblivious because his mind was not in his head, in fact it was not even in the room.
It was amazing that how even a pinch of white powder could take him far away, further than America. He would bend over a scrap of foil, light a match, and then using a half-cut straw suck in sharply as the white dust disappeared. And then he would sit back and relax and watch the world float by. A single word spoken would sound like a faint echo. He would feel no pain. He would feel no feelings. He would continue this activity for another year.
Many fortnights later Amjad sits and stares at the door patched up by cobwebs. He is waiting for Rungoo's next visit, who is now his only acquaintance, his only friend. At least the drug dealer was honest in his dealings.
Amjad closes his eyes and opens his mind to go back, years back to the time when he had many friends and none of them were drug dealers. None of them were honest either. Amjad could still remember them discussing what they would do when they all would grow up: Run a business, cure patients, provide justice and much more. Taking and getting addicted to drugs was not one of them.
Amjad is not living the life he had dreamed of in his childhood. Things have not turned out the way he had planned them. This was not the life he had hoped and worked for. He had felt weak when he was betrayed by the insensitive society. Now he enervates even more with the very air he breathes, every particle that he inhales, every white particle that is. He had hoped for opulence in his schooldays but now he was facing the worst of indigence.
Amjad had completed his education when his father and mother both were alive. He had been a top student all his life. Coming from humble origins, Amjad had worked night and day to change his stars, to make the wheel of fortune spin his way. And he had been well on his way had it not been for the rules of society. Rules that make the world go round and rules that made the wheel of fortune spin away from Amjad over the horizon never to be seen again, not even in his dreams.
Amjad realized that being hardworking, holding a respectable degree and possessing an enviable Curriculum Vitae were not the means that would enable him to change his stars, that could take him to America. There were other things, other more important means. Means like powerful and influential relatives, social status, the weight of your wallet and the list could go on and on...
Degrees that were bought were considered to be more authentic than degrees that had bene rightfully earned because anybody could work hard but not everybody could pay hard cash. He could have handled all that. What he could not bear was the fact that nobody in Lahore would want to work under a talented Christian. Amjad Jacob was another vitim of discrimination, he was just another 'choora' of the society.
Amjad's parents were dreaming of grandchildren when he had graduated. They saw neither job nor wife as these blessings were not to be a part of Amjad's fate. He loved life when he had started; all races and all creeds. Now he was a mindless misanthrope. Hating the very sound created by human feet, except maybe the sound created by Rungoo's oversized, hairy and blistered feet.
Amjad's parents could not bear to see the dejected state of their son's life. 'Junior choora' his father would say to himself, remembering the hard times he had to face. At least he had achieved surviving in the society. They both passed away after seeing their son perpetually having all doors closed to him.
Amjad's battered ship of life had lost the only buoys in its vicinity and it hit the iceberg when Amjad met Rungoo. Amjad started sinking and now he has lost everything to heroine.
Rungoo is late again as Amjad waits in his dilapidated apartment located in the red-light district of Lahore. The apartment is an accurate description of Amjad's life. It is a work of art, the potential is there but it is left to rot; he is left to rot. "He should be here any second with some heroine" Amjad calms himself. Some heroine for Junior choora.
Life had lost meaning for him just like it does for a suicide bomber. Amjad had thought about that, his face next to the picture of an injured building. But that was just one of the many thoughts that came to him as he entered his utopia while staring through the thick white smoke.
There are many addicts in Lahore. Amjad is just one of them, his is just one story. Like him there are many. There are many sensitive souls in this insensitive society.
Except, perhaps, for one man called Rungoo, who would visit him every fortnight to replenish Amjad's supply of heroine. He was oblivious to his surroundings and the state he was living in or maybe the state that he was dieing in. He was oblivious because his mind was not in his head, in fact it was not even in the room.
It was amazing that how even a pinch of white powder could take him far away, further than America. He would bend over a scrap of foil, light a match, and then using a half-cut straw suck in sharply as the white dust disappeared. And then he would sit back and relax and watch the world float by. A single word spoken would sound like a faint echo. He would feel no pain. He would feel no feelings. He would continue this activity for another year.
Many fortnights later Amjad sits and stares at the door patched up by cobwebs. He is waiting for Rungoo's next visit, who is now his only acquaintance, his only friend. At least the drug dealer was honest in his dealings.
Amjad closes his eyes and opens his mind to go back, years back to the time when he had many friends and none of them were drug dealers. None of them were honest either. Amjad could still remember them discussing what they would do when they all would grow up: Run a business, cure patients, provide justice and much more. Taking and getting addicted to drugs was not one of them.
Amjad is not living the life he had dreamed of in his childhood. Things have not turned out the way he had planned them. This was not the life he had hoped and worked for. He had felt weak when he was betrayed by the insensitive society. Now he enervates even more with the very air he breathes, every particle that he inhales, every white particle that is. He had hoped for opulence in his schooldays but now he was facing the worst of indigence.
Amjad had completed his education when his father and mother both were alive. He had been a top student all his life. Coming from humble origins, Amjad had worked night and day to change his stars, to make the wheel of fortune spin his way. And he had been well on his way had it not been for the rules of society. Rules that make the world go round and rules that made the wheel of fortune spin away from Amjad over the horizon never to be seen again, not even in his dreams.
Amjad realized that being hardworking, holding a respectable degree and possessing an enviable Curriculum Vitae were not the means that would enable him to change his stars, that could take him to America. There were other things, other more important means. Means like powerful and influential relatives, social status, the weight of your wallet and the list could go on and on...
Degrees that were bought were considered to be more authentic than degrees that had bene rightfully earned because anybody could work hard but not everybody could pay hard cash. He could have handled all that. What he could not bear was the fact that nobody in Lahore would want to work under a talented Christian. Amjad Jacob was another vitim of discrimination, he was just another 'choora' of the society.
Amjad's parents were dreaming of grandchildren when he had graduated. They saw neither job nor wife as these blessings were not to be a part of Amjad's fate. He loved life when he had started; all races and all creeds. Now he was a mindless misanthrope. Hating the very sound created by human feet, except maybe the sound created by Rungoo's oversized, hairy and blistered feet.
Amjad's parents could not bear to see the dejected state of their son's life. 'Junior choora' his father would say to himself, remembering the hard times he had to face. At least he had achieved surviving in the society. They both passed away after seeing their son perpetually having all doors closed to him.
Amjad's battered ship of life had lost the only buoys in its vicinity and it hit the iceberg when Amjad met Rungoo. Amjad started sinking and now he has lost everything to heroine.
Rungoo is late again as Amjad waits in his dilapidated apartment located in the red-light district of Lahore. The apartment is an accurate description of Amjad's life. It is a work of art, the potential is there but it is left to rot; he is left to rot. "He should be here any second with some heroine" Amjad calms himself. Some heroine for Junior choora.
Life had lost meaning for him just like it does for a suicide bomber. Amjad had thought about that, his face next to the picture of an injured building. But that was just one of the many thoughts that came to him as he entered his utopia while staring through the thick white smoke.
There are many addicts in Lahore. Amjad is just one of them, his is just one story. Like him there are many. There are many sensitive souls in this insensitive society.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Sattire Attire part XV - Troubled Minutes & Dark Thoughts part III
And so it had come to this. Blinded by rage, maddened by jealousy, distraught by the abandonment of all hope, Sylvester, the hero of this dramatic odyssey, had turned villian. Every morning he would wake up with his world and state in shambles, his mind racing faster than his emotions like a train being chased by a passenger that is unable to catch up. Each passing moment in conciousness was torture; he had to spread the chaos that was consuming him around him.
The silent rioter loitering in the dark was somber, calm and methodic for the first time in days. He walked at a brisk pace, with a presence of mind that enabled him to avoid the puddles left behind by the rain earlier in the day. The rain had cleansed the city. Apt for the deed at hand and a new begining.
The delicate fabric of society that inhabited this city was made up of numerous threads of various races and religions, each as ancient as the other. It was a tightly woven fabric in which the threads were all fading into a single colour, so much so that it would be hard to distinguish one from the other; the fabric had a shade of its own.
But (there is always a "But") the threads are mere metaphors and the fabric was actually made up of men. Men who have darkness in them and an animal lurking inside that is caged. And it waits for that cage to be unlocked; when all social barriers and customs are suspended. When there is chaos. There is an animal in all men. And one just has to pull at one string to undo the whole fabric and let the beast go loose.
Sylvester knew that Dmitri and Fate were not the same creed...
The fog thickened all around Sylvester and he stopped walking. This was it. This was the meeting place. The curtain of grey parted for another figure who approach Sylvester.
"Is the deed done?"
"It is done. And you? Have you taken care of your end?"
"Yes... In a few hours the city will take to the streets. By noon the society's elite and intellectuals will have been lynched by the mob. There will be a curfew by dusk and each neighbourhood will begin 'cleansing' itself."
Good. How will they reconcile with each other after their friends and families murder each other's? Is the notion of love thicker than blood? No. Nothing can be thicker than blood.
"Thank you my friend. I did not realize that it would come to this when we first met each other at the diner."
"Strange as it may seem, but it was your friend who wanted us to be acquainted with each other. I wonder why he was not part of this noble cause?"
"Who? Dmitri?" Sylvester hid the shock in his voice as fog hid his expression.
"Yes."
"Well we must not loiter around here any longer."
And as they turned their backs to each other, they disappeared into each other's past.
Sylvester's walk back wasn't as calm as his walk to the meeting.
"Dmitri's sure to know who's behind this. This idiot will surely boast his doings all over" He argued with himself. An apology was in order then?
"Apologize?! Are you mad? You fully well knew who you were offending and how much. It's not really an apology if before commiting the fault you are aware that you will have to apologize for it after. And the magnitude of it all! You are beyond pardon from mortals, you fool. Your only choice is to finish what you started."
Sylvester half thinking sheathed his bloody dagger and tossed it to the side, and he walked home with moisture in his eyes and mist in his head.
The silent rioter loitering in the dark was somber, calm and methodic for the first time in days. He walked at a brisk pace, with a presence of mind that enabled him to avoid the puddles left behind by the rain earlier in the day. The rain had cleansed the city. Apt for the deed at hand and a new begining.
The delicate fabric of society that inhabited this city was made up of numerous threads of various races and religions, each as ancient as the other. It was a tightly woven fabric in which the threads were all fading into a single colour, so much so that it would be hard to distinguish one from the other; the fabric had a shade of its own.
But (there is always a "But") the threads are mere metaphors and the fabric was actually made up of men. Men who have darkness in them and an animal lurking inside that is caged. And it waits for that cage to be unlocked; when all social barriers and customs are suspended. When there is chaos. There is an animal in all men. And one just has to pull at one string to undo the whole fabric and let the beast go loose.
Sylvester knew that Dmitri and Fate were not the same creed...
The fog thickened all around Sylvester and he stopped walking. This was it. This was the meeting place. The curtain of grey parted for another figure who approach Sylvester.
"Is the deed done?"
"It is done. And you? Have you taken care of your end?"
"Yes... In a few hours the city will take to the streets. By noon the society's elite and intellectuals will have been lynched by the mob. There will be a curfew by dusk and each neighbourhood will begin 'cleansing' itself."
Good. How will they reconcile with each other after their friends and families murder each other's? Is the notion of love thicker than blood? No. Nothing can be thicker than blood.
"Thank you my friend. I did not realize that it would come to this when we first met each other at the diner."
"Strange as it may seem, but it was your friend who wanted us to be acquainted with each other. I wonder why he was not part of this noble cause?"
"Who? Dmitri?" Sylvester hid the shock in his voice as fog hid his expression.
"Yes."
"Well we must not loiter around here any longer."
And as they turned their backs to each other, they disappeared into each other's past.
Sylvester's walk back wasn't as calm as his walk to the meeting.
"Dmitri's sure to know who's behind this. This idiot will surely boast his doings all over" He argued with himself. An apology was in order then?
"Apologize?! Are you mad? You fully well knew who you were offending and how much. It's not really an apology if before commiting the fault you are aware that you will have to apologize for it after. And the magnitude of it all! You are beyond pardon from mortals, you fool. Your only choice is to finish what you started."
Sylvester half thinking sheathed his bloody dagger and tossed it to the side, and he walked home with moisture in his eyes and mist in his head.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Sattire Attire - More?
There is a story that I have to tell,
A story is only a story if it doesn't end well,
Time is not a healer - truth be told,
Time is just the cost of getting old.
A story is only a story if it doesn't end well,
Time is not a healer - truth be told,
Time is just the cost of getting old.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Eat. Pray. Sing.
Pakistan today is not just the victim of the worst flood of the century, it is the victim of a flood of miseries. This nation of God-fearing, pious worshippers is faced with a fresh string of tragedies regularly. The cruel reality of irony could not point its finger and laugh any harder. A question is begging to be asked; why does God not answer their prayers? For even in their worst of times, they seek shelter from Him and beg for His mercy.
After great deliberation, I came to the natural conclusion of the fact that there is a language barrier; God does not speak Urdu. Which automatically leads us to the next conclusion; God speaks English and Arabic. One need only glance over indicators like the Human-Developement-Index, the Unemployment Rate, the GDP etc. of the English-speaking West and the Arabic-speaking Middle-East to be assured of the validity of the hypothesis. The statistics speak for themselves; a R-squared value in the high 60th percentiles if AnsweredPrayeres were regressed to these variables/indicators. Plead from your Lord in another tongue (and try to conceal your accent).
The obsession with religion reaches its peak in the matter of government-issued IDs and the category of 'Religion'. Being the drawing-room rebel that I am, I resolved to take a stab at this ludicrousness the next time I went to renew my passport. But being the drawing-room philosopher that I am, I was lost in my own thoughts and forgot to take the matter up when I recently got that bit of paperwork out of the way without filling out certain categories as I had planned to; "Religion: Pagan". But then again since I can speak English and since I just renewd my license to pray to God, I might as well make the most of it and ask of Him some big favours, comfortable in the knowledge that my requests will be heard and granted.
After great deliberation, I came to the natural conclusion of the fact that there is a language barrier; God does not speak Urdu. Which automatically leads us to the next conclusion; God speaks English and Arabic. One need only glance over indicators like the Human-Developement-Index, the Unemployment Rate, the GDP etc. of the English-speaking West and the Arabic-speaking Middle-East to be assured of the validity of the hypothesis. The statistics speak for themselves; a R-squared value in the high 60th percentiles if AnsweredPrayeres were regressed to these variables/indicators. Plead from your Lord in another tongue (and try to conceal your accent).
The obsession with religion reaches its peak in the matter of government-issued IDs and the category of 'Religion'. Being the drawing-room rebel that I am, I resolved to take a stab at this ludicrousness the next time I went to renew my passport. But being the drawing-room philosopher that I am, I was lost in my own thoughts and forgot to take the matter up when I recently got that bit of paperwork out of the way without filling out certain categories as I had planned to; "Religion: Pagan". But then again since I can speak English and since I just renewd my license to pray to God, I might as well make the most of it and ask of Him some big favours, comfortable in the knowledge that my requests will be heard and granted.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sattire Attire part XIV - Do or Dye (it red)
"Some ships are made of gold - goldships. Some ships are made of silver - silverships. But the best ships are made of friends - friendships." - Nonsense from Class IV
"We used to be best friends" Sylvester protested.
"But we ARE best friends! What has gotten into you?" Dmitri said,as if the current state of events were the usual.
"What's gotten into me?! It's YOU who is never here. It's YOU who is no where to be found. It's YOU who never tries to make contact or respond to any efforts of mine either" Sylvester kept his voice low, so as to not attract any attention but the message was clear.
"I think we both know what has changed between now and before..." Sylvester continued, eyeing Fate from over Dmitri's shoulder. Dmitri did not need to turn around to get the message. He understood the problem; Sylvester was jealous.
But he only understood half the problem. Yes, Sylvester was jealous but of whom? In Dmitri's mind everything was nice and dandy; his best friend was jealous of his better half. But in reality and in Sylvester's mind it was not so simple. Sylvester was torn because of the lack of attention his best friend was bestowing upon him and he was distraught because the girl of his dreams was now a girl he would never know amourously.
Sylvester would take a bullet for Dmitri and he quell a storm for Fate (or any endeavour which would involve perishing) but he only has one life to give. So when asked to do both at the same time, would he start questioning his beliefs? Who would he choose and who would he choose to lose?
He had decided,prior to entering the diner, walking up to Dmitri and pulling him aside for a talk, what he would do. He could start a war with his friend or he could start a war with himself. And now that he stood in front of Dmitri, with Fate visible from over his shoulder, his decision appeared to be clouded with doubt.
"What's going on? You look like you haven't slept a wink?" Dmitri enquired out of genuine concern and out of a genuine attempt at changing the subject. It settled well with Sylvester; he needed some more time to think and he actually had not slept well or at all over the past few days. "Yea.. I'm sorry... I'll catch you later"
"Why don't you come join us?"
"I really shouldn't. I need to go." And he left.
"We used to be best friends" Sylvester protested.
"But we ARE best friends! What has gotten into you?" Dmitri said,as if the current state of events were the usual.
"What's gotten into me?! It's YOU who is never here. It's YOU who is no where to be found. It's YOU who never tries to make contact or respond to any efforts of mine either" Sylvester kept his voice low, so as to not attract any attention but the message was clear.
"I think we both know what has changed between now and before..." Sylvester continued, eyeing Fate from over Dmitri's shoulder. Dmitri did not need to turn around to get the message. He understood the problem; Sylvester was jealous.
But he only understood half the problem. Yes, Sylvester was jealous but of whom? In Dmitri's mind everything was nice and dandy; his best friend was jealous of his better half. But in reality and in Sylvester's mind it was not so simple. Sylvester was torn because of the lack of attention his best friend was bestowing upon him and he was distraught because the girl of his dreams was now a girl he would never know amourously.
Sylvester would take a bullet for Dmitri and he quell a storm for Fate (or any endeavour which would involve perishing) but he only has one life to give. So when asked to do both at the same time, would he start questioning his beliefs? Who would he choose and who would he choose to lose?
He had decided,prior to entering the diner, walking up to Dmitri and pulling him aside for a talk, what he would do. He could start a war with his friend or he could start a war with himself. And now that he stood in front of Dmitri, with Fate visible from over his shoulder, his decision appeared to be clouded with doubt.
"What's going on? You look like you haven't slept a wink?" Dmitri enquired out of genuine concern and out of a genuine attempt at changing the subject. It settled well with Sylvester; he needed some more time to think and he actually had not slept well or at all over the past few days. "Yea.. I'm sorry... I'll catch you later"
"Why don't you come join us?"
"I really shouldn't. I need to go." And he left.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Mere Dil Mere Musafir - Faiz Ahmed Faiz
My Heart, My Traveler*
My heart, my fellow traveler. It has been decreed again That you and I be exiled.
Go calling out in every street, Turn to every town,To search for a clue of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger the way back to our home. In this town of unfamiliar folk we drudge the day into the night, Talk to this stranger at times,to that one at others.
How can I convey to you, how horrible is a night of lonliness? It would suffice to me if there were just some count, I would gladly welcome death if it were to come but once.
*Translation by Hamid Rahim Sheikh
My heart, my fellow traveler. It has been decreed again That you and I be exiled.
Go calling out in every street, Turn to every town,To search for a clue of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger the way back to our home. In this town of unfamiliar folk we drudge the day into the night, Talk to this stranger at times,to that one at others.
How can I convey to you, how horrible is a night of lonliness? It would suffice to me if there were just some count, I would gladly welcome death if it were to come but once.
*Translation by Hamid Rahim Sheikh
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)