‘A Rat who left the Rat Race’; Chapter 1

He looked at himself in the inner side of a biscuit wrapper, not for vanity, he was a rat after all, but rather to untangle some knots to make sense of the world around him. A few days ago when he woke up in the morning, like every other morning, in the little crook he used to call home, under the rail-track at a Railway station, he felt somewhat changed.

In what way had this furry little creature changed was hard to explain, for he had the same thirty pairs of whiskers as beautiful and as sensitive as before, the same muddy brown fur which had the same number of bald blotches as before, the same quick hairy feet and the same pincer like incisors which could pierce through anything you put before them. He had used them to cut through countless wooden doors, plastic walls, cupboards, sofas, mattresses and what not. He had made himself a neat hidden passageway to the station master’s room, where under his bed, the master kept all sorts of almonds, pistachios, cashew nuts, roasted peas and occasionally chocolates. He would go there after the midnight when the officer had fallen into a slumber and without making any sound snacked over them. He was very sustainable; he always took as much as would not raise any suspicion.

He had spent all his life scurrying around the railway station looking for leftover food that, unconsciously, now that he would describe it, some passenger might have dropped. There would be potato wedges, pieces of bread and dropped sandwiches on the lucky days; banana skins, orange peels and almost empty bags of chips on not-so-lucky days. Sometimes he would make people drop their food just by startling them. He would wait until they had bought something and just when they took their first bite he pounced upon them. Most people dropped their food in either surprise or disgust. Other times he would just wait for the choosy little children to throw their food away when their parents were not looking.

His routine revolved around finding food using his acute sense of smell, hiding in inconspicuous places, avoiding danger, and most importantly avoiding getting mowed down by the train like his dead parents. For this he had various cues; rumbling of the pavement, clamber of the rail tracks, human sounds from the speakers, the whistle of the train and the restlessness of humans awaiting the train. He had to be conscious of so many things just to survive, but this type of ‘consciousness’ that he woke up with was different in it’s own way. It neither made him any smarter nor cleverer than he already was, he still could not tell bran and white bread apart, but it did make him have funny thoughts, as he called them. The world around him, in which he had been living for 3 months i.e. 30 human years now, stopped to make sense, all of a sudden. The same food that he relished so much had started to feel more like a necessity than a pleasurable activity. The routine that he had spent all his life on to master skillfully had started to feel mundane and boring. The cranny which he inhabited and was born into had started to feel tight and misplaced. The things that he had taken for granted for years had started to bug him. Why was he a rat of all animals? What is a rat? Why do rats exist? Where did these humans come from? Where did he come from? Where does he go after death? Was there a world beyond this station? How many stations does the world have? What was his purpose?

These questions bothered him a lot. He slept late, woke up early and followed his routine while constantly seeking answers to these strange questions he was having. He would spend hours and hours contemplating his life, the reality of the world around him, the meaning of universe and the purpose of his existence. He felt alone and desolate in this vast world. He lacked the ability to manipulate sound like humans could, he found out soon enough, for this reason he was unable to communicate his ideas to his fellow rats. But why would he want to do that in the first place, he asked himself. Other rats were miserable. Ever since he had started to think, other rats had started to ignore him. Their lives made no sense to him. The only thing these rats were interested in was gluttony, squabbling over niches to live out their worthless lives and competing for mates to procreate. And then they get old and give up their ghost.

One day his curiosity pestered him so much that he climbed up one of the food stalls opposite the station. The view here was marvelous! He squeaked with excitement and his tail started lashing around uncontrollably. He watched humans come and go on the other side of the station on small colorful cabins with wheels at the bottom. He could see the Station Master buying pistachio nuts, his favorite, from the shop on the right.
He found his home which was, of all the places here, below the rusty rail-track filled with sewage from an underground leaking pipe and filthy garbage. The rats loved such dank and humid places. “Why were humans so clean and civilized unlike rats?”, he asked in admiration. While he was lost in a reverie, the sun was setting. The sinking of the orange-red ball of fire into the horizon made his heart sink in melancholy. He stood there in awe and admiration of the spectacle! This was the first time that he had noticed it. It was the first time that he had seen a sunset. Maybe he had seen it countless times before but he was not aware of it, and the magnificence that it held. Who created the Sun? Humans did not, he was sure of it. There has to be the truth somewhere. “Maybe these humans were aware of the truth”, he thought. “Maybe that is what a train is for”, he gave out a shrill sound as to indicate his excitement. He think he had found the truth, at least the path to it.

He did not know the answers to these questions, my friend, but he did know that whatever the other rats were doing is not it. So the train was his next stop.

And suddenly, he struck an idea. “It is a very enigmatic thing, isn’t it? I know who I am. I can do this thing yet I don’t have the vaguest what it is”. It was thinking. He was thinking. And more importantly he was aware that he was thinking. He was conscious of his thought process; he knew what he sought and the questions he had. He was conscious of his existence.

Pakistani Jinns

Back in the middle school, me and my friends were paranormal fanatics; we used to watch supernatural documentaries at midnight on Discovery and discussed them the entire day at school. I was that kid in your class who, during breaks, with his entire cult sitting around, filled your head with alien and ghost conspiracy theories and soon made you his cult member too. I did not actually believe these stories but my “cult” did, so I continued anyway; just like a true cult leader ought to do. We had entire notes on different ghost “species” and classified them based on their origin.

They include Indian “bhoots”(they were those souls which could not reach nirvana and were trapped in our world. These had an ability to convert humans into spirits like themselves: there is a saying that if you hear someone behind you calling your name in a deserted place you should never turn behind to look or else you will also become a spirit), Bengali “Pret” (they are the ghosts of those people who died unnatural deaths like suicide, murder or accident.(Bhut-tos?)) And a Thai spirit, “Phi Am” which causes sleep paralysis. The Christian ghosts are are, like the others, the souls of the people who died but got stuck in between, like Marley’s ghost in the Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol. There are the infamous American ghosts too who never leave their furnished houses which, occasionally, becomes a problem for the new homeowners. Even the previously homeless ones live in big houses after their deaths rent-free; some might creep you out of your own house by staring at you from the windows while others are peaceful i.e. they just like to sleep under your bed and keep you company(do not misunderstand their intentions). The ultimate trick they have under their sleeves to get rid of the people is to fiddle with their electrical mainboards. Still not impressed? How about the fact that you learn to play a piano as soon as you die. And most importantly you get to play it all night if you are not a morning person. Bonus tip: It also scares people away! So you can have an entire house to yourself for free.

We kids used to ask the school nannies and our housekeepers about Jinns (an Arabic word, for the evil entities, which is quite common in Pakistan) and they used to tell us all sorts of creepypasta stories: instead of babysitting us, they gave us insomnia. Not so surprisingly, all of their ghost stories shared a common theme:

Part one: All of the possessed people belonged to their villages because why not?

Part two: All of them were, apparently, lonely weirdos who, for one, loved roaming in deserted fields or graveyards with no one else around in the night, you heard it right, and secondly loved to break off twigs from really old trees(everybody does that right? Right?) or pee under them (perhaps an efficient way of getting intimate with the nature? Poor Keats and Wordsworth couldn’t figure this out.)
Part three: He gets possessed. Time period. What happens after you get possessed? I’ve heard tales ranging from people flying along the ceiling to having some epilepsy-like shocks.

Part four: Just like Keanu Reeves, a Peer Baba would appear or someone will take him to one. I’ve heard her say, with pure awe in her eyes, that her Peer could also turn into a cobra snake somehow (I always believed that a fat Peer could turn into an anaconda too). Either the maid watched too much of Teen titans or Nagan; choose your story.
The Baba would then exorcise the man and finally, interrogate the spectre. The ghost would, finally, tell the Baba his reasons for possessing the man. The Jinnat were usually justified. Even when they were not, who would not possess a midnight tree humping maniac? Therefore they were always justified. So once again the day was saved by the powerpuff Baba.

In one particular story, a man urinated under an old tree in the middle of a graveyard (It is like waking up in the middle of the night and think to oneself, “You know what would be the best place to urinate right now? That giant ass tree in the middle of the graveyard ten miles away, that’s what). And, obviously, a Jinn possessed him, the Peer John Constantine arrived, did his thing, got hold of the ghost and interrogated him. It turns out that Jinaat had an entire baraat going on with those trumpets and all. They were dancing (no doubt they were Punjabi) and celebrating the marriage between the Jinn and a Churrail (quite literally) and this guy urinated on them. Just imagine a random guy comes out of nowhere, stands in front of you, unzip his pants and take a warm piss. Well, now, we know who to blame. So this guy promised never to pee under the huge trees in the middle of nowhere again, and sadly the Jinn left him for good.

One thing has always amazed me, why do Jinnat love possessing human bodies instead of living in their own skin? If this is not an example of low self esteem I have no idea what is. According to one theory it is because of their negative portrayal in the media; since movies portray them as some very spiteful, territorial and ugly entities, it is no wonder that young ghosts find themselves in some sort of identity crises. In a world of Ed Warren, Lorraine Warren, Ghostbusters, John Constantine and ,oh yes, Vikraal and Gabraal who would want to be an evil spirit? Luckily for them, there are other “diverse” movies too. Marvel’s Ghostrider, Amitabh Bachan’s Bhootnath, Casper and Nickelodeon’s Danny Phantom are some of their favorites.

The Islamic ghosts, the real Jinns, are radically different from most of the ghosts from other cultures. I remember reading “Shahab Nama”, just for its spooky part in which he apparently lived in a haunted house along with an apparition who used to misplace his shoes (I am glad they did not have phones back then, how frustrating would that be?) and made things levitate during late night hours (hey NASA, Pakistani Jinns have invented zero gravity for some time now). That was spine-chilling. Especially when he found out that urdu translations of Quran did not repel Jinns rather you needed to recite them in Arabic; yeah take notes. Well, this is the reason why I still recite three “Quls” every night.

I have this really epic war going on inside my head: a group of insidious Jinns are springing up from everywhere; under my bed, from my mirror, from my closet and even under my blanket. I close my eyes, recite three Quls and Voila! Sharp bolts of lightening have pierced their hearts and a golden light has spread everywhere. Slowly, angels with their huge wings descend making a circle around me. They’re wielding Damascus swords (better than your average valyrian steel) and mirror shields; some of them even have bow and arrows. All of this, so that I can sleep peacefully and sit idle all day long. Talk about thankless jobs!

I’ve heard that these Jinns follow the traditions and laws of the country they live in. So Pakistani Jinns are more Pakistani than you might think. Bushra Bibi, herself, is guilty of using her associate Jinns to spy on Imran Khan during his meetings with Muraad Saeed, Hamza Abbasi and Zulfi Bukhari; better safe than sorry.

Since they are Pakistani they have to bear Sarfaraz Ahmed too. Feeling sorry yet? There’s more to it: They can vote all right but their votes are usually not considered. The Mutahida Jinaat party, MJP, supported PML-N this year, just like in every other election but election commission rejected their votes by call them “jali”. Now this is pure discrimination. I’ve heard that they hate PTI; maybe it has something to do with Bushra bibi abusing them and Imran Khan neglecting their mandate by calling it rigged. Pakistan People’s Party also has a few supporters since it had invested considerably in their empowerment by establishing “ghost hospitals and schools” in Sindh, which existed only on papers: “Jab parhay ga har ek jin, tabhi banay ga Roshan Pakistan”.

Do you know where Zardari’s “undocumented money” is? In the “ghost accounts” of dead Bhuttos obviously (only if someone could explain this to NAB).

I’ve heard that, sadly, many of Jinns have migrated to U.S, U.K and other European countries fearing the deteriorating conditions of Pakistan.
They do exceptionally well abroad since our average Pakistani Jinn is way stronger than all other ghosts. Unlike Indian and Christian Bhoots which are souls of dead humans, these are purpose-built ghosts. Unlike the vampires they can neither be melted by the sunlight nor killed with a blow to the heart. They can neither be trapped in bottles nor killed with wolfsbane; these Pakistani Jinns are the strongest of them all. The actual Jinns themselves tell their kids to go to bed or the Pakistani Jinn will come and gobble them up.

The Serpent of Death

The beauty of those malefic scales

Casting behind them the erratic trails

Like a ship that amidst a desert sails

Swift like the swallows, slow like the snails

Yet in time like the timely post mails

The wielder of those fangs never fails

To silent the singing of the nightingales

Or the sapiens getting drunk on their ales

Nothing can deter it, not even the gales

Blowing unthwarted above the steep dales

Air stinking of putrid sinful flesh it exhales

It hammers on your due coffin its ultimate nails

Manette Street

Down the famous Manette street
Homeless drunkards roam
Brass chalice with the lips meet
On them stays the foam

The days come and go
But the time remains the same
The life there is slow
No passion, no fire and no fame

People with no stories to tell
Nothing to celebrate, nothing to mourn
Liquor and folks and many a gal
Lay dead, others waiting for the sojourn

The day there, is like the night
It stinks of spoiled meat and fruit
Corpses lay everywhere in sight
And the cigars with their dense soot

People, like me, lived and died
Spent their lives on that vile side
Nothing to seek, and nothing to provide
The booze and cigars aside

Now that I’m a spectre
I must confess
I see through your threads and texture
The life of futility, sombriety and stress

And before you bite the dust- you’re full of regret
Longing for a life you never had
While you were busy paying your debt
You were squandering the only time you get

You had worked like a galley slave
Saving money you’d never spend
Forgetting your eternal abode- your grave
To buy houses you’ll leave at the end.

Come over to the Manette street
You deemed so heinous and deplorable- and become our countryman
And live a life free of agony and grief
And get over with it as soon as you can

We get that our lives lack the passion
Compassion, ambition and things of that fashion
But here, there is a paucity of depression
No compulsion, delusion or aggression

We get that our lives lack the hope
The delusion of grandeur
But we stand with truth you cannot ignore
The life carries no inherent purpose

We get that our lives feel futile,
We are bone idle and directionless
But we’re not the ones creating pile
Of lies, hopes and dreams that transgress

We get that our lives may seem plodding and in vain
Encroaching death with a sluggish pace
But for us it’s over like a steam-powered train on a smooth terrain
While yours may seem blistering in a neverending maze

Delusion of hope or the brittle reality
The choice is yours to make
No need to toil seeking the absurdity
Only to realize it in the end- it was all fake

Live your life passionately
Thinking it was purposeful.
But when you’re tired of it all
Welcome to the Manette street

Thoughts on Terrorist Organizations.

People who possess hegemonic powers use nationalism, patriotism, faith, religion and doctrines to excite the masses; to unite them under different contexts, and then “use” them for their own personal motives and interests.
In “The Republic” by Plato, a sophist, Thrasymachus, trying to define justice, states that the laws are created by those in power in accordance to their own personal interests and this when enforced upon the body of common people constitutes what we call “justice”. Similary Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a French thinker, states that the laws and morality are created by the strong to subjugate the weak.
As it is noted that the ISIS, or even Al-Qaeda for this matter, is not strictly a religious group, rather a congregation of people driven by nationalism under the pretense of Islam. It uses Islam to sanction its xenophobia, hatred, barbarianism, intolerance and orthodoxy. Aristotle said that any form of government, especially autocracy or monarchy (ISIS and Al-Qaeda is an example) if it consolidates religion with the state, gives itself a divine status: People are more willing to suffer injustice by the hands of such ruler, less likely to conspire against him and believe that God is fighting alongside them; the crusade wars aptly describe this.

ISIS uses “nationalism” to infuse people with chauvinism. They remind them of the Ummayed and Abbasid Caliphate; they remind them of the era of Umer; they remind them of their golden age. They glorify and exaggerate their past and show them a way to procure it all back from those who “stole” their glory from them.
And to inundate “divine” power to their ideals they exploit Islam and concoct an alternate, partially fabricated, paranorama that western countries are the enemy of God; they fear the glory of Islam; they want to annihilate Islam. And if you count Jews with them? You get zionist conspiracy theories in the mainstream community. Paulo Coelho narrates in his book “The Zahir” that if one fireman notices a smudge on his partner’s face, he’d assume that his face is also grimy and wash it even if it is clean. Ex nihilo nihil fit- nothing comes from nothing- so west also replies befittingly, quid pro quo; and this fuels the animosity which grows on the both sides.
People join ISIS not for religion but the nationalism associated with it.
For it’s not the “Islam”, which is driving them rather the “Muslim Supremacy”.
Robert Pape worked on this very case, interviewed hundreds of captured terrorists. He found out that ISIS terrorists had “Radical Theology”, not associated with any religion.
So it can be aptly concluded that religion is used to sanction one’s ideals (which, undoubtedly, slanders it’s image); The same could be claimed for Buddhist Burmese militants waging a war against the impotent Rohingya population.
“An organization doesn’t necessarily represent the ideals of the religion it professes”.

Defining My Fate

WHAT DO I WANT TO ACHIEVE?

1. Prominence 
2. Excellence in any desired field. 
3. Respect
4. Wealth
5. Feeling of Importance and being able to make a difference. 

These are those abstract terminologies that everyone has sought after since the day Adam was created and I am no different than those many who have gone before me.

WHAT DO I WANT TO BECOME?

I would like to become a certain someone who has achieved the abovementioned.

• A Doctor. (MBBS+PLAB+MRCP/FRCP)
• An Entrepreneur.
• A Business Mogul.
• A Public Speaker. (Either related to business or psychiatry/psychology)
• An Author.
• Knowledgeable and well-read in Finance, Startups, Management, Marketing, investment, Philosophy, and Psychology.

HOW DO I GET THERE?

This is the most difficult question to tackle, after realizing your objectives. And truth be told, nobody knows how exactly will he become a business mogul because only a very few make it there. But I do have a general outline.

Complete your Med school. 

• Try to get well-versed in business and marketing during med school.
• Try gaining experience with Startups and businesses in the meantime.

Take the PLAB exam 

• Get into some residency you prefer by then.
• While you’re studying there or doing an internship, start moonlighting and initiate some Startup with the help of a co-founder.
• It won’t succeed perhaps, but keep on initiating startups and try to get into the Y-combinator.

Ultimately If I succeed I could get some passive income flow from my startup. I will be trying to establish a location independent startup. If I can pull this through completely, I will be able to not only start a business but also become a specialist. This way, even if my venture fails I’ll have something.

WHY WILL I GET THERE?

Because I am a pretty creative and well-rounded person so being a “renaissance man” that is curious about the world in general, will help me.  And being an existentialist, It’s my one true purpose so I can go to any limit to reach my goal. I am not scared of losing everything if it means to reach my ambition.

WHY DO I WANT TO GET THERE?

We only live once. The world is meaningless and none of this will matter millions of years from now so It will be fun to risk it all and achieve what’s regarded as the epitome of success. I want to create a huge passive income flow so that I can afford to pursue the leisure activities of reading philosophy, discussions, traveling, woodworking, writing, giving lectures and do other things that might please me.

WHAT IF I DON’T GET THERE?

If I don’t get there, I’ll be happy to know that I tried. But one thing will be certain I’ll land on the moon in the least. I’ll have my career to lean on and will incorporate my business strategies in Pakistan.

HOW DO I START? 

Proffs pass krlo.

The Matchbox

A tiny droplet silently slides down a pale rustic leaf, depressing it ever so slightly as it drops onto a green leaf making it glisten like a diamond as if it was smiling gratefully at the older leaf which sheltered it. Suddenly, a stream of cold air comes their way. A cascade of cold wind tugs the older leaf, pulling it with itself. The older leaf shows no reluctance at all as if it was waiting for this moment for a long time and flows with the air leaving the younger leaf to fend for its own against the tarnishing spell of time. Why did the old leaf offer no resistance to the suicidal wind?

This erupts a vague smile on my face as I try to decipher the scenario in front of me but fail to do so. Maybe somethings just happen. Maybe sometimes they have no reason to do so. My gaze darts towards the gloomy sky which has become heavy with water, just like me with my accruing despair, and is crying somewhat. I can not comprehend if the tears were shed on the futility of life or its bliss.

A deep sigh escapes my mouth involuntarily .”Life is complicated, isn’t it?”, I whisper, still watching the sky intently as it gradually becomes sober. The once expansive dark cloud has dissolved into the thin air. Softly the evening comes and all the gaudy colors that encompassed the surroundings become drab and sombre.

A thick smog has shrouded the forest and is rendering the trees that inhabits it obscure. I inhale the moist air slowly and feel an enigmatic pressure rising within me. What was that? Maybe a feeling perfected by the millions of years of evolution felt by everyone yet expressed by none. I take out a matchstick out of its box which has already been here somehow and light up a cigarette. My pale meticulous fingers reach my quivering lips as I place a burning cigarette against them. I inhale the cigarette, letting the ecstasy of smoke wash me and exhale the smoke, projecting my head towards the atavistic wooden fence which parapets the bridge underneath which a torpid yet fathomless river dwells. Before I can see the smoke, it has already dissipated into the cold air incorporating into it my regrets, leaving me behind with a euphoric feeling of emptiness.

The river below me has devoured thousands of aspirations and sorrows yet no one has ever satiated its hunger for dispirited spirits. Yet I hope, like every other person who has ever come to this bridge, that the immense crippling burden of my own existence will quench its thirst.

I clench my fists around the round upper edge of the fence to push myself across, leaving the realm of funereal meaningless existence for the allure and serenity of oblivion. I leap towards the nothingness as the thick air thwarts me. Just like the old rustic leaf that fell with the gushing wind, I fall bearing no reluctance or regrets. Maybe now I understand why that leaf offered no resilience; it was time. It is time.

The burning cigarette on the wooden table douses. The Matchbox lies beside it, awaiting someone else.

It was a Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night,
There were people on either side,
Stabbing, sparring and screaming.

It was a dark and stormy night,
It was a night of absolute darkness,
Clouded was the sky, and no bird to fly.

Dilapidated buildings, crying children,
Smoke rising from the burning ale,
Thick air, heavy on the lungs, painful to eyes.

It was a dark and stormy night,
It was a war between two men,
Caught between them was the entire den,

Everyone was a pawn, toiling in calamity,
Seen nothing except someone else’s vision,
Showing meaninglessness of the humanity,

It was a dark and stormy night,
Streets drenched with some fresh smell,
Of men’s blood which fell for someone else,

The serenity and civility of the city was no more,
The humanity was no more,
As the violence progressed it revealed our raison d’etre,
To fight is human, to mourn is also human.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Note: As many would have noted, I used the prompt “It was a dark and stormy night” deliberately provided its negative connotation among many literary circles because I believe that literature is just like the art: it isn’t about how it’s constituted rather what it symbolises and the emotions it evokes.

And That’s Where I’m Going

In those moments of silence,
Defined by solitude and self reflection,
That moment when you cease to care about the world,
When you’re an observer- not the passenger,
I found myself there- crippled by the stresses of life,
The incipient loneliness bludgeoning me,
The loss of motivation blurring my view,
I’m sick of this; I’m sick of life.
The pub is where they go,
Life presses them and rum is where they go,
The whorehouse is where they go,
Life presses them and sex is where they go,
The tobacco store is where they go,
Life presses them and cigarettes is where they go,
Camus calls this the biggest problem of mankind,
Some call it the only way out,
Some sin, others crime,
Some freedom, others curse.
I think freedom too.
It’s all too much to bear.
You see a dream only to get there and sigh.
Only to look forward to another one, until there’s nothing to dream.
Nothing is where that ends.

That’s where they go.
And that’s where I’m going.

 

A Short Love Story

The small grains of sand, gushing in the whirlwind, stung my uncovered face as I hurried across the strait roofless street of the bazaar, illuminated by a faint glimpse of a lunar entity and twinkling shimmering stars in the pitch-obscurity of the dim matter, to a more urbane avenue. Thousands of penniless poverty-stricken people had joined the mirth of the city and the pompous gaiety of the more fortunate. People of different socioeconomic backgrounds intermingled like several canals of water into one homogeneous horde of mindless molecules rushing towards the sea, the exit. The waxing crescent represented an upcoming auspicious day, the Eid, but for the indigent, it was the present which mattered more than an unseen felicity.

Among the herd, I kept moving; going where the tide took me. For me, the ambiance and buoyancy of humanity were more reverent than what an apparently spiritualist day itself was. I was here for a reason for every soul that dwells inside this occult cycle of life has its raison d’etre. My income was minuscule but the possessions never define one’s sentiments and the extent of love itself. There were street-hawkers on the either side of the lane, some of which had gold and silver plated adornments and others which had bangles and accessories of the commoners. I had five hundred rupees inside the pocket, in my shalwar hemmed at the inner side, which I had procured by working overtime in a close-by eatery as a server. I belonged to a peasant family which had been working as farmers in rice paddy-fields for several generations. I caught a glimpse of shiny laced glass bangles sets which were finely arranged in four rows with five of such sets in each. There was also a white cardboard box with a transparent plastic on the posterior side containing an engraved gold-plated set with emerald-green synthetic jewels.

All that and she had demanded nothing from me. My heart was drenched in the aura of gloominess and desperation. Her father was one of the most well-respected and wealthy citizens of the city. She had paid a hefty tag of spurning her ties with her family. A young lady who was raised in the tip-top society, was sent to costly schools and was cleaned by conventions, turned down everything for a man who couldn’t even fulfill her wishes. I bought the jewelry and bangles along with henna with optimistic facial expressions trying to obscure the sadness that had engulfed my soul by then. I lurched among the excited crowd. Their happiness was consuming me. I stopped a rickshaw to take me to the nearest station which was one hour away from my house. One hour of the walk had me when I left my family but now It was more or less an indispensable part of my lifestyle.

We had acknowledged love over everything and we had never regretted the decision. Life is stale and agonizing amid the daily drudges of my occupation yet toward the day’s end, I feel blessed to be able to pay for her college and to return to her, my significant other. The time seemed to fly away as I was engrossed in the contemplation of our dark past. There I was in front of an old rustic wooden door attached to a not-so-dandy cemented house. It was not the best but it contented our fundamental requirements, nevertheless. I knew that she was in the kitchen because I could smell the enthralling aroma of spicy lentils cooked by a young lady who was spooned all her life. I knocked at the door. There was a clattering. And then I heard a soft yet resolute voice that resonated with my heartbeat and pierced my already throbbing heart. I burst into tears. All of my accrued emotions flooded my eyes and then splashed my face. The door opened and there she was, my everything.

A dazzling young lady, with an olive complexion, was gazing at me with rather curious dark brown eyes below arch shaped eyebrows. She had an oval face with eyes set equally apart; a prominent cheek bone; an angular jaw line; a rounded chin; a round nose below which rose-hued lips were present. Her long black hair was braided meticulously.

He dove towards her and shut the entryway behind him. His reflexes were sudden and unfathomable. This was the moment for which each of them had waited for so long an entire day. He put the bag containing the bangles set, henna and a few adornments on the couch quickly without letting her realize as he shoved himself through the entry-way. This was to be a surprise for her. He put his arms around the small of her back with her head pushed against his chest. There was a silence.

“Are you crying?” she asked moving her eyes towards him. She had noticed his wet cheeks.

“No, no. It’s nothing,” he said with mournful eyes.

“You know I hate it when someone lies to me, did something wrong happen?” She looked at him with a distressed expression.

He remained silent for some time but then blurted out.

“It’s just that……..I mean that you are amazing and deserve so much better but I can’t……” he said with his eyes darting at his feet.

He had finally said it. This sentiment lay with him through his long stretches of the day and contemplative nights as an unbidden guest.

“How dare you say that?! We have sacrificed our everything to live with each other. Had it been something else that I wanted I wouldn’t have put up with you for such a time. I love you! And that’s just what I want back in return.”

He looked at her with relief. This liberated him from an incipient anxiety that he was keeping her unhappy. They had sought love and love they had acquired.For her, he was incompletely immaculate and for him, she was defectively perfect.

The sobbing gradually diminished and the young couple kept staring each other. They closed their eyes and gradually pulled closer to each other until their lips touched. A chill went down the spine when their lips met. They were intoxicated with adrenaline. Their heart started pounding harder and harder until they felt it throbbing near their throat. She felt his lips quiver because of nervousness. She caressed his stubble. He felt as if he was corrupting her. Am I ready? Is this a sin? Will anybody know? What will they think? What will my mom say? What if we get caught? The fear kept rising inside each of them until it was completely eradicated. Instincts took over. There was no shame and no holding back. They started breathing heavily and kissing more passionately. He lifted her up holding her thighs and thrust her onto the bed. His cold hands met her warm smooth skin. She ran her bare hands beneath the hem of his shirt tracing to his back. This sent shivers down his spine. He felt goosebumps as he was enticed by the process. She couldn’t believe that she was doing this. She felt embarrassed and intimidated. Her face blushed as the blood gushed in her body but as the foreplay progressed she started feeling comfortable. He unbuttoned her shirt and she followed the suit. It was a normal deed; not a taboo she had been indoctrinated to believe in. This was an action far more reverent than the cultural norms and social constraints themselves.

The time stood still for both of them as they delved into a world unravished by the cruelties and pain of the imperfect world perfected by the evolution. This denied the existence of negativity and reality. He was looking at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever possessed and was glad that there was no wall between them. She was apt that she, at last, had him all to herself and that her penances proved to be fruitful. It was neither lust nor sexual interest which held them close rather it was something more significant inside imperceptible to the human eye which fortified them. It was the reverence and love that had brooded between the soul-couples which animated their relationship. They had gone intensive predicaments and hardships yet stayed solid and undaunted, and this was the wellspring of their adoration. Unlike lust which is mortal, love itself is immortal. Love vanquishes everything.