Hey there! Pt. 2

Take off your shoes. Don't worry, this is dirt, but it's clean dirt. Like the Earth. The un polluted, pure parts of the Earth. Walking on this will actually make you feel better. So anyways, come on in, lonely soul. Yes, we have established the fact that you might not be a lonely soul. But if you are one of the rare people who have found their soulmate, please hold your tongue. You wouldn't want to offend your host? Especially since you are in the host. I mean in my brain. But here we are, and off we go once more on the tour.
So I know last time our goodbyes were a bit rushed and abrupt. What can I do? Management had a fit. Management was still so against having you over again. But what can I do? I had to.
So that's the path we took last time. This time, Management told me to lay out the rules before we went inside. I know, tedious. Anyways: just don't touch anything, ESPECIALLY A MEMORY, and keep to the path. Stick with me because trust me, you do NOT want to get lost in here.
So I thought I would take you to the Insomniac Sector. This is where I am when I can't sleep. You might find that this is covered with crazy colours, but that's just how it is. So come over here. You see this tube? It's like a tunnel but I don't think anyone can fit down here (even if you are skinny and small enough don't try it) but this is also the most unfortunate connection. This connects my brain to my legs. In other parts, similar hollow tubes connect my legs to those other parts. So basically, when I can't sleep, I get this urge to move my legs, hence the tossing and turning. Moving on, we can see over here how the Bad Memory Sector is linked to this part too: every stupid and cringy thing I may have done or said is revisited and re-evaluated. As you can see: the Over-Analysing Sector is also connected. The Fear of The Unknown and The Fear of the Near Future are also located behind that black box. The Fears are actually part of this Sector and we just provide connections when they are required in other Sections or in other times. I can't open this black box in your presence. I'll tell you what it contains: an overwhelming concentrated colour fusion. Opening this will keep you awake for hours, until you feel as if you are loosing yourself and your soul into this. After that the Colours will trick you into the Void. Here, the Void will strip you of your identity and defence. The Void will strip you until you are raw and bare and then it will target you with everything you have ever avoided or defended yourself against. You think you're so smart that you can just choose to not go into the Void? Do you not know of the sinister nature of these colours, enticing you with their ways, luring you in into a seemingly merry world and then… The Void. Many a man has lost his sanity here. You remember when I took your coats at the door? I didn't just take your coats. I took away your material existence. So take a look at yourself. What are you? A bare soul. Vulnerable. So the only material existence here is the one that I possess. Nevertheless, let us continue!
Any questions? No?
Your sanity?
My sanity? You see, this is my brain. My brain is the guardian of my sanity. So yes, I have been in the void, and yes, I have survived it.
The insomniac Sector gets its own access to the Eyes. You know the little innocent light of the street lamps outside which slips in through the tired old curtains and dances on the ceiling? My brain stares at the light until it reaches the intensity of the Sun and becomes unbearable. Aah the connection with the ears: this is what makes me think that my brother breathing in his sleep sounds like a train going around in my head, whistling away in my ears.
This is the overall-over sensitivity of the entire body: usually, I can sleep anywhere no matter how hard or soft it is. But in insomniac times, the slightest bump feels like a huge knife trying to pierce my skin.
Over here, this is the Past and opposite this is the Future. I spend a lot of time inside these rooms. The space in between is (quite obviously) the Present but I guess during Insomniac times being in the present gives me anxiety, even though the anxiety is in anticipation of the future….
So here we are in the Conversation Room. Here I go through any conversations I may have had, online or offline, and think how I could've answered differently or said something wittier if only I had taken an entire insomniac night to think before I answered. Not that there's something wrong with what has been said. But what's an insomniac night without over-analysing and worrying about something completely useless and unproductive, right?

Anyways. I don't want you to start thinking you know everything about me or atleast about this Sector. There's lots that has been left unsaid. It's safer that way. That's the door right there, if you want you can leave, if you want we can have a coffee or something. It's up to you but I won't show you more. I think this is enough for this time.
So what do you say? Coffee or "Rab Rakhan"?

Of Traveling and Thoughts.

Entering Lahore after a long journey, Lahore welcomes you on the Mall Road with a big "Welcome to Lahore" sign, right next to the University of Vetenary Sciences, the first major landmark on the Mall. This is also the saddest part of the journey out of Lahore, as after that the Lahore City ends. However, when we left Lahore this time, we didn't take the Mall Road. We were on it, and we saw the High Court, the GPO, GC university, the town hall to name a few of the classic buildings. But then we went on another road, so I never saw the "Goodbye" sign opposite the Vet University. If we had, we would then have found ourselves in Shahdara, which although is not part of the Lahore city, but part of the District Lahore. After that comes the river Ravi, or what is left of it anyway. The Ravi is a rather historic river but is now dried up. In fact, in an old mazmoon I had read, the writer had declared the Punjab (Punj meaning five and aab meaning water i.e. Land of The Five Waters or Rivers) as having only four and a half rivers, meaning the Ravi was only half a river. If he had been alive now, he would have declared Ravi to be a canal instead of a river. (Or a collection of puddles)
Nevertheless, that is not why I had decided to write. As you may have guessed, I am travelling. And leaving Lahore is so hard! No matter where I may live, my heart shall forever be here, in this city. I have been reading a book on Lahore which is a little boring to read, but it is full of information and has only increased my love for the city.
However, our journey does not end at Lahore. We are going North, so hopefully the weather will be nice! I need a break from this heat and humidity!
Traveling is not an issue for me. But all those hours in a car, with my little brother!! I had had a nice breakfast in the morning just so I wouldn't have to eat during the journey, because that makes me feel sick. And just as we left Lahore, the brother decided to have some crisps. And the packet was opened. The smell filled the air. Already, I had been trying to not think about the air in the car and how everyone was breathing in this limited space. But then the smell!! Every breath I took seemed to take the smell inside, all the way into my gut where my breakfast lay ready to come out via anti peristaltic movements. However, I survived. Then came the chewing. Endless chewing with an open mouth: the one thing I cannot stand. I tried to tell him once but he ignored me. Never mind, I told myself. Think of something else. And now he put the packet away and started biting his nails!! The other thing I absolutely cannot stand! However, I could not loose my cool. If I did, the journey would be ruined, and I didn't want that to happen.
At this point I decided to check where exactly was Chitral Gol National Park because that is also a place I would like to visit someday. However, my mobile internet was not working. Perfect! This network never failed to disappoint me. At this point I decided to update my dear readers (that's you) with my current situation. And that's about it.
Another thing I don't like about trips like these is the inevitability of the need of the bathroom by the human body. Anyways. I might do a "Hey There! Pt. 2" while I'm in the car. Or I might not. The Motorway is the most boring road in this country!
Wish me luck. Remember me in your duas.
Until next time,
Rab Rakhan.

Dark Clouds

Dark clouds have turned day into dullness. A magnificent wind blows, entering this window and exiting that window. It is so dark I cannot read, yet I have not switched on any lights yet. The darkness corresponds to my mood. For days now, weeks, the weather had been the same: either oppressive heat with unbearable humidity, or continuous rainfall still with humidity. Why should I call a continuous rainfall “still”? It was so. Everything was still. Days rolled into weeks, weeks into months, and yet all was still. Utter monotony. I sat on the floor, amidst cotton amd nail polish. Looking out, seeing the hours while away, away to be lost in monotony. People ask: are you well? Yes, I am well. Well enough. I have everything I could need and more: monotony. An unchanging routine with no chance of excitement. No prospect for difference for another year or so. People are dying around the globe, death visits the neighbors and here I am. Perhaps the most ungrateful of them all? Perhaps just human? Books find me a way to escape: sometimes the past, sometimes in lands so far from my eye and yet, as soon as we come back, the sameness returns, the circumstances are still, our ways uninterrupted. We have done so much and yet nothing. Looking out I see a freshness in the green of the leaves but I know as I leave the house in accordance with my routine, I shall come back to find even that stale with dust. Sometimes the rain intensifies, sometimes it calms down, sometimes it even stops. I know I have a lot to do and not enough time, yet I know if these words are not penned down they too will be lost in the vast expanses of my thoughts. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. When I prioritise something above words, I am punished by their loss. Yet writing deprives me of words too. This is sometimes pleasant: no words to think of, a clear mind, a consciousness. However, sometimes it has the reverse effect: I am overburdened with words and they keep forming until I have no alternative except to put my mind at rest: sleep. But all this does not relieve me of the current monotony. Seeing the time, however, I realise that I have nothing new to offer to anyone. I am NOT depressed, or upset. These feelings have now turned into cliches and irritate me to an extent that is unbearable. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand, but try living your entire life with the female species of this society… particularly the Homo sapiens. Felis felidae would make a nicer alternative for this society but that has other problems and anyways, I have yet to write about that another day. Anyways, as I was saying, I am not upset or anything, I am just tired of the same sameness that engulfs my world, even though the Earth is in chaos.

Until next time, stay hydrated.

Rab Rakhan. 

(P.S. If you happen to be a female of the species mentioned, please do not be offended, I was referring to the females found in my society that I face. Just like when I do my post on the females of Felis felidae, I shall be referring to those of my society too. I should add that this post reflects my mood for this passage of time, and that almost none of my posts reflect my “permanent” moods or stances on anything, if such a thing exists. Also if there is someone genuinely depressed or upset, you have my sympathies. I was referring to all those people who have turned this into cliches. May Allah bless us all with His bounties. Remember me in your prayers.)

MirroredĀ 

God created everything in pairs. There has been a lot said on this subject, and I really have no right to add anything to this, given my lack of experience, knowledge and judgment. But the fact remains: I have been extremely intrigued and fascinated by this. Everything was made in pairs: to everything there is a mirror. The sky and the ocean, Rumi and Shams, the sun and the moon, even the adhaan. Imagine there is a peace and tranquil that has descended upon the Earth. The people are deep in slumber, the world is a new place. Not everything is allowed to be fully conscious during this period. Even the birds have been shushed lest they should distract what the true hearts try to seek in those wee hours. God has descended upon the lowest heaven. Never was there anything more touching than seeing a true believer turn to his true Master, even though the believer had been labelled as a kaafir by the people of the world, even though the believer had been labelled as a kaafir by his self. In such a delicate time, the silence is broken by a deep melodious voice:

Allah-o-Akbar Allah-o-Akbar 

The believer, no matter how cracked his voice may be, no matter how ugly it may sound to others, silently mutters: 

Allah-o-Akbar Allah-o-Akbar 

The two voices, so entirely different, received in such different ways, loved by different people, and yet, the words are essentially the same. The words of the Muezzin mirrored by the believer.

What is interesting to see here is that this concept does not remain only in His material creations, but extends throughoutho the universe. Even in the Qur’an. I had been listening to a video on a surah of the Qur’an, and the speaker had actually used the word “mirror”. The beginning of the surah was mirrored by the end. It was so beautiful, the works of Allah.

_____

I know, dear reader, I know. As much as I have disappointed you, believe me I have disappointed myself even more with my words. Perhaps this piece was written by my heart (but perhaps it was not) and my heart has a limited vocabulary as compared to my mind. If I could have written this piece in the order of which I thought it out, it would have had some organisation. But the thoughts came too quick, and as I started writing it out, they refused to stop. What I wanted to write about in the beginning, what my real inspiration was, somehow got lost during the process. Hence there is an abrupt change of subject. My initial inspiration was somewhat linked to my final inspiration, and the result is what you see. I’m still going to publish this piece. I have had too many drafts waiting but never making their way out. Perhaps the next time we see each other, I shall have something of substance to tell you. Believe me this old mind has all sorts of stories and thoughts waiting to be liberated. But they are often lost as soon as I try to confine them in the form of words. I realise that I have been blabbing for quite some time now… if you have read it all, thankyou. I get the feeling not a lot read my posts anymore. But oh well. 

Until next time,

Rab Rakhan!

The StruggleĀ 

A woman gives birth to a child. The child is a son. A son who grows up to have strength, power and dominance in a male dominant society.

The son grows up into a man. But, nevertheless, remains a son. Only he forgets that. And then he becomes.

A son who dishonours the womb that bore him.

I wish I could write this sentence on every book, every blog, every wall. A son who dishonours the womb that bore him.

The woman goes through so much. So much physical pain, long before she ever thought of marriage. So much physical pain, all her life. The son does not realise this, obviously. The son is stupid. So much emotional pain, all her life. Her society makes fun of her emotional pain which is due to her physical pain. The society she lives in, has more women than men. Nevertheless, her emotional stability (or instability, as some would argue) instead of being understood, is looked down upon as a weakness. The weakness which is, eventually, what shapes great men.

But. She lives in agony. Pain, emotional and physical, as already established. Mentally drained. Frustrated to the core. Idiotic sons everywhere. Men who forget they are eventually sons. She sacrifices so much. All her life, not even in just one phase. She lets go of so much. She is patient. A patience that has been enforced upon her. Then, she surpresses her ego. She tries to find shelter, support and security from the same species she needs to secure herself from.

And then the son is born. The son who grows up to be a son. And also a father, sometime in the future. But that is what he remains: a son. And he forgets. Perhaps, one day, when he will be held accountable, he might remember. But until then, he forgets.

A human being is so insignificant. A fusion of gametes. Disgusting. But they forget this, and do some things that are not meant to be done. 

A girl lies in bed, silent tears flowing from shut eyes. Yearning for the strength of a man to be endowed upon her, to cope with the pain she thinks might claim her life. It does not, she lives. Only to experience similar pain, pains that could not be borne by men.

A man has strength. More than a woman, he thinks proudly. A strength that has no equal, he thinks. And so he uses it. Unjustly, to cause pain. Never thinking that the pain he inflicts, whether it is physical or emotional, could come back and take away his strength. Nature is symmetrical, afterall. But it seldom happens, and he gets away with it more times than is fair.

Men are disgusting to an extent which cannot be explained. Gone are the days when there were men of valour, morale. Chivalric men who could be trusted. And now, times have changed. This is a new era. I wish, though, I just wish that they would think at least for a moment that they, too, were born from a womb they disgrace.

Random Stuff I Write During Class

The ring played in her fingertips. The thumb rolled it over to the middle finger, which passed it to the index finger. The ring was constantly being rolled over, sometimes this way, sometimes that way, nimble fingers playing…

And then, all of a sudden, it slipped from the index finger. It fell, fell, fell into a dark abyss between all five fingers, and landed quite abruptly in the palm. As if in shock, all five fingers froze, unsure as to what was to be done now. The pause was only for a moment, though. But it still felt like an eternity before the thumb reached down and, slowly, took hold of one edge inside the ring. It half-dragged, half-rolled it upwards. As the ring ascended, the index finger, quite nervous now, reached down too and took hold of the other edge. With a united effort, the ring was once again held up to be crowned on the tips of the fingers.

The girl sat beside her, and the motions of the fingers and the ring had her mesmerized. She looked, and she saw. The fall of the ring, the rise of the ring, the way it moved with the gentle movements of those fingers. She almost gave a cry of despair as the ring fell, and joy filled her eyes like tears as the ring rose.

The girl to whom the hand belonged, however, saw the ring unseeingly. Her mind was away, far away, thinking thoughts that were better unthought, the epicenter of which was that ring. Her lower lip trembled, but the eyes stared defiantly at the ring. The ring, however, had drowned in its new-found self-importance, and was oblivious to the world.

The bell rang, all was lost. All was lost.

Steamed Windows

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The windows of the car were steaming up. The girl shivered. It was getting cold now. She switched the A.C. one step lower. Through the fogged windows, the world was a magical place. She could only see the brightest areas of the market place, which made the effect stunning. She could see the headlamps of a car speeding away, a motorbike trying to over-take it. She could see the street lamp across the road, spreading light across the market place. She could see the illuminated sign boards, with broad letters and perfectly square corners. All she had to do was roll down the window, and this magical enchantment would transform into a hot August night, bustling with life and noise, a busy market place where everyone was hurrying. She reached to roll it down, but then changed her mind. She had witnessed those scenes far too many times. The fogged window provided her with a scene from an enchanted land. A land that could be hers entirely… where she could decide what was to be and what not. She let her imagination run wild for a moment. Just a moment. Because the next second she was roused by the magnificent roar of thunder. Now she rolled down the window, at last.


A tired sleepy girl in a red velvet nightie just settled into her bed covers. It must have been about 11’o’clock and she was exhausted. The day’s events had been hectic. She knew also that the rest of her family were already fast asleep. It was a hot night. The windows were open and the fan was making queer sounds. She decided to call the electrician the following day. There was just so much to be done in the house before the guests would arrive.The guests would have to sleep in her room, of course. Then maybe she could sleep in her sister’s room? Yes, she would have to.

A majestic roar of thunder broke the chain of thoughts in her weary mind. She raised her head for a minute and scanned the outside through her window. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky for a split second. The girl sighed. A thunderstorm, she thought. Then she closed her eyes and muttered a prayer of protection.


The old man straightened his bent back with some difficulty. He made his way to his bicycle. He stopped, and with one hand took out a few hundred rupee notes from his pocket. He smiled. He had had a day full of hard work, and he had put in over time. This would get his daughter the clothes she needed. She was getting married. Most of the preparations were complete already. Though he did need to pay the electrician. And the tailor. He frowned. He mounted the bicycle with some difficulty because his arms ached. In the morning he worked as a gardener, then he would come to the market place and do the welding. Today, however, he had also been chopping wood. But quite simply, he was tired. It was 11’o’clock. He hoped his wife had his dinner ready. He was starving. He scanned the marketplace with weary eyes, searching for his son. There was a car parked under a tree, some distance away. The engine was on, and the windows were steamed up! How odd! He wondered why the windows were steamed up. A roar of thunder made him jump. A thunderstorm? He needed to get home quickly. He saw the window rolling down. A man was running towards the car. The window now revealed the delicate face of a beautiful lady wrapped in a green scarf. She must know the man, because she was smiling at him. And then a flash of lightning…


The window allowed the hot air inside the air conditioned car. It felt nice. The car was too cold. She looked outside searching for her brother. She didn’t have much difficulty. He was running towards the car. She smiled. She was actually getting anxious. It was getting late. It was 11’o’clock! But now she smiled in relief as she saw he had her art supplies with him. For a moment her gaze wandered to an old man with some hundred rupee notes in his hands. Then she saw his face light up first with lightning and then with horror. She traced his gaze. Her imaginings from a while ago were no longer imaginings. Without thinking her hands opened the door that creaked on its hinges, and ran to the now lifeless body of her brother, struck down by that bolt of lightning. The condensation on the window of the car found it to be too much, and the tears which should have been on her tears now traced the edges of the window.