A Story

Today, I shall tell you a story, like a raconteur. But this story doesn't start with a 'Once upon a time', nor does it end on a '..happily ever after'. It's a different kind of story. Maybe it's not a story after all. Maybe the raconteurs have better stories than the one I'm about to tell.

It is a story, far away from an epiphany, close enough to an untold fact. While I was climbing up my initial steps of the ladder of my life, I was told a clear difference between good and bad. Truth was good, lie was bad. It was easy, if one day I didn't bring my homework, I knew it would be a good thing to say the truth. It was as simple as that. But as I continued stepping on the ladder, I came to know about the things that weren't told to us. It turned out that such things were to be figured out on our own. Like sometimes when people are telling you the truth, they are actually lying. It was so confusing to come across this realization. Everyone whom I met on my way, kept on telling me that I'm too innocent to differentiate between the good and the bad. I laughed at them for I clearly knew the difference between good and bad. But the joke was on me. They were right about the grey areas. I used to rely on the 12 coloured pencils set. It didn't have the grey colour, you see. I still don't know how to cope with seeing what's not there. Why have they made their lives so complicated? It used to be so easy. Why do, like they say, I have to look conspiratorially at a person who's good to me? Why does good has to be bad? Why does black has to be grey? They say I'm innocent? Does knowing about the real good and bad mean that I'm innocent? Wow. Why did they teach me about being innocent, then? I'm a bad judge of character. Tell me you're good and I'd believe you with this hope that you, like me, also know that same old good we've been taught about, when we were kids. Wait, does it make me a bad judge of character? Shouldn't it make me an honest judge of character? Wait, why do I have to judge, anyway? Who has given me the right to do that? I have a better substitute, I'd like to call it believing. I believe bad is just a messed-up good. I believe bad is for those who are ignorant about the good.

So I've been left in wonders since the day I've come to this realization about people wearing invisible masks to conceal the reality. What's even more surprising, that everyone else seems to know about this little secret already. Even more ridiculous is the fact that this secret is not a secret since everyone else seems to know about it but nobody says it openly because an untold fact is never told openly. I don't like untold facts. What's with being so puzzling? So this story, altogether, is close to a riddle. Either it's a riddle whose answer everyone knows, but nobody tells. Or, it's a riddle whose answer nobody knows and everybody tells. This story, like I mentioned above doesn't end here. Is this even a story? Because, good usually defeats the bad in a story. Well, it was supposed to be that way, I was almost about to defeat the bad by the mighty good, when they told me that the good is not actually good. They ruined my story. Now I can't really tell whether the good defeated the bad, like it's supposed to do, because the good could just be a camouflaged bad. I'm not liking it. 

I still believe in my version of good. I still believe in the old version of good. I don't see any point in the invention of the improvised version. Why is believing made so hard? I want to believe. I want to keep believing. Can I count on myself for believing others? Would this story ever get a 'happy ever after'.

I'm not a good raconteur.

The Vicious, Dilemmatic Circle of Her Life

I know a girl. She seems quite enigmatic to me, running round in a circle. She calls it the vicious circle of her life. I say, the vicious circle is her life. Her life is a set of dilemmas, intermingled into each other, making it more knotty and complicated. But she has a power that unties every knot of her life by just a single tug; the tug of forbearance. Just one tug and the thread of her life gets so smooth before her eyes. It's easy, she says. She tells herself that it does not matter, that it's all in her head. She tells herself that there is something special waiting for her. She tells herself that she has got to be patient. And that's how she loosens every knot on the thread of her existence.

But she can't avoid seeing doubt raising its head, everytime she soothes herself with the pills of forbearance. She can't help but wonder what if this whole journey won't be any good to her, in the end. What if the path she had chosen wasn't meant for her feet to tread on. What if she'd never get what she wanted for letting it go that easily. What if what she was expecting to become a gift, would turn out to be a punishment. 

But she wants to keep going. So she always tries so hard not to let doubt peek into her life. And this is why she is in a constant battle with herself. I see her battling with the matrix of thoughts that take her from the battlefield to the mountains to the paradise and back to the battlefield again. The problem is, I can't help her. The problem is, I don't think she needs any help because I think this problem itself would take her to where the solution lies. The problem is, I'm not sure if my solution to her problem is actually what she wants as a solution.
Her life is a set of dilemmas..

Money: The Right to Belittle

Picture..

A wedding function, happening in all its grandeur. Beautiful ladies, wearing shimmery dresses. Lads wearing classy suits. You being one of the spectators, enjoying the fun filled night. Colourful lights dancing on the dance floor. People eating food, sharing smiles, laughter, jokes. Among those people are the relatives and friends of the bride and groom. There are cameramen too, to capture the beautiful memories that would be cherished for a long time. Friends and relatives are coming on the stage to sit with the bride and groom, to give their blessings and presents to them. The cameraman is videoing the party. He's recording as the relatives are coming and sitting on the stage. Here comes another family and sits on the stage and showers money on the bride and groom. What a splendid display of money! One of the DJs, playing music for the wedding party, asks a kid, who's also with the DJ crew, to go and collect the money that was just given away for the couple's blessing. The kid, about 6 years old, does as has been asked, and starts collecting the notes lying on the feet of the guests on stage before somebody else claims them. As he gets nearer to the note sitting at the feet of the groom and draws his hand to pick it up, the groom hits him with his powerful kick. The boy rolls over from the stage and on to the ground. Before he comprehends what has just happened, he quickly runs over to his crew, bewildered. One of the crew guys pats him on the back and comforts him so that he doesn't start crying. The boy is strong. He is not saying anything, just staring ahead at nothing in particular and trying not to let his tears come out. This hasn't affected anyone. Neither the groom, nor his relatives and friends. They all are still smiling for the camera. The music is still playing. People are still laughing. Nobody has been affected. Nobody, but that boy. Because he has a self respect too that just got kicked in front of a throng of people.

What you just pictured was what I had actually witnessed. I was wondering what that boy was staring at. He was seeing straight ahead of him, but not looking at anything. He was probably thinking who has given anyone the right to treat him the way he just got treated. Why money brings such behaviour along with it? Either he was wishing to get as rich as the groom was, or he was wishing to never get that rich for the possible consequential changes it would bring along, in his behaviour.

While I was seeing all that, I was getting embarrassed for my presence there. I wanted to run away from that party but I didn’t, because I’m not as strong as that boy was who stayed there even when he was thrown away from the stage with a kick.
 I was feeling ashamed because he probably hated me too for being there, for being one of the spectators who just watched him being kicked but didn’t do anything.
I was feeling ashamed for sitting in the same hall as that boy, not because of my job, but with a proper invitation.

Suddenly, money started seeming like one disgracing yet necessary object, to me.

When did money become the authority to look down upon those who are stronger and nobler than the tycoons out there?
The answer came flying toward me: Since the advent of mortal life. 

Who are You?

Who are you, stealing my right to live away from me?

Who are you, deciding to take happiness away from me?

Who are you, I ask and I ask with all my might

Why can't I grasp you when you are in my sight?

Who are you, not flinched by the mourning of the innocent?

Why can't the crying keep you up all night, of the motherless infant?

Who are you, murdering people, killing peace, stabbing love?

I write this as I see the black smoke moving up above

Who are you, tell me oh tell me, for I really want to know

Human? No! That word is too pure for you, do you not think so?

Vulnerable - A Page from My Diary

That feeling creeps up all over me, once again. Unintentionally, they make me feel like whatever I do is, or going to turn into a mistake. I feel like a big chunk of my life has been eaten up, then. I feel like I cannot ace living life, then. I feel like a failure, then. And that is not even the last thing I’d ever want to feel. They give me a feeling that I don’t belong with this life. They, without quite knowing, are killing that part of my brains, where dreams are manufactured. They, without realizing, are making me weaker and more vulnerable to the evilness lurking around me, around us. Is it the price I have to give for being loved? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is anything but that appreciative pat I’d like to receive for moving on toward the piles of dreams I have got right there before me. 

Trust, is it too much to ask for?

Turns out, it is.

Even a tinge of sadness is unavoidable. It’s like a drop of ink that trickles into the clear puddle of happiness, disperses there, and makes the pool cloudy, making its existence conspicuous. 

Realization

That old man with a hunched back, gnarled fingers and wearing clothes, on his scraggy body, that had seen better days knocked at our door right when we were breaking our fast. It was an odd timing to hear someone knock at your door because it was that time of the day when everyone’s at their home during the month of Ramadan. Maghrib, the time of dusk. When my father opened up the door and saw that old man, he, with his pleading eyes started asking my dad to give him something to eat so that he could break his fast.

Every man has self respect and it takes a person to go to the brink of desperation to step out from their circle of dignity and venture into doing something that would stab their honour. We had all the blessings at our aftar table at that time. It made me wonder, what is the factor that distinguishes me from that old man? Why, while asking for the food, he had this palpable fear hiding in his eyes that his request would go unrequited? Was it us who were to decide that whether this person would get to eat or not? Why did I have, Alhumdulillah, a variety of aftar dishes set in front of me and a lot more uncooked things preserved for the days to come, while this person didn’t even have a morsel that he could break his fast with? Why did he thank my dad when he gave him the money to buy himself food when it should be Allah to whom he’d have given thanks? Does having more money and food make us in anyway better than that person in question? It only made me realize that how ungrateful a man can be. It made me realize that I’m better than a lot of other people not because I have to compare myself by looking up at people and see what is it that I lack, but to be grateful for what I already have, unlike so many other people.

The Moon is Mute, So Am I - A Page from My Diary.

That day, like all the other days, I said nothing. Not because I didn’t have anything to say but because I knew that those people around me, they won’t grasp it. Because they won’t understand. Because they were so engulfed in the emotions they were carrying at that moment that anything contrary to their rationale that I might had said would’ve fallen on deaf ears - emotionally drenched deaf ears. So I saved the effort. I remained quite again. I didn’t speak. I’m becoming more of a spectator now. A silent spectator. The one who watches everything sitting on the bleachers while the people around that person shout, cry, laugh, scream and do whatever the scene before them makes them to do. Doesn’t that mean that they are controlled by their milieu?
Entirely.
Dependent on it.
Controlled by it.
Run by it.
How easier it would become for them if they’d just free themselves from it. Just brush it off for a little while, and then think and don't just spontaneously respond to their command. Become a rebel. Set their selves loose. Run away. And think with their uncontrolled brains. I believe their brains have the capacity to do much better than that. I believe that but I said that to nobody.

And I watched the moon. It was round and bright - so bright- and at a distance. I stared at it in awe. My weak eyesight made a little bokeh out of it and the bright white light came out of the moon’s boundaries. Hence, the bokeh. Today it was illuminated, both literally and figuratively. Moon is beautiful isn’t it? Just so calm and serene and still and just hanging up there, in its glory. Minding its own business. Providing sustenance. Spreading light. Irrelevant of who is receiving its light. Just doing its business: being beautiful. I like the moon. I always had. It’s like a jewel that the sky adorns itself with. Like a lady wears pearls, the sky, it wears the moon. And the stars? Well they are the perfect complimentary jewelry for the sky. Have you seen anything more beautiful than a moonlit sky complimented by twinkling stars? How simple they are and how beautifully do they get arranged up there, in the sky. I felt all that. Though the sky was starless and it was only the moon and a distant glow of someone’s house bulb they left turned on, that was lying starkly against the dark blue-almost black- sky. But that not-so-wan moon, it made me feel just simply brightened. I felt that and it made me feel good. But I said that to nobody.

June 23, 2013

Skepticism

Why are we afraid to try? Is it that we’re short of ideas or are we afraid of thinking? Are we too afraid about the consequences? Why don’t we get afraid of the consequences that are likely to happen if we don’t try? What is harder? Trying or moving on? Is trying tedious? Is moving on not? Can’t we at least try? Why can’t we take our own decisions? Are we afraid that we lack experience? Well how are we going to earn this thing called experience then? Why do we have to surrender? Why can’t we do what our heart wants us to do? Would it be too dangerous? Why can’t we ACTUALLY live? Why do we have to think a lot about society? Why do we have to get worried about people around us? What are they going to do? Talk about us? Laugh at us? Don’t they do it already? Why is it that we always calm our desires by feeding them endurance? Why can’t we let them taste the flavor of true happiness? Is true happiness expensive? Isn’t it worth it? Why is it that the discussion always ends without any outcome? Why do we feel sorry for ourselves? Why do we want people to feel sorry for ourselves? Why do we expect things to get done without trying? Why can’t we just get up and do it? What’s wrong with trying? Are we lazy? Have we accepted the defeat already? Everyone is running in this race of life so what would we get if we back out? Is our destiny too far away? Can we give up on our dreams this easily? Why do we always have to blame our fate for it? Is life unfair? It seems unfair for everyone, doesn't it? So isn't it equally unfair for everyone? That’s quite fair, no? We’re afraid. Afraid of a lot of things. We’re afraid of the future, of the people.  We care a lot about people, don’t we? Do we care that much about ourselves as well? What’s wrong with dreaming? Can we not dream? Do we want to kill our passion? Living without dreams is one thing. Living your dreams is another. Living without dreams is just like waiting for the ultimate journey, the journey to the hereafter. Would you regret dying without living your dreams or would you regret it otherwise? Is living difficult? Are we fore-worried about our future? Is it okay to spoil our present for the future that we aren't even sure we would see? Do we lack opportunities or are we too tired to search for them? Can’t we take out sometime for ourselves? Can I get the answers to my questions without you trying to impose your opinion on me?

Do I ask a lot of questions?