سردیوں کی دھند اور رات کے اندھیرے میں لپٹی اس کے گھر کو جانے والی سنسان سڑک پر یادوں کا ہجوم تھا. گہرے سناٹوں میں قائم اس میلے میں کتنے آشناء دیکھے. وہ ابتداء کے بھیجے ہوئے پیغامات، خط اور تصاویر قہقہوں میں مصروف تھے. رات بھر ہونے والی فون کالز بھی موجود تھیں. روشنی بکھیرتے تحائف پہلے روز سے روشن تھے اور شام کی رونق کے فریب کا سبب تھے. وہ پہلی ملاقات اس رونق کی جان بنے ہجوم کے بیچ تھی. اس کے گرد قول و قرار کی بھیڑ تھی. جن سے آج بھی لوگ بے خبر ہیں وہ لمحات وصل محفل میں باحجاب تھے. حالیہ مباحثے کو بھی ایک کونے میں پرانے اختلافات کے ساتھ پایا. ایک طرف سب تلخیاں بھی یکجا نظرآئیں. آخرمیں کھڑی جدائی کا حسن سحر انگیز تھا. میں اس چوک تک پہنچ چکا تھا جس کے قریب اس کا گھر تھا. دھند گہری ہو چکی تھی.
Rain is a song. No, not that raunchy one the greedy director adds to the dumb plot of the movie just to spice it enough to turn his junk into a profit. It is the song that takes some back into the past and others into alternate futures. Yet, it remains a song. All geographies and languages have a stash of songs on rain, quite befitting ones. When all those songs are played together, what would you hear? Exactly the sound that reminds you of the drizzle outside.
A few people were standing right around the corner. As laws of nature do not change, so light doesn’t bend around the corners, there was no way I could have seen them before I crossed it. I had to reach there, take that path with the corner in its existence and come to know about their existence at the corner.
Life is not a straight path. It is full of these bends and corners, some more cherished than the others. A law of nature that we come to eventually is our inability to escape these corners, no matter how we want or try to avoid them. There is a turn where you are to meet your best friend, a corner where love would show you its glimpse, an edge traveling beyond which is possible only if you could dodge your enemies who await there just to ambush you.
As we cannot form a list of people we haven’t known or met, we can do the opposite and make a list of all those we know and want to meet or don’t want to meet. One of the faces from those who stood at the corner brought up the feeling of “just avoid and walk on” as it bore resemblance to someone on one of those lists. A turn is unavoidable but a being is. These turns unfold according to our desires in the imaginary scenarios that keep happening in a loop in our heads. There, life becomes a straight path with no kinks and no kinky ones to avoid. But hey, whom will you avoid crossing after reading this turn?
Are you awake? Yes, because that’s what your mind is conditioned to believe in. Obviously how else are you able to read this if otherwise. This learning is exactly why dreams feel real until they break. Yet, for all human, wise and health reasons one needs to drift off once a day or the whole balance would come crumbling down. Right before sleep is about to take us away, something holds us to stay awake and be in this world for a bit longer. Ever wondered what it is? A sin we cannot go back in time and undo? A memory of a cherished moment we want to live for at least once before all connections to this life break? A knock of the conscience? An old desire that still convinces you that it is achievable still? Half forgotten names of people, books and movies that even modern internet search engines have failed to answer to? A desire to reset everything and everyone in life? A craving that collides head on with the rules of society, faith, morality and humanity? An old grudge that still burns strong? Is it the dupatta that entwined with your shirt buttons that day that you still feel exerting its pull? Is it the spell cast by an enemy? Is it the growth of the reason the coroner would put on your death certificate eventually? Is it the realization that nothing you thought is yours is really? Is it the pain that you cannot find any familiar face in the city you call home? Is it the pain that friends have all disappeared? Is it the fear of dying or living? What is it Aamir babu?
No two worshippers get the same reward even when performing the same ritual in the same amount. No two lovers get the same return even when loving the same focus with the same intensity. No two readers would come to the same meanings when reading the same lines. I don’t know what meanings would you draw after reading these words. Just like you don’t know mine. Or do you?
Is love in the air? Maybe. Or perhaps it isn’t. All elements including that of air and the others have been known to carry this emotion. Time, as ruthless as it can be, transforms the shade and the intensity of it making it invisible at certain turns pushing mortals to believe that it might have ended. These mortals then conclude that there is no love in the air. Some who were lucky enough to gather a following decided to summon it up on one day for expressing or for escape but they overlooked the fact that it’s one of those things that can never be bound to a moment. An entire life seems to be too little for it, let alone a day that comes every year. It is not just the air that has carried it. Ghalib mentions the faces of love that gave meaning to life vanishing into the earth. Time proves him timeless and right. There would always be love in and on earth. And as one version of the story goes, there lived two energies in a place called paradise who were madly in love with each other. The balance was disturbed when a third one was introduced resulting in the fire getting expelled. It was love that could not be ended. So the fire carried it along seeking vengeance. Rest assured, if you carry any or all of the elements, it’s already there contaminating the remotest ends of your soul and your life. But hey, just don’t buy flowers today, they are selling them at inflated rates.
گھر کا مالک گھر میں رہتا ہے. لیکن دل کا مالک دل میں نہیں رہتا. اس کے گھومنے کی عادت اسے خون کی طرح گردش میں رکھتی ہے. جب وہ آنکھوں تک پہنچتا ہے تو ہر جگہ دکھائی دینے لگتا ہے، ہر چہرے میں اپنی مماثلت بناتا ہے. بادل بھی اس کے زیر اثر ہو جاتے ہیں تب ہی تو ان میں بھی وہی نظر آتا ہے. جب گردش کرتا کانوں تک پہنچتا ہے تو کانوں میں بھی اور گانوں میں بھی اسی کی آواز سنائی دیتی ہے. سڑک پر دل افسردہ کر دینے والا ٹریفک کا شور بھی غائب ہو جاتا ہے. کچھ سنائی دیتا ہے تو صرف اس کی آواز جس میں سب آوازیں گم ہو چکی ہوتی ہیں. گردش اسے زبان تک ضرور لے جاتی ہے لیکن دنیا کو بھی نظر نہ آ جائے، وہ الفاظ کا لبادہ اوڑھ لیتا ہے. باتوں کے جادو کو جان وہی تو دیتا ہے. پھر دوڑتا ہوا پھیپڑوں میں سانس بن جاتا ہے تو جگر میں جان. اس کا روٹھ جانا بھوک بھی مٹا دیتا ہے. اور بھی اعضاء ہیں جہاں قدم رکھتے وہ ہر اس جذبے کو بھڑکتا ہے جس کے لیے قدرت نے وہ اعضاء بنائے. واپس دل تک پہنچنے سے پہلے وہ دماغ اور ذہن تک لازمی آتا ہے.اس کے ذہن میں آنے کی وجہ سے تو یہ الفاظ بھی پیدا ہوئے. میں اکیلا تو نہیں جس نے اس کے بارے میں کچھ لکھا. بازار بھرے پڑے ہیں ان کتابوں سے جو اس کے ذہن تک پہنچنے کے بعد تخلیق ہوئیں. آخر وہ دل تک واپس آ ہی جاتا ہے اور بنا دستک اندر بھی داخل ہو جاتا ہے. مالک جو ٹھہرا. میں کونے میں بیٹھا یہ تماشا دیکھتا رہتا ہوں.
Originally published on June 3rd, 2021 at 12:17am
There are three fundamentals in life.
Roti. Kapra. Makaan.
I went to get roti.
There was a kapra on the dough.
Fate had me in that place, in that moment – my makaan.
Who wants to be sad? Nobody. Happiness or even the illusion of it are driving energies of life. That is one explanation of why everyone adores money. We can buy the path to happiness at least. Yet, not a single soul has walked on earth including the first beings whose hearts were devoid of sorrow. Our sorrows give shape to what we consider happiness. A man with no son and only daughters in the subcontinent has a different definition of happiness than a man who has only sons. Happiness is a guest that stays inside our souls and eventually departs. Sorrows are long staying tenants we want to kick out at times.
Yesterday, I had a talk with Baba that branched out to the afterlife and the ideas of Paradise and Hell. In his definition, sorrow and shock can never enter paradise. The heart of Paradise dweller is devoid of these feelings. The idea has allured men. On the opposite, it saddened me and brought another tenant to live in. How can I kick someone now who has lived a life at a place and has called it his own? How can I evict a tenant who has lived longer than any friend has? These sorrows have grown strong than those claimed to love. Can you kick an old friend out? Would you?
How often do we record our conversations? There exist laws in different geographies that don’t allow this while in others they require to inform all the participants in a call about being recorded. iOS users don’t enjoy this perk in the first place as Apple, being what it has become, does not allow recording phone calls in the first place. Workarounds for this do exist, however. The rescue teams rush to the site of a plane crash and try to find the plane’s black box and survivors alike. In earlier days, diagnostics including the plane’s altitude, remaining distance, and fuel were recorded on a thin metal plate inside the black box. With time things have gone digital. More than a hundred diagnostics about an aircraft are being recorded including voice recordings from inside the cockpit. All of this helps to understand the events leading to the disaster and also to avoid such tragedies in the future. Our phones are very much like these black boxes. They hold secrets to our lives and their secrets. Yet, only a very tiny segment of users thinks to record their conversations. Texts and letters have a longer half-life than voice and video calls. These calls become a memory as soon as they end. Still that feeling of listening to a call that happened ten years ago or seeing a video call from that time brings back a flood of emotions that can never be explained. Are we wise enough to document every call we make, every video conversation we give life to, every text, and every chat we breathe into our phones?
A drama titled CALLS is a story with every episode about a different person that is narrated through their recordings. It triggered this writing. I am neither wise enough nor brave enough to record everything. Still documenting is what brought knowledge to our hearts and we would not be honest until we document our lives and fill a black box for those who come after us. Just make sure it is big enough to hold all loved ones and all grudges together.