musings

Pangs of a dud soul

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Things went wrong when I realized that my mind and body are not synced.

I was deeply exhilarated about their auspicious union as it will produce the type of results I was yearning for ages. But somehow they choose to remain apart.

“Mind is a terrible thing to waste”.
Yes these piercing words struck in my mind while my sleepless eyes were shut tight. There was a sea of thoughts encircling me slowly. Their grip was getting more profuse and impactful on my mind.I tried to escape these influxes of thoughts, as once I get trapped in their vastness turning back was impossible.

I was waiting for the lady luck to come and rescue me from this labyrinth of apathy.

This was how my life lingers on. Morning, an unwelcome thing illuminates everything except my inner self.

I fathom where things went wrong or perhaps they were wrong from the very beginning its just my dormant conscience didn’t wake up to realize this.

You moan. You curse yourself for the nihilism. Then you move out of the box and search things to put blame on.

First always comes the most loved ones. The more we love the more we expect. Your parents. No matter how old you get on in years your parents are always the number one receiver. Then you blame yourself. Its just like the vicious cycle goes on until a meek sound of consciousness muses ”its you”.

You peeked in past more often, re-live the old self of yours to discern the grey areas. Then an epiphany struck that electrifies your mind.

Your mind is shouting but the body is in invisible shackles. The urge to put an end to this apathy went more earnest and it was like you are going to burst.

But body and mind still are not sync.

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New Year

Of marriage and happiness

In retrospect, this year was a kaleidoscope of lessons.

This one year surpassed in teaching me something that my sixteen years of education didn’t teach me. This year fiendishly told me my naivety in the institution of marriage. It tainted my neat and clean theories about life, but I learned some life saving lessons also.

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In marriage, silent compromises always hurt. Also one person shouldn’t obsequiously bend so low that the other person start crushing one’s dignity and self respect, which is quintessential of South Asian marriages.

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Everyone started naive in this topsy turvy nuptial journey, but the problem is, people choose to remain naive in their entire life, without realizing its never “I” or “me” in marriage its always “we”.

Marriage is a different to different people. For some its like a fairy tale of happily ever after came true. For some its a total disaster. Others may find it a culmination of the former two.

But at the end of the toiling day I can safely say that marriage isn’t a bitter fruit (strings attached) and i’ll recommend everyone to hop onto this bandwagon of beautiful anomalies.

Apart from marriage, there’s another universal human dilemma.The dilemma of never being happy. A considerable time of this year—from my otherwise ennui  saturated moments—was apportioned to finding the perfect recipe of happiness.

I juxtaposed the two worlds, one—my temporary abode—where there’s always serenity prevailing and popularly known for its opulent lifestyle and the other—my ancestral land—notoriously known for gunshots, blasts, bloodbaths, political turmoil and plethora of other pith issues.

So what exactly make a privileged and unprivileged happy.

Probably one day a scavenger, on finding a stray loaf of bread is more happy than a tycoon dining at his palatial palace. Or may be a gaunt old man feels more happy in solitary trotting around the streets and being called a hipster than a blooming youth brooding sulkily in a corner of an ebullient festivity.

Real happiness secretly craved by me—if not by everyone—would be dying without regrets and openly bracing death.

Happiness like marriage is different to different people. And without our being realizing, years pass away and leave in the wake of our endeavors, a person that we never imagined to be.

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Life

Tale of a lost quest

 

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It was a horrible day.

Someone told me something that engraved a filthy mark on my soul. Question marks were floating inside my mind. But a fearful instinct was holding me back. Only one sound keep resonating “you can’t handle the truth”.

Heart injured.

Mind incapacitated.

And body tired.

But arousal of morbid curiosity was hard to overcome. I was fearing I may give in and took plunge onto the heap of bitter truth, residing in someone else jurisdiction. Despite all the preventive instincts I gave in.

And some part of me won and some lost that day.

I won because my apprehensions were true. Indeed I was living in delusion. Truth was falling on my feeble soul like debris fall from a collapsed building. How can anyone can keep you like a substitute. How can someone can treat you like a guinea-pig. But it had happened now.

After plethora of awe-struck movements I recalled I have failed the test called life. Then I entered into the cave of my thoughts. The most desirable place for someone who had lost everything. It was a damage beyond repair-I know somehow.

Just around midnight I, with my scattered piece of soul, headed towards a place once called home. The traffic was scarce on the road. Wind was rushing hard, blowing my hair and flurrying my dress. As if wind was trying to take me back to the consciousness. But it failed like I failed that horrible day. A car struck me and shattered my lump of mass into pieces, whose soul was already absconded.

I died wholly.

Now being in a state of limbo I conclude,that I wasn’t life that I had lost that night, what I lost was all the possibilities, the chances, and the opportunities that might struck me later and that might better my life.

Social Networking

The other side of truth

People usually avoid her because of her don’t-speak-to-me look. She never gives a nod of approval to anyone. She secretly judges others and then brushes an image of them in her mind which never fades off.  Verily she had set not very good records in the realm of friendship. She was not in talking terms with any of her past pals. If anything that distinguishes her from others—it was her sulkiness.6f91610c8fd728dff5e3febf2865628e

She was a mystery box which many gallant lads try to open.  Initially the pursuit did have an element of magnetism but somehow the gallantry wears offs.

Her awkwardness can be traced back to her tormented childhood. She was run-of-the-mill in both her appearance and demeanor. She suffered the pangs of being an average in her early days.  Her past had endowed in her, layers of insecurities which she had failed to tear away.

Today like all the other days she— alone—moseys the cobbled passageways with her signature grumpiness. As she got an early break from her work she decided to do the thing that she loves the most. As she passed, people cast an indifferent look on her and then they move forward.

Accidentally her foot landed on a muddy patch, the dirty water splashes and blotches her dress a bit. People gave half suppressed laugh. Embarrassed she tramped hastily to a quiet place where she always used to sit. She plunged her hand into her pouch and brandished a shining-slim iPhone. She quickly updated her status with a quote,

“Take a deep breathe. It’s just a bad day not a bad life”.

Instantly her status was endowed with dozen of likes and streaming comments. The silent grumpy soul has a bright side to her which—she failed to depict and people failed to discern.

Lesson learnt:

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.  Oscar Wilde

Faith

There is a light at the end of the tunnel

Today I got an answer to a longstanding question.

When I started my quest I was accompanied by hope, will, patience and strength. These were my possessions (at least I thought so). I was deluded that I have the right mix of ingredients to onset any journey. But the most imperative possession a man could ever have is the one most overlooked. Surrounded by sanguine vibes I didn’t know when vanity overcame me. Then with each steps I took to my ultimate destination, my possessions began to dwindle. One by one I lost all of them—which were more than a weapon for me. The evanescent patience was the first one to go and hope was the last. Their defense was lousy in front of their contenders. First doubt and then fear began to haunt me. Fear annihilated my cognition.

Time robbed me of all of my assets and in the end what left of me was a husk. There begin an intriguing journey.

I grumble. I cry. I plead.

And then I become silent. Things didn’t change and time moves on. I didn’t confront more. I only prayed. I noticed a beam of light in the dark labyrinth. I only prayed.

There is light at the end of tunnel
There is light at the end of tunnel

I no longer fear. I begin to restore myself. Somewhere along the line I realized that all my weapons were variables. They are no one’s possession. At that point I searched for the Constant. I rummaged in the dark labyrinth for light. Yes that Omniscient Light, the powerful energy that invigorates all other variables. That is neither conditional nor imperishable.

Yes this constant is Allah Almighty.

Yes, He is always with a man behind a veil yet more near to him than his heart-beat. It’s more than a possession. Relation with Him is stronger than any other relation; His Light is brighter than any light, mighty than any existing structure in the world

Encountering this epiphany, I know this is where my salvation lay. Now if I take one step out of the line and I will end up in a never-ending jumbled web. Trusting the Providence, I started to move on. My possessions were restored accompanied by a divine calmness.

Today I have reached the end of the tunnel. The Light of Allah has overshadowed all the other variables. Now what in the end I got is a lesson that’ll help me all my life, and reward that is far more jubilant.

Writings

A case of exploring drafts

I belong to that part of the world that is quintessence of political turmoil, deplorable law and order conditions, religious fanaticism, ethnic blood baths and plethora of other evils. Being a product of such country I lament and muse over anything relating to my country.Our lives revolve around politics.Living in politically robust society saturated with bipolar ideologies is never easy. Everyone is fighting war of words either in social networking sites or in drawing rooms. As I am assimilated to this culture so deeply that my grumblings are manifestations that how deeply I resent our system and want change.195554808789877979_syTQN4OJ_c

But sometimes the type of change I want is exit myself from this roller coaster atleast for a time being. I am tired of the threadbare discussion running on the idiot box.

So this morning I take a mighty task of opening my Drafts. Perhaps still better than exhausting your mind with empty rhetorics of leaders.

Opening my drafts I realized that my every blog has a reason to be in this destitute corner.

In my first draft I write about my aversion to cooking. The tedious process involved and my inability to mix the right ingredients. But as I was writing ”why I hate cooking” my abomination fades off and I end up liking it—but unfortunately hating the blog.

So the blog takes it’s deserve position and so did my propensity—to cookery.

One dreary night of winter, my mind was brimming with the remembrances of the past. So I decided to write it. I began fervently. I jotted down everything—winter blues and my fears. I solemn to publish it next morning but that morning never come. I procrastinated and finally it also moves in the same way as its predecessor —in drafts.

Somewhere in between I try to publish it but I always shies away from publishing something subjective. Writing about your fear is never easy; it’s like pouring your inner self out and this is something I dreaded. Anyways winters are already on the verge of leaving and I didn’t have winter blues in the same way as I experienced them before. So there isn’t any point of publishing it right now.

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The third occupant of my draft box is a ”Letter to life”. I am not sure I will ever muster the confidence to move it from there.  After writing all about afflictions given by my dear life I felt at ease. I don’t know from where, but i felt my repine feelings are tempering. The surliness is vanishing and so my desire of publishing it.

We all think life is unfair, isn’t this makes life fair—please excuse this threadbare cliché. I scorned myself of being a petulant creature. Als0 considering this a hackneyed phenomena I snubbed this blog to take its rightful place yes to the drafts.

Writing can be therapeutic and my drafts are harbinger of this. Sometimes you don’t need to exhaust vast treasure of self-help books for a solution, because answers lies within us. Merely putting words on the paper is sometimes more appeasing than any clinical solution.

Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world—Paulo Coelho. Dead on, but for me it is a meditaton, the only thing that never pissed me off.

P.S I am a Pakistani.