Failure
The doctors had tried everything; they had run all the possible tests. He was a normal human being just like you and me. He could walk, talk, laugh, cry; do everything we can do. Then one day he walked to his bed, lay down and then never moved a muscle again. He just stopped, it all came to an end for him or maybe he bought the end to himself. It just seemed that he quit. No, he did not kill himself, he simply went into a state of, what can only be called, a self imposed paralysis. Why self imposed? Because the doctors were never able to diagnose any disease, all the tests came out negative. Then again, what do we know? The doctors for all practical reasons called it a self imposed paralysis just so that they can hide their own professional failure. I mean who in his right mind would enforce paralysis on himself; and that logic resulted in him ending up in a psyche ward.
All day long he would lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was a vegetable, the physio would come and flex his limbs and the nurses would sometimes wash his body. The only movements he ever made were when these people would pull or push at different parts of his body. For some odd reason he instigated a feeling of fear among the ward’s staff. It was even more peculiar because the same staff had rapist and deranged murders in other wards. Some nurses claimed that they sometimes noticed a shine in his eyes, a shine which seemed like nothing but evil, others went as far as to say that they saw a perverse smile on his face, a smile which would freeze blood in the veins. His physios quit every other month with just an obtuse reason that,”there is something evil about this man.”
Eventually he was moved from psyche ward to psyche ward, city to city, psychiatrist to psychiatrist. None of them never really got any time to understand what he was suffering from and gradually he turned into a vegetable even on his medical records and in the mind of his doctors. His case was finally closed under the pretext that he cracked under pressure. No one actually cared about the falsity of this verdict, it was just an official stamp to what everybody already thought of him – a breathing waste. He was informed of this verdict, some of the psychiatrist were of the opinion that if he learns that humanity has given up on him he might convict himself of the “self imposed” punishment. But that didn’t change anything, his life continued the way it was ; mental institution to mental institution, city to city. Only now the doctors didn’t visit him that often, no one wants to face his failures and this one was a breathing, living failure.
It was then that the killings started. Each ward he was moved to saw a murder. A young nurse would be found raped and brutally butchered. Given his acquired reputation everyone accused him. Even though the possibility of a paralyzed man recovering and then having such physical stamina is slim, one can’t refute people’s belief so easily. The police investigation was going no where, the killer never left any clues, the victims’ families and friends demanded justice, the victims’ colleagues were scared and wanted peace of mind. The police was under pressure and since his presence at each hospital of crime could not be crossed off as a mere coincidence the murder case was solved and the earlier accusations were given an official name by the police. He was now a murder. The police couldn’t accept its failure as a law enforcement agency and he was the carpet the dust was shoved under.
The people wanted blood, the police could not afford a living, breathing failure, he saw the electric chair…
…but he never moved.
Thy Lord Curses Thee
A murky, muddy marsh on one side, the waters that once were are now thick enough to swallow raging beasts. The surface of the swamp bubbles as thick, slothful currents flow under it.
A sprawling field on the other side but it is shot with electricity. Each leaf, every stem hold a static so powerful it can burn a living soul to dust. A step too close and it fries its victim to hell. In the distance stands a lone, shriveled tree. Its branches, dry and leafless, make it look like a skeleton in the horizon.
Thick dark clouds drape the sky. Lying low they seem like a menacing doom waiting to strike. Their threatening growls break a silence which itself is loud enough to make ears ring. The ground shakes with the deep intimidating grumbles of the brooding overcast.
Bright intricate veins emerge from the skies and kiss the branches of the skeleton tree in the horizon. The entire field incarcerates a wild frenzy, an energy so strong it will make every living soul near it go frantic with the power it possesses. And the marsh lies solemnly; waiting to entrap, waiting to enslave the in fortunate beings which would be its victims.
Dead silence, pitch black – it’s all over.
Soldier
He woke up in what seemed to be a dark tunnel and was on his feet in an instant. He strode forward, pulling a couple of daggers from under his cloak. With his arms spread out his silhouette seemed like that of some winged creature about to spring its prey. The blades went down piercing the backs and going through the hearts of the two guards who stood at the exit of the tunnel. He let the men fall face first on to the ground, reached at his waist with his right hand, and pulled out his sword. The blade shone in the early morning light. Through the mist he saw the back of a man, plunging his spear repeatedly in the body of a now dead fellow soldier. He sprinted forward, the blade parallel to his chest, his hand rose and the gleaming iron went down as he passed by the man. He felt the sword cut through the soft flesh and the hard bone followed by a spray of warm blood on his neck; he heard the screams of pleasure turn into screams of agony. Turning back he swung the sword; chopping the man’s head off, making everything seem silent for a moment.
As he scanned the battlefield, the sound of clashing blades and screams and grunts of agony became apparent to him. Again he ran forward, this time towards a group of enemy soldiers, with both his hands at the hilt of his sword. He approached from the back, sliced the stomach of the soldier on the left and then swung around, face to face with three barbaric faces. One fell as a spear of a fellow soldier went through his chest. He struck the man in front of him with his sword only to be met by the enemy’s blade. A step forward, another strike, another blade. His opponent’s blade came down this time, straight for his shoulder. He went down on one knee and blocked the blow with his sword. Reaching for his heel with his free hand, he pulled out a small blade and jabbed it in the enemy’s belly. He heard a grunt as he sliced his opponents belly open. Still at his feet, he held his sword by both hands and swung it at the enemy to his right, cutting off his leg. He stood up as the enemy’s soldier fell down, screams of agony filling his ears. He plunged his sword in the enemy’s chest, silencing the screams.
He looked at the fellow soldier to his left, gave him a nod and then they both sprang forward, swords at their side, sprinting towards another group of enemy soldiers, sprinting towards more death.
Granddads
My Dada (Paternal Grandfather) died of cancer last year, it took just months from the diagnoses to the day he passed away. I would say I was fortunate for I did not see him shrivel away. Even with cancer he was walking till the last day of his life. Maybe a fast growing cancer was a good thing. It didn’t put him in pain (or a lot of it), it didnt torture him.
I remember from when I was a kid that we watched the entire Ghalib movie (or series) together. I always wanted to get the series on DVD and watch it with him as an adult. Unfortunately, I was never able to do that. They say you don’t realize what you have till you lose it and when you lose someone that elderly you suddenly realize the mammoth of knowledge they had. Me and my Dada used to have discussion on politics, I was the only person in the entire household (my chachos, dad and rest of cousins included) who could actually high five him, an advantage of being the eldest grandson I suppose. I vividly remember the day I “fived” him for the first time, my mum and chachoos (uncles) were visibly shocked but somehow I knew I didn’t cross any boundaries. After my Dada passed away, there was quite a few times I read the newspaper headlines and thought to myself, “Will discuss it with Dada Abu when I go to his place next” only to realize that he was no more.
Ironically, I have always felt his absence in subtle ways like that. The day he passed away I was at the hospital and when I learned that he has passed away, I felt nothing. Nothing at all, maybe I was prepared since I knew he was suffering from a very bad case of cancer. That does not however explain how I felt nothing a couple of years before that when my Nana Abu (Maternal Grandfather) passed away.
Again as was the case with Dada Abu I realized his absence and his death gradually over time. Like in winters when we used to go to his place and he would come out to receive us or see us off with a shawl wrapped around him. Or the number of dictionaries there used to be on his bedside and lounge’s table; he used to solve the crossword, the jumble and a couple of other word games from each days newspaper – an attribute my sister took up later. Oh and his walking stick and this particular way he used to swing it when he walked, always seemed very sophisticated to me. As a kid I tried to swing a stick just like Nana Abu did but I could never get it right. Since I lost my Nana Abu earlier than my Dada Abu there are things I never did with him. I never realized how much he knew about current affairs and never got to hear him talk of a political situation in the calm, controlled manner that he used to speak in. I never got to learn of each and every road of Karachi through him; yes, he was excellent with directions and somehow knew where everything of even the slightest of importance was. One thing I know I pick from my Nana Abu, being a techy. Nana Abu would know everything about tuning the latest TV set and what additional features it offered, how the internet works and how to send emails all over the world. He knew before me what an ISP is, yes thanks to his love for reading he would read all the IT magazines that my Mammo (uncle) used to have lying about the house.
Among everything, something I always feel that I missed out was the fact I never learned enough from their experiences. It is after you lose someone so important that you realize that you had never even begun to estimate their importance, their knowledge and their love. I have never said it before today, but I miss them and I wish I had spent more time with them.
Rest in peace, Granddads.
P.S. This post is inspired by Hold my hand… by Rabia and basically started off as a reply to that post.
The Octet
There I stood, on the road which I drove for the journey of life. There I stood at the same old spot again. One would not expect the same parking spots as he packs years of his life on the odometer but lately it seems that I have been going round in circles. Funny since highways aren’t supposed to do that. I wish I could call it déjà vu but it is the same down to every little detail. Coincidences occur only once but somehow miles and miles of this winding road has become a routine. Anyone who has ever travelled with me wonders how can I call anything related to this road a routine. Thing is, once you have driven so many years only a retard would miss out the resemblance of the parking spots. Maybe they were right, everything does come in eight – the octet. Atoms combine by the rule of octet and form the fundamental molecule, a byte consists of 8 bits and is the fundamental of computing, music has the musical octave which forms the fundamentals for musical notes. But should it not end when the octet is complete? That is reason for the octet; completion. Eight of electrons, eight of bits, eight of notes; all completing something. Things have purpose, purpose determines goal but once the goal is achieved, does the purpose of existence die as well? Shouldn’t the journey end if you have reached the end? Why does it loop back and restarts? This was not supposed be cyclic, but perhaps I am wrong since here I am at the same old spot again!
