The Shahyr Talash

The red marble walls stretched on far into the horizons, emblazoned in the red sun that glared overhead. The crack of whips, rising and falling in harmony, supplied a dread symphony to the convoy as they entered Shayhar Talash. A city where people came to regain what had been lost, always for a price beyond paying.

Ahzaan peered out from under the silk canvas, gray eyes wide open. The city was overwhelming, the wailing of women in grief, the anguish visible on the faces of grown men as they flogged their own flesh in repentance, the ground damp with its undertaking of soaking up the grief of thousands and the entire mosaic covered with blood. Everywhere that eyes could see, seeping though the expanse of the monolithic city, was the blood color.

“It is said of Talash, that if you stretch your arms out, you can feel grief, pain and sorrow on your palms.”

So unexpected were the words of his guardian at this late hour that Ahzaan reflexively covered himself in his chaadar and pretended to be asleep. Then slowly realizing the futility of his actions, he came out from under the cover.

“I did not realize you were awake, Dahda.” Ahzaan replied, all the while conscious that he couldn’t stop rubbing his palms.

“Do not take my words so literally, Zaan. It was merely a metaphor, when you become my age it’s considered charming to speak in riddles,” the old man said, as a grin spread across his face “It makes us seem wise.”

Ahzaan studied his Dahda, in a way that he had oft done over the past month. His blue turban wound tightly around his head so that nay a strand of hair was visible. Twin needles for a mustache, followed by an equally pointed beard extending only from his chin. Only the gray eyes embedded in the bronze visage hinted at kinship with the dark-skinned boy.

“Yes, you do go after your mother, for the better as well.”

“Must you…” Ahzaan started with a gentle hint of temper behind his words.

“Hoho! But I must, for you are my charge and even your thoughts should not be private to you.” The old man cut Ahzaan off.

Ahzaan sighed and snuggled back is his cushions. The old man seemed to be enjoying himself greatly at the discomfort he had caused. ‘I know better than to tangle myself in this web’, Ahzaan thought, ‘he’s just being an old fool, laughing at jokes and games between us that only he understands.’

A mithai was offered as a token of truce, one of the soft, yellow crumbly ones that Ahzaan loved. He knew bribery when he saw it, but that did not reduce its temptation. He thought carefully about the implications and lessons that could be woven into this seemingly benign gesture, and was glad that it came to him as easily as it did.

“The giver and taker of bribe shall both…” Ahzaan began.

“…find their way to Talash.” The old man completed for Ahzaan, even if those were not the words Ahzaan would have used.

“Let us not speak more of that for now, here more than any other place, mind what you know, Zaan. Here take this; I would not have my goody box assaulted at night because you regretted your decision, made in good sense though it was.”

Nibbling on the treat Ahzaan once again peered out at the city through a slit in the canvas, they were closer to the heart of the city now. The air was humid and moisture clung to people like a second skin, yet the mourners seemed too pre-occupied to notice. Even here, in the heart of the central bazaar, red was all around; thin curtains hung over shop entrances more to indicate a perimeter rather than block vision, the turbans worn by the Lal Tajirs, the most prominent trading guild of Talash, even the vials in which they sold their fragrances, Ityr.

There were shops lined on both sides of the Ghum Rah, the central road which led straight to Ansu Mizaar and exited the city at its eastern gates to continue its journey through the Raakh. The road was four wagons wide, yet so cramped it was at this hour with the passage of bodies that it appeared impossibly narrow. Presently, the convoy turned off the Rah, and onto one of the smaller rastahs indicating an end to a journey which had taken over two Chand Mahs, lunar months.

Ahzaan was pleased to realize that he had picked up so much of the Bedouin speech; it had been one of few things that had helped ease the passage of time while traveling through the desolate, barren landscape its inhabitants had aptly named the Ashes. But ashes need to be off something, something grand that has been reduced to nothing…what could possibly have been grand out here, at the edge of the world?

He never got the chance to complete his thoughts, as the convoy came to an abrupt halt. A moment later, harsh voices rose outside and were answered with equal warmth; Ahzaan recognized some of the words because he had heard his Dahda use them. Tajir Zaban, Trader’s Tongue, a language used exclusively by the trading guilds and almost never in public, something had gone very seriously wrong here. Turning around Ahzaan saw that his grandfather was not on his takht and seizing the opportunity Ahzaan crept outside the caravan to get a better look.

The caravan had come to a stop a few lengths away from a non-descript, large square building. The barely noticeable, pale blue banner extending from it gave it away, to the discerning eye, as an Aasmani warehouse. A small band of dismounted, camel-riders, in red cloaks, blocked the way to the warehouse. And even though they wore no visible weapons, Ahzaan had learned that the Bedouin robes they wore could conceal much.

Ahzaan focused on one in particular, he was thin of build, unlike the others, and wore a red turban; it was his voice that Ahzaan had heard inside the wagon. The trader, who Ahzaan quickly named Koyla, after his coal black eyes, was in the middle of what seemed a particularly venomous phrase, judging from the contortions of his face. Then his eyes focused on Ahzaan and bore threw him.

“Is that him? Is that the nuisance? It is, I believe.” Koyla slurred out his words.

“Do you have a mind to keep your tongue, sir?” the voice that spoke the words was measured, and fully conveyed the threat which was thinly woven. “Because if you do, I would recommend that you mind it.”

Now that Ghazal had entered the fray, the chances of this affair ending in violence had gone up exponentially yet the words still brought a smile to Ahzaan’s face; Ghazal was his man. A poet at heart, the artistry of his word and sword, was of much renown. Looking at him now, with the hilt of his sheathed Shamsheer in one hand, there was little doubt that he could back-up his words with action.

Koyla took two steps back, to seek comfort in the numbers of his entourage. Then having regained some confidence he spoke again.

“Are you threatening one of the Lal Tajirs in their own city? By the law of the Talash I could have your head for this!”

Any response Ghazal was apt to provide, would have graduated this matter beyond words. So it was fortunate, Ahzaan thought, that Dahda spoke when he did.

“And accusing one of the Blue, speaking the Tajir Zaban in public, violating the Quaidah, what would Talash’s law suggest for these offences?”

For a moment Koyla seemed at a loss for words, but he recovered quickly, eyes darting from side to side he slurred: “Dasahs, you’re name is well-earned, yet your cunning will avail you not here. Forget words, I have living proof of your deceit. You have smuggled a Mua’zin into Talash under the cover of a trader’s caravan. You know well the penalty for such deception, I believe.”

“You have the advantage then, for I know not your name. But the boy is in my care, and if I am correct.” And the tone of his words suggested that he knew he was “the trader’s law is still above others in this city.”

The words seemed to signal an abrupt end to the debate. Koyla signaled to his men and they turned around and started to mount up again. But before leaving he smiled at Dasahs and said: “Not all is, as you left in Talash, Fox. Be mindful that if the boy were to show up on the slave market, I would know…and it would not end as easily as it has for you, in the past.”

With that he turned and left, it was only at the end of the Rastah that he turned around and added: “The name is Heiwan, you will remember it.”

It was not a question.

Paper, Wood and String

It hangs slowly in the gentle drafts, gliding the wind, fearless. Fearless and foolish are perhaps always bedmates, reassuring each other with perfect complement. Paper, wood and string...only man could fashion wings out of them. Colorful flags left in its trail, seem a bit of curiousity for such a small thing, delusions of grandeur keep you alive when you're small-fry, I guess.

The heavens start to cry, soft warm rain, as if in their gentleness they can keep the tiny thing afloat. But alas, relative kindness does nothing to help those truly without hope. A lending hand, as the wind offers is but temporary respite; the doom is imminent. Still, I find the flight itself to be something of legend, for its how long we last against the inevitable that marks our make, not the imminent defeat.

I spread my arms wide, yet I don't take flight...not till I close my eyes; And then I can feel it. The furious wind blows around me, and it does not guide any more than I go where I want. It's a dangerous dance of friendship and mutual need, then again they aren't that different perhaps; friendship and mutual need. The damp grows around me, soft clinging drops endeavour to bring the journey to an end, sooner than expected.

Life's been a bit like that at times, a kite's flight with unknown destination, unsure footing and unpredictable weather ahead. I strut my tail regularly and I hope it keeps things colourful for other people, providing reprieve from their worries. The line runs fast every now and then, and the cuts can be deep...but pain keeps us alive, it's real, which in itself is a rarity these days. Arms feel strong when the updraft catches you and the body feels weak when events spiral out of control.

But we still fly, and sometimes that's enough. Besides, it's easy to get back up once you know how; all it takes is paper, wood and string...remember?

Flights of fancy, can you be
An escape from the day not born?
The darkness hovers strange grey
And this hour my mind leads me astray

Fair weather? Pah! Give me a storm
I shall fly the tempest, glint in the eye
Waiting for the opening to dive clear
For never have I lived until I die

I only find myself, alone
Yet I long to lose myself with you
As sure in my loss, as your gain
Such is the melancholy of this mood

Paper, wood and string to last
Wedded with glass, very sharp
If I cut, do I win? Perhaps
The truth of suffering be the same

Crimson at surface and unknown within
Skin deep scratches, bled to death

The Silence Between

Don't talk...not for those reasons
Silence can be soothing solace
Yours words are unheard, reflected
Conjurations of the restless

I'm raising my barriers higher
But they don't keep you out
Will you irk me so if
All I leave is a void with silence

Deaf to shouts, too many
Yet whispers I still hear
Why won't you listen?
If all I have to say is nothing

Would it all melt away?
If the embrace was real
Will I still linger on?
Once the embers are spent

Too much to say
No words left
All that remains is
The silence between

Drowning in Tears

The tears returned again today.

Its been so long since I last cried I almost forgot what it felt like. I think i've shed so many tears when I was too young that as time passed, I forgot their value. But then those weren't really tears, I think tears mean different things at different ages. At that age, all they meant was that I was afraid and it was the most natural way to release.

Enough chids of "Ladkay nahin rotay!", and it almost became like a mantra. Fear is not an emotion that should lead to crying...tears are too important to waste on fear. But at thirteen you are to young to diffrentiate, so I just stopped crying altogether. I wasn't the smartest cookie on the block.

It's easier to be indifferent, if we actually started to feel...I think we wouldn't be able to stop crying. It feels so good, and all it took was children singing in a language that I could not understand. Maybe we misplace the importance of words, they are after all just spoken feelings. The feelings make you cry.

I used to think that there is so much sorrow in this world, that if I took a moment to breathe it all in, I would just drown in tears. Isn't that how everyone thinks now? A genocide in Africa - not my business. Children dying in Iraq - atleast mine are safely at school. Earthquakes in Asia - good thing i'm all the way over on the other side. The Other Side.

Yet today someone said something...no someone said something a decade ago, I just heard it today. Do we feel shame any longer? Can indifference be drowned in it? There are people that have so much on their platter, that I would not blame them for not helping. And then there is the rest of us, and we don't feel shame any longer. This is not about blame, it's about realizing what we've become.

Why should the west step up and right all the wrongs? Because they can. Why should I feel shame, if I didn't do anything wrong, when my only crime is indifference? Because I could. I just didn't realize...I was so busy looking for the 'answer' that I shut my eyes tight. The shame should be my badge of dishonour to wear. I can't change everything, but i'm not insignificant. This isn't a 'You can make a difference' rant, it's a message to myself to never stop being myself.

You say that we have no say. Maybe we don't, but how will I know until I try. I have to. You have to.

Ni ryari izuba, Rizagaruka, Hejuru yacu,
Nduzaricyeza ricyeza.

When will the sun rise again?
Who will reveal it "to" us again?

I will.

The Retrograde Composition

Did you know, that there are no right answers?

Black is an the absence of light, but it is also the combination of all colours. Three lefts make a right, but so does a single left if the path is circular. The answer can also be, it doesn't if you believe it is the journey not the destination that matters. Extremism is in itself measured by the postion of other players in the field and middle-class is elite provided you apply the right economies of scale.

Divination has to exist, if we have been fore-warned from its use; which results in the amusing conclusion: Those who call belief of such ignorance are themselves ignorant, which in itself is not profound, since I knew this as a 6 year old in the timeless, if juvenille, comeback: "Jo kehta hai wohi hota hai."

Morality is not subjective, becuase its quite set in stone for every person until ofcourse time and experience weather stone away. Furthermore, aggregates can solve all issues of subjectivity, period, while putting objectivity at risk ofcourse. It is not clear whose objectives we are trying not achieve at this moment, however.

Ignorance of the masses, actually collectively assumes ignorance of the individual, and at the same time knowledge of such ignorance negates ignorant elevating it to merely indifference. In difference, broken up neatly like so, actually does not imply 'not caring' but on the contrary opposition through inaction, when ofcourse the desired action would be to act.

You know i'm getting at something right? But what? Sorry, can't tell but I will go on, so there is still time. Fundamentalism, means to believe in fundamentals, the opposite of which is probably Jungle's Law: Might is right. Now it gets amusing, the opposition of fundamentals leads to jungle law, yet siding with it means we lay down standards and force people to comply; meaning that having come full circle, we are back at the Jungle. If you're trying to keep this all in context, this would be the equivalent of making three lefts.

Religion is a collection of beliefs that cannot be proven, so is believing the sky is green. 'Green Sky' is actually a recorded natural phenom in which, given the right circumstances the sky appears green. Being good at debates actually means the opposite, to say that you left ground open for argumentation before you can bring closure and show that you were indeed correct, is an indirect reference to the fact that your claim was such that it induced an arguement to begin with.

The Big Bang Theory actually is used both to prove and disprove the existence of God, since it cannot explain anything before Singularity (which is a good oxymoron in its own right) and accounting for Occom's Razor merely leads us back to the subjectivity of what is the simplest explanation. Objectivity ofcourse being aggregate subjectivity (see above) leading us to the natural conclusion that by jungle law (majority being might) God exists. On a complete sidenote, the name was obviously coined by a perverted individual who badly needs to get laid, but by extension I am perverted (or merely perceptive) that I got the joke, good one.

Strangely, love is actually weaker than hate, since people often kill others for hate, and rarely for love. By hating someone you have the strongest emotion possible for them, so perhaps the best form of love is actually weak love, which makes sense sense, as it would be one step removed from indifference, leading us neatly to: "Opposites attract."

Wisdom has to be knowing everything without knowing it, since otherwise you won't continue learning leading to being unwise. And yet by definition, if you don't know you are wise then you don't know everything. I am aware of the term circuitous logic, but are you aware that to complete a circuit is at times not the thing to be avoided but instead the goal?

Lastly, being called abnormal is not an insult for if all you are striving for is normality you might as well kill yourself now. After all, all normal people die in the end.

The Witness

"Alif!"

The words echoed of stone walls to whom voice was as much a stranger as light. They traveled deep within the caverns, reflecting and losing breath with each leap. By the time they reached the ears of the intended audience, they were scarcely more than a whisper.

Yet, whispers are oft heard better than shouts, when the message is of this nature, especially by Illial, The Witness. There was no doubt, as would be common to mortal men, there was conviction in action as old bones slowly started to walk their pre-determined yet scarce wandered journey. But had it been a mortal listening, his doubt would have been removed by the constant repetition of the Word.

"Impatient." thought Illial, sourly. It was always a sign of things to come, a telling sign...a sign of ill omen.

-------------------------------------------------------

It had all been a lie, and Raziel felt like a fool. And perhaps, a fool he had been, for was it not folly to chase after the whims of senile men, men dead long before his time? The wind cut deep up here, as if the Mountain itself was furious that a mere mortal had defied the odds and scaled the Cliff of Sath-ah. Sath-ah, Raz mused, well-named for scaling it was surely an act of madness. His fingers bled, bone stood exposed on his elbows and knees. But Raz felt hope through the pain, what was love if not mad?

Once again he searched through the engravings, wondering whether he could have misinterpreted. No! It couldn't be, the first of the trinity, the first of the three words of Power, that was the final part of the Key. He had shouted the word again and again, until his throat had become hoarse. Breathing now felt like swallowing coals, and he wondered if that would not be easier than what he had set out to do. The cliff edge, beckoned to him...

Come, come, my sweet...

He felt his sanity slipping away as her thoughts consumed him. Her eyes, drowning him for the world.

There is sweet succor, in my teat...

He felt his body act without his volition, lifting, turning, walking.

Embrace death, therein we meet...

One more step and he could fly, like the Phareesh of legend and lore, spread his wings and fly home. The last step is the easiest to take, for it but follows the others, each step doing the same except the first. The first, Raz thought, ahh but if we always knew where our first steps would take us. But those were thoughts for another life, for now death awaited him. He felt his foot lift out into oblivion...

"Do you have wings, jawaan?"

The spell broke, almost in disbelief Raz spun around to stare at the strangest hunchback, that had seemingly materialized out of thin air. Raz could not quite distinguish the features of the broken man, since they were secreted away in his cowl. Yet, he did not need confirmation as to the nature of what stood before him. The silver hair gleamed beneath the cowl, even without the presence of sun-light. He waited.

"I come seeking fulfillment for my wishes?" Raz spoke, forcing himself to speak calmly.

"All wishes are one." Came the calm reply.

A more cautious man, would have pondered his responses. A more patient man, would have coaxed his tongue into silence. A sane man, might have actually leapt of the cliff. Raz was none of the above.

"Then I seek, the One Wish."

"To seek, is to falter, you must find it." The answer came, without pause.

"I will find it, if shown the way."

Illial sneered now, and looked a little more than crazy. Fool! he thought, that is what I have here, lovesick, half-witted fool. Alas, my watch is not over. Maybe, it is just beginning.

"The way is lost, it cannot be shown." Illial all but spat the words out.

He turned away, and started to walk away. Despair was not an emotion his kind would tolerate, there was only the wait. But these blind, sheep grated on his patience. He began the incatation to put an end to this charade...

"We all start as fools, with fool's dreams such as mine. But the greatest folly is not to follow what you believe, the greatest sin is disbelief."

It cannot be! And yet, it was...the Truth had been spoken, and the what must now follow was out of his control. With a slow turn, Illial regarded the young man again. The life was bleeding out of him, yet his eyes golden yellow still shone with defiance, daring Illial to reject what he had heard.

He does not know, of that Illial was certain. Yet the signs were all around, On the youths bared chest the Mark of the Beast raked across, and he had found the Way. Illial looked up at the clear red sky, longing to see different hues. Whatever else the young man was, he was no fool and it was not Illial's position to deliberate over matters.

"Come, your zenith has not yet come. But like the dawn begins with the first rays breaking the horizon, you may yet be the Shua that we have awaited."

No, his watch had not yet ended, but it may finally have begun.