Long Absence

I was absent. . .
All of a sudden while browsing through my old writings I thought of the last time I wrote something to post here and I was quite dismayed to discover that there have been nearly two years I didn't shift my thinking on paper for that long. I decided to write something immediately. Today, I am writing these lines without any prior intentions to vomit out my thoughts.

I can dash out a dozen reasons to justify this long absence from the blog but the truth is that I had always been flinched up by so many things that are related to my non aesthetic routines. My job (a modern form of civilized slavery) is the biggest reason of this sluggish literary demise. I have lost and missed so much of it.

So, today I am trying to restart this foresaken exercise, once again. Let's see how well I catch up with this in coming days.

Visiting My Dad......

It was a hot and stuffy afternoon. I had started another routine day, and got ready to get to work. All of a sudden, I felt myself very lonely without my father’s physical presence. I felt like telling him about all the problems I was facing since he had left this world to reunite with his Creator. Diverting from my usual course, I turned my car towards the last resting place (graveyard to many) where my father’s body was resting till eternity.

I parked my car near the fence. It is a narrow road dividing two graveyards. No doubt, going to the graveyard is never a happy experience, but seeing the attitude of the people who had started using the road – leading to our last resting places – as a dumping ground of their worldly filth, it gave me a disgusting feeling of the world I am living in for a very short span in comparison to what I have to live after this mundane existence. Can’t we be caring enough to the souls we loved once! Trust me! Not all of them are given duties after they had tasted death. They are still serving us. But probably we want to make it certain that they should not come to this world again. To materialize this, we use their supposed passage as a dumping ground. The civic institutes seemed to have connived with the people as the former did not bother to clear the road, besides letting the rainwater get stagnant.

However, it bothered me little on that day as I could clearly see all the graves from outside. And I preferred to move on instead of digressing myself into another worldly trap, though an ugly one even in seemingly appearance.

Huge gate of black rusty metal bars was wide open and a spacious cemetery was in front of me. This compound called ‘janazgah’ had no signs of human activity. It seemed, today, none of the souls bade farewell to his dear ones. This city of silence is heavily populated during last few years. This is for sure that continuous rise in prices of land has not affected this area only.

I had to pass many graves to reach the one I belong to. It was my father’s, neighbored by my uncle, who had arrived here 30 days prior to my father had made his way supported by his once-upon-a-time friends, accompanied by his only son.

Their mother, my Dadi Maa, was there for burial receptions – she was settled there and had to wait for seven months to make both of her sons her eternal neighbors.

Hundreds of graves and equal number of different deaths! Everyone died in a different way. Everyone had a different reason to die. Despite being so common, death is so diverse in actuality. I was thinking it must be very painful when the soul leaves the body. For worldly people, who want to be in the world and love this mundane ‘beauty’ (read ugliness), it is more painful, or may be the same process is chalked out, who always treat this life as a temporary stay.
But they are certainly happy at leaving this life behind and meeting their Creator with whom they had promised ones that they would be with Him one-day. That day is the day of celebration!

Few of the graves were indicating that they have been recently visited. Nostril-scratching aroma of slowly burning fragrance sticks (agarbattees) was absorbing in my reluctant but heavy breathes. Wildly drifting smoke, petals of sadly spread roses and deadly silence were facilitating the wholesomeness of this visual effect of lamentation and sorrow.

Looking at the grave of my father is always an experience that overtakes me emotionally. It has become almost impossible for me to hold back my tears, which have dried, to the extent of not flowing down on my cheeks, which must have patted once by him. Moister has become a challenge for my eyes to hold.

Here the man lies, whose presence never allowed me to raise my voice, who taught me the things I always tried to find from books after his demise, but I failed. He always asked me to fight with the urges; he helped me linking myself with the power called ‘Faith’.

A being, who was always a big support in my distress. I am standing in front of his grave and I wanted to talk to him. Without ever bothering whether or not will he respond? I told him about the troubles I am facing without him. I admitted that I miss him in this phase of life despite his authoritative presence. I told him that he should have been around during this phase of despondency. He is quiet. I told him that in terms of finances, I am a happy man but I am emotionally hollow without his presence but he is quiet.

I don’t know whether he would say something or not but visiting him and talking to him has become such a routine that seems like an important course of my life.

(May his soul rest in peace. Amen!)

A Well of Death with life

Empty headed, tired and bored one evening, and wanted to see a different world to break the shackles of boredom. This desire drove me to drive down towards an old-fashioned and mediocre vicinity of the city where residents were enjoying Jashn-e-Baharan. It eventually led me to have a memorable encounter with khoo walas.

Let my memory be trusted for it. I had seen this khoo (well) about 17 years ago when I was a school-going chap. There was a Mela in a nearby environ of my house. At that time, it was something a little of what one fancies. Whenever and wherever Mela (fair) takes place, there are many entertainment means. People living in mediocre environs have definitely experienced it. It is usually assembled by circus, ferry’s wheel (thanks to my friend who told me English of aasmani panghoora), mobile zoo, ring gamble, mobile theatre, mini wonders (which are usually fake and designed to confirm the stupidity of people just for two Rupees ticket; not a bad deal at all) and well of death etc.

Among all of these things, maut da khoo (the Well of Death) is the most interesting thing to see. Not the motor bike stunts, but activities that take place before the show.

The Well of Death is a display of motorbike stunt blended with shabbily voluptuous eunuchs. It is a wooden structured object, shaped like a well in which a motor cyclist takes rounds of drive on wooden wall and this ride includes certain displays of skill. The bike rider will leave the handle of bike and wave his hands, and change of posture during ride is an added feature to this visually thrilling activity. You can drop currency notes as a sign of appreciation during the show. It is just an enthrallment for not more than five minutes followed by a round of applause by the crowd. Nevertheless, the real show begins half an hour before the bike rider enters into well.

Buy a ticket of five Rupees and you are entitled to enjoy the ‘heinous’ (for civilized beings) entertainment. Step up your way through to enter this superficially exciting world. Look down into the well; some eunuchs are there to give you a gaudy reception. This rejected class of human beings is of different type you may find one a freemartin and the other who got himself neutered to remain a desirable object for soulless males. They are wearing see through dresses and designs of necks are conformingly good enough to facilitate spectators’ vision to behold explicitly tempting cleavages. They are trained to expose them as and when need arises. They are fully equipped for this itsy-bitsy urge. If you like it, keep throwing notes after regular intervals as token of appreciation and you own the sight unless it is time to ride (the bike).

An old-fashioned loud speaker is adding value to auditory pleasure through the songs that require a crook state of mind to draw out exact meanings. In these songs, usually, a female singer cherishes the moments of joy in which the addressee protagonist has or could have done some particularly memorable acts to her. Dances of eunuchs on these songs allow viewers to imagine or fantasize all those thrill and skill seeking acts, which will remain under the umbrella of impossibility for the rest of life. Dancing beauties are specially trained – and of course experienced – to tease and tantalise the titillating patience of viewers.

Spectators have bizarre values of morality and aesthetic percepts towards these human beings. Their language is meaningfully obnoxious, smiles are carnally inviting, comments are bawdy, and abuses are usually hyphenated with incestuous phrases. Despite being at the receiving end of that verbal labour, these eunuchs are officially bound to remain calm and smiling since they know – without ever attending any business lecture – that customers are always right. Sight of eunuchs surprisingly makes people active, alert and efficient both mentally and physically. Crowd is least bothered about the motorbike stunt; they find it quite nonsense since they are enjoying something that is completely connected to all of their senses.

Some others will advise you not to get excited since it is a knack to extract money. Ignore all these things and enjoy the deceptive exposition of crude rounds and curves. Close your fists if you feel like opening wallet.

When show catches its peak, speakers suddenly stop producing melodious screams. Rhythmic wobbling of draped fleshes comes to a halt. Giggling sounds of crowd start turning into lamenting sighs and silence takes over the whole scene for a while followed by an announcement. “Show is about to begin, all “ladies” are requested to please come out”. Ladies leave the spot to enter into a tent beside well and bike rider comes in to perform the stunt. Majority of the crowd enjoys this part half-heartedly. Some of the eyes are still focused to tarpaulin tent where eunuchs are getting ready for next show. Few rounds of bike on wooden wall and the show is over.

People are stepping down after having experienced a hoaxing entertainment that catered to their purely animalistic needs. They are proud of what they have done - verbal and visual adultery. They do not know that they have brutally violated the norms of morality and ethical dignity attributing to the human beings. They have successfully added miseries to those who are destined to remain as a slur on earth’s face under the scorching sun. It was a Well of Death and performers are constrained to make a living out of this life that requires the death of their feeble ego and frail identity.

Re-opening the coffin after cremation

It is like reopening a coffin that has recently been through to the cremation. I didn’t have any inclination to write about it until I saw a note about it on a blog.
Trust me; I really don’t know how to write the obituary of your own feelings. It is all shattered into puzzling pieces. This was the only puzzle in my life I was failed to solve and eventually withdrew assuming myself as a loser. (No complaints meant). For a reader it may be something totally insignificant or one may find it nonsense stuff by a crap writer but it once had some importance in my life. I feel quite discouraged to call it an obsession.
Let me admit that I choose to have an emotional roller-coaster a few weeks ago. Being far away from family and friends, to be honest, it was extremely painful since I had no assistance available during that emotional trauma.
Earlier I was very scared or I was too coward to face it, may be. Never in my life I felt myself so helpless and I didn’t like this aspect of my personality. I tried my best to make things work, repeated entreaties were carted out but to no avail. This span of beseeching and imploring lasted for one whole year-daily. Make a note, for 365 days continuously (few days redundant when my calls or messages were never answered). None of my efforts could bring respite to the state of fray.
I bore each and every consequence of my verbalisations during that effortful but fruitless year of miseries. Some circumstantially riddling episodes provided sufficient fuel to flames and this relation not only turned sore yet it got irretrievably awkward despite my efforts to keep it velvety and unruffled.
It requires a great deal of patience to see your hopes sinking in front of you. It is indeed nerve wrecking if you have a human heart, I suppose. I really suffered. I don’t want to invite sympathies by elaborating my dreary days or the depths of my miseries. Having enough of the fiasco and excruciatingly monotonous avoidance, I myself decided to sink the boat, which was carrying my own dreams, hopes and optimism.
Jal bhi chukay perwanay, ho bhi chuki ruswai
Ab khaak uranay ko baitahy hain tamashai
(Moth have been reduced to ashes, mortified beyond resurrectionWith onlookers left to rake over the remnants)

Intricacies in Individualism

They are very strange people……………….

Tied to each other through an unseen shackle. One exists at just a stones throw to the other. Very pleasant to others but after being separately together for long time they are very tartaric to each other. They have suffered so much for what they had dreamed of and now while this dream is coming to a reality they are collecting stones to throw at it. They are going to prepare a stew with contrariety, divergence and dissensions as major ingredients of the recipe.

Apparently, two close beings but actually two strangers amid a superfluous mirth. Silently watering a rotten plant which is not likely to pullulate circumstantially. Egotists, who are quietly protesting against the most powerful cries of their souls. Reluctantly aborting, vehemently hoping and sarcastically pampering their ignored selves. Exactly like waking on a same path to find an intersection.

Both of them are putting very sincere efforts to depreciate their energies. Interestingly, one is optimistic and the other is pessimistic. One of them claims to be very positive and not to mention the negativity of the other. They need mental stimulation; they want to do incredible things but not alone; one needs support of the other but doesn’t ask for it. They were proud to claim that ‘they know each other’. Time has merely proven this sentence not more than a joke. Every discussion is punctuated by “you still don’t know me” full stop, at least by one party.

Despite knowing that mentally, emotionally and socially they are getting into irretrievably awkward situation but none of them is willing to surrender as an individual.

One says, “I think, things are only on the surface and there is nothing deep down or may be vice versa”. “I don’t feel anything”. Few days after this doubtful discovery the same fellow iterates with words full of shiver and eyes stuffed with tears, “Don’t you ever leave me please”. Another annunciation few weeks later, “I don’t trust you” followed by new version, “I can never ever doubt your honesty”.

The other fellow responds very patiently with logical come ups, supportive statements, excessive acceptance and plausible assurances but only in case when being properly heard and responded to. Raging spirals of anger and exasperation gradually reach the limits beyond control – though seldom but always cogent – when unheard and repeatedly ignored.

As a combined entity, they are for each other. They respect and value each other. Want to be together but when it comes to individual assertion, they are at light years’ distance………

Who is better?

Whether mother-fixated girls or father infatuated daughters become good wives?

Blank page!

It is difficult to write or create something when your mind is empty after it has been stuffed with every thing you have never thought about absorbing it ever.