Dominos

So many divergent paths, how is it that we knew which ones to take? Did you ever wonder where they all lead? Or do we scarce have time to think when these crossroads reveal themselves? I feel we live our lives by instinct and there is no such thing as a wrong path, because each person’s instincts are a guide to who they are.

Our vices are as much a part of us as our virtues; we are the sum of all our parts. The us with our family, the us alone, the us with friends and the us with her; we are the sum of ourselves. Our instincts unlocking the door for each, presenting the best of us to those we love and the worst of us to our enemies…or is it the other way around, I forget at times.

If we flew up real high, could we see these paths with clarity? All the crossroads and our journey through them, like some elaborate game of connecting the dots. My mother’s miscarriage guaranteeing my existence. My sister’s early marriage changing my home. A friend falling sick and shifting the date forward by one fateful day.

Are our lives an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, just waiting to be put into place? Are we all just waiting to be solved? Or are instincts much like inertia through dominos, an invisible guiding force to which we are bound. With only fractions of time to decide our future, we ebb and flow from moment to moment and it is only when we stop to breathe do we find ourselves in a different place.

They say it’s not the destination but the journey that counts, but I’ve always found that it’s the dots, those reflective crossroads where I could stop and think back on the journey, and not the lines connecting them that make me into me. Only when I learn where my instinct seeks to lead me, by looking back at where it has taken me do I learn who I am.

Is learning all that I can do, is there no way to change where I am being lead? There is a concept of the stream of time in fantasy literature that I am quite fond of. That even if we could travel back in time, we couldn’t change our actions because consequences rarely have a unique and distinct source that once changed would ripple through reality and change our future. Indeed, any moment in the past is a convergence of many different paths which collectively reinforce each other, we are mere pebbles thrown into a river with its own set course.

But every river ends, and every end is a new beginning. Learning what we are today is the most important part of changing what we can become tomorrow. Unless alchemy has been rediscovered rock cannot be turned into gold, we cannot make ourselves anew; at least not instantly. Which is fine by me, after all what is that they say about all that glitters?

Kafirs of Dhuun

The Mist hung thick like cobwebs over the Forest of Dhuun. Even if the people of Vayhm hadn't been as superstitious as a Dvadi merchant they would've sworn that the mist had hands, damp and vaporous, that were stifling their very breath.

But the people of Vayhm were the most superstitious of Heaven's Kingdom, still believing in children's tales of the Undying Prophet and the return of God's Mercy. The taste of that air, would poison their soul...just as it had poisoned theirs. So even as their lungs burned with lack of oxygen, their mouths remained shut, firmly sealed with fear of the unknown. Never had the 3rd Company of Vayhm been more reluctant pursuers, as the night they crossed into the mists chasing their worst nightmare, waiting breathlessly to be woken from it.

And if they were uneasy, the dark rider did nothing to soothe their fears. Blackblood they called him, and with good reason too, for he carried within him their dark blood, ripe with unholy power, tongue black with the speaking of qalams. Three officers rode with the company of forty and seven. And even though he was the least of the three, he inspired the most fear, every cavalryman would've have sworn on the Rites of Abandon, that Blackblood was taking them to their deaths.

"These daft fools are going to drown themselves if they don't start breathing properly!" Commander Bravarion cursed looking back on his line of infantry disappearing into the mist, ten paces behind him, but he spoke in parts, taking a lungful of damp air in with each short phrase.

In the Vayhmian Cavalry, the rule of command was thus. Only the cavalrymen one designation below the speaker could 'hear' his words. Through strict discipline this had been enforced for time immemorial. Yet the second-in-command rode on, perfectly silent...he knew who the words for meant for.

And in time, the answer came: "They believe in old things, some men die for their beliefs." Blackblood's High Tongue was thickly accented, much like the words he oft spoke. A deep, steady voice unaffected by his surroundings, well-suited to a dark man. There was a significant pause and silence waited in anticipation: "What do you believe in, Commander?"

“I believe…I believe that I don’t have the time to play at words with you.” Bravarion responded with more impatience than he would have liked. Indeed, it had been the only criticism aligned against his appointment, the youngest of any cavalry commander since the Founding.

He resisted the easier thought, that the others were jealous of his rise in just three score years. Too young, too rash...too Brave, his reputation mostly preceded him. But he wasn’t young any longer, the greying was just beginning to show its presence, a sign of wisdom. No, definitely not young and brashness was a luxury he could scarce afford.

“I would know your mind, dhuunvaasi. You were once of them, tell me what they are thinking, tell me what they plan. I am sure I need not remind you of the importance of our mission."

Bravarion turned back in his saddle hoping to see his barb draw blood, but if Blackblood was discomfited by the words he showed no signs. Damn you! I hold your life in my hands and you pretend as if you care not! If all of Dhuun was this stubborn then there was little wonder that the Kingdom's ambitions were so well-checked. Within the mist valley of Dhuun, protected by its cursed tribesmen lay the future of the Kingdom, the future secured by its divine blood-line. 'My blood holds this secret too.' the thought brought a smile to his face.

"You have only to ask." The reply was measured, and delayed. A characteristic, annoyance of speech amongst the Dhuuns.

Just like the resistant, dhuunvaasi. Never volunteering, always resisting. Acting as if he had just been snatched, while weaning, from his mother's teat and not well over a decade ago. If only he did not serve his purpose so well.

"How many of your brothers were in the raid ?"

"I suspect a single pack of dhuunvasi." responded Black. He waited, then elaborated, gauging that Bravarion wanted more: "five brothers with one sister for support and healing."

"Healing sister? I am sure she sings and dances better than most tavern wenches." Bravarion played to the crowd.

Cavalrymen in earshot stifled laughter, they knew the Rhovan Code, and they knew when exceptions would be allowed.

"Where are your brothers headed? do they hasten due to our chase ?"

"Water quells thirst, but a debt to fire accrues, they head to Aatishgah to burn the bodies of the fallen. They will make haste, the wind shows them the fastest way."

"Then we are blessed, for we have a wind-reader, amongst our ranks as well." Bravarion smiled, like he always did when he realized that attaching himself to Blackblood despite all its challenges and reprecussions had been the right thing to do. That only left one question...

Suddenly then, a bird's call echoed through the woods, shrill and piercing, impossibly near. It spooked the horses and it took all the years of cavalry training for the riders to stay in their mounts. The infantry already out of breath, were the first to begin dissent.

"We best be turnin' back milord, these not be woods for huntin', lest ye becomin' prey yerself."

"These woods be cursed...cursed...Lola...I should have never left." someone whimpered.

"Foolery, we chase demons with demons carrying the scent, it be a trap as sure as..."

Voices chased each other, each statement joining the next. Another wave of resistance broke against this ill-begotten chase. Voices chased each other, each statement joining the next. Bravarion had fully expected this, he was lead them against their beliefs, and these were men who held their beliefs closer than their wives. But something was different, for the infantry to protest was one thing, but this time his well-trained cavalry, the pride of his unit was chiming in as well.

"The mists have not shown us the way, we trespass upon evil without the light's permission."

"We have gone deeper than any sane man dare, don't forget Logan's end, there would be no shame to turn back now."

Bravarion watched the seeds of chaos begin to catch fire around him and took a deep breath. Fools! did no one realize what was at stake here!

"Gerrard, the horses are yours, I'm going to mind the cattle." Bravarion spurred his stallion towards the infantry.

It was a simple enough job, but Bravarion thought twice about handing it to his second-in-command. It wasn't quite that Gerrard was incompetent, on the contrary he was a decorated commander in his own right, and accepting this demotion had meant a giving up some privileges. No, Gerrard's problem was his manner of command: Too methodical, too rehearsed...and too predictable. A liability for a Cavalryman. Cavalry tactics had to be more fluid, feinting, harrying, flanking were bread and butter; but one had to know when to be dynamic and opt for the charge, to end a battle with the decisive stroke. Gerrard lacked all of that, still he was only in momentary command, the foot needed Bravarion's presence for the moral boost. He would be the good shepherd, this once.

Gerrard watched Bravarion leave, less than five spaces away, he was lost in the mist. He his mount around, kicking it profusely to establish command. The Rhovan whinnied in protest. "Form rank! three wide, four strong!" barked Gerrard and the cavalry acquiesced. There, that was better able to counter the limited sight. Still not...

"Still not much use with the low visibilty." Blackblood watched the commander draw in breath, caught by surprise. "..was that not what you were going to say, Second?"

Gerrard could hear Blackbeard but amongst the many similar silhouettes not distinguish his position. His voice seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

"The commander would have known my thoughts on what the dhuunvaasi plan, so I would share them. We number in five times ten, seeking to hunt but a pack. But their mists are strange friends, garbed in their color you would be hidden too well, till too late."

Another shrill call echoed from the woods. Gerrard could feel himself getting unnerved, this was most unlike Black, this man did not volunteer as much as a aye or a nay without protocol. Something was amiss, yet he could not figure out what had brought this change about him.

"Their brothers' blood was spilt, a water debt. Their brothers must be returned to the earth, they will be buried at Zameengah. Dhuunvaasi are specific in their tradition. Har Karz Adah. Every debt must be paid."

Gerrard strained hard to understand, but he was beginning to panic. Get a hold of yourself, old man. He spins children's tales. But...

"But...you said they make all haste to Aatishgah ?" blubbered Gerrard.

"They do, but the fire debt is still unpaid. None have fallen to burn, blood must be spilt first...Our blood."

"Well I'd like to see them bloody try, little knives and magic brews don't scar armor much." Gerrard declared, laughing nervously and hastily looked for support from his riders. None was to come, Blackblood had stolen their attention. "How will they manage to accomplish this feat, I've beaten twice their number with half the riders. You place too much faith in your traditions, dhuunvaasi. Hiding in these mists like you are they, well that's one thing you rats have in common." Gerrard blustered, in between increasingly heavy, damp breaths. Forced, nervous laughter escaped from the other riders.

Blackblood's rhovan mount materialized, darker than the gloom, with eyes glittering like a raven’s. Rider and horse stood still some paces away from the cavalry line, intently absorbing the surroundings. The tall, coffee-toned man held his lavish beard in his fist as his head tipped upwards, eyes closed, trying to sense a scent through a solid weight of air. "They have drawn us deep into the woods, we're already past Logan's End. The mist has hidden time well, and night gives it strength more-so." His speech was different, dramatic, almost theatrical. "I cannot see my own hand, the mist has grown so. Our speed of mount, avails us naught in these close quarters. Using our numbers they would ensue panic, killing one, marking another for death. Poisons in our lungs, slowing our reactions...their shorter blades able to bring death, before one could discern friend or foe. Panic to disorder, and the battle lost before it truly be joined. The fire debt paid as our drugged body is burnt to a slow roast. Do you know, how it feels to burn, Second? It's not very pleasant."

Deathly silence prevailed for a moment. Bravarion had finally managed to calm the infantry it seemed. But the cavalry, his strength needed him now. Gerrard had lost his voice...managed barely a croak: "Past...Logan's...How? Then...then what are they waiting for?"

"A signal."

A shrill bird cry echoed from right off the trail they followed. A response came, all too human. A cry of death. Shouting. Another scream. A Qalam whispered and then the very mist came alive with hot-searing, living, flame. The flame spread into the 3rd company's ranks, igniting cloth, charring flesh and smelting metal. The mist took human form, seemingly everywhere at once. Darting in from behind, sound muffled, throat slit with effortless grace.

Gerrard called the Cavalry into battle, there was still time if he could find Bravarion and establish formation. He drew his blade just in time to deflect the dagger aimed for his throat. Eyes widened to adjust to the dim light, the enemy was spotted, clad all in grey nearly blended into the mist but off-balance. Gerrard decided to press the advantage and called his mount to a charge. Leant over to one-side to reach the crouched assailant, Gerrard slashed in a wide down-arc.

In the midst of battle, with blades flashing in close quarters a dodge would be suicide. So the assailant planted his feet in the moist earth and met the slash with a defensive parry. Steel clashed with steel; the outcome instant, decisive. The dhuunvaasi though exceptionally nimble and fast had missed his chance, caught off-balance his dagger flew out of his hand barely managing to deflect Gerrard's blow enough to make it non-fatal.

Gerrard relished this dance. The cursed demons had led a strong attack and his troops were in disarray, but he would still claim blood. The Rhovan cut a short circle and went into a hasty, half-charge to finish the wounded dhuunvaasi off. And as if fate had truly turned with him the mist began to lessen. He was half amused that his adversary made no attempt to flee. Foolish bravado on a day ripe for dying.

Five paces. Gerrard readied his killing blow, a cross-slash to decapitate, he was fond of trophies.

Two paces. An obsidian blade landed with a audible thud right infront of the dhuunvaasi. Gerrard recongnized the blade...that traitor would pay for this futile help.

One pace, Gerrard slashed...and then his world was engulfed in darkness so impenetrable, that even sound could not pierce its confines. In those last moments of his life, Gerrard knew fear. He cried out but his voice was drowned in blood.

"Retreat! Retreat!" a man with Bravarion’s voice was calling out, once as a plea and then just an echo. In time the trees muffled even these cries, and the ground swallowed up the lost, with only the crackle of flames remaining.

The lone dhuunvaasi spoke: "Will you stay, this time ?" A feminine voice.

"Not yet, Logan's debt to us is still unpaid. Har Karz Adah."

He brought his raven to a gallop, and never looked back.

Cloak and Dagger

I've not written in too long, often due to lack of inspiration but mostly due to lack of motivation. It's one of the new pearls of wisdom I have picked up at work, inspiration is good whereas, motivation is necessary. This post, for example comes not out of inspiration, as many a better idea have rotted enroute to the this reading space. It comes out of the motivation to share what I learned at my first 6 months of work. So, without further adieu I bring you...

The Reason for Brutus

Month 1: Enjoy the 'shiny' new-ness of being a professional. Learning new stuff, being productive, meeting new people with the cherry on top, your first salary. Yes, life is good. Your manager likes your sharpness, your colleagues swoon over your sense of humour, indeed opposing teams are jealous of your the 'brilliant and dedicated' (see: new and confused) professional that the new expiremental research team got their hands on.

Month 2: Your good at what you do, not realizing that everyone else ALSO was once good at what they did, before they hit the Red Brick Wall (tm). Your working hard, cutting edge technology has you impressed...you don't intially even notice the bleeding. Your contributing in meetings! This idea being so foreign to team-leads that they don't know what to think...so they do what all management does when they are told stuff they don't really comprehend; Smile and Nod. Yes sir, life couldn't be better.

Month 3: What do you mean I have to sit late hours? God damn, no one here is a professional! But I can change that, I will be. Realize that working on a self-dubbed expiremental research team is not a good thing. Higher management IS as incompetent as you thought they were..and no they really aren't playing at being oblivious, it comes naturally. A lot of smiling and nodding later, the team-lead hasn't implemented any of your ideas. You are beginning to suspect he might be slow. Something is approaching, from a distance...you get the feeling you are not going to like it.

Month 4: RED BRICK WALL!!! Yes, that emphasis was necessary. It's a wall because it impedes progress, made of brick because it is quintisentially unbreakable with your bare hands. And red...well, its red because all that doesn't stop you from trying. This is your Team-Lead, because not only is he an egoist, he is ignorant, unprofessional and might just be the mysterious Mister Loony Tunes who escaped from the instituition last year. Worst of all, he is such a nice guy! You bang against this RBW again and again, wailing in frustration and realizing your soul being sucked into the idea of a normal work life which yields no satisfaction and only pain. You are now a corporate drone, you find their jokes funny. You even like the idea of having a big ol' corporate family, and kissing up to Senior Management is quickly rising amonsgt your favourite past times.

STOP! RETHINK! EXPLETIVE EXTREME!

Month 5: Enter, the most hated guy at office, and yes...you will love him! First you start dropping hints at senior management as to the fact that your having doubts about your projects success. Then, vice-versa with your team-lead. I think this company is very unprofessional, glad you agree. You know, he was saying this company is very unprofessional...yeah I know. The real problem is our project lacks technical grounding. The nerve, team we-hate-you-because-you-get-more-glory was actually dissing us, saying that we have no technical grounding! Are we going to take this from them Kill him! Justice! Slaughter! Blood...and Execution.

"I never knew you could be this ruthless."
"You know, I didn't either."

Month 6: The smoke clears. Your project is scrapped. You are on the new 'It' team. This time, lets not throw the cloak and dagger away.

Moral of the Story: It may be work, but its more analagous to a battle-field. Know which battles to lose, keep your focus on the war. Make friends, but don't get too close. And most importantly remember this: Brutus really did love Ceasar.

One day as you stand with that blood-stained dagger, you too will wonder: "Did I do the right thing?"

You didn't....

...I know, feels great doesn't it.

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.

Memoria est eternus

When you exhale the smoke takes life of its own, wrapping itself around your imagination to make the past come alive. It forms your face, only for the briefest of moments. Your eyes are half open, mine half closed. The smoke trails off into elegant, hazy tendrils and like a man high I can see everything in them.

Our lives are memories, exhale and you can see where you come from. Friends, family, love, childhood, laughter, tears, rain, sunshine, victory, defeat...all are alive for us to live again. Maybe I live too much in the past at times, but I can't help it. I'm fond of things I've known and I can't break free of them. Lives lived, moments cherished, laughter shared and friendhips forged. I would be nothing without them, and neither would you.

Why is it that we are rushing blindly ahead? Why is it that we are told not to live in the past, after all its our past that made us into who we are. Memories are my fondest friends in solitude, I pick my brain for the right ones to suit my mood and I always find what i'm looking for. I remember, its what makes me what I am.

You remember them too, right? Of course you do. How many inconsequential details do I remember? Countless. Googly, your hair had a garland of white flowers in them and you were laughing, deliriously (like you always do). Gogi, you were running from wall to wall toting the "world's most electrifying move in sports entertainment". Kamal, you were grinning all the while through our "Dadu Tum" jig. Zooms, you would walk into my room late at night and we'd just talk about nothing, and you'd do your muttley impersonation. Mum's chu-chu and Dad's sheikh saab (of Chili) and even Phopo's Aliya japani topi and all. It can't all have been meant to forgotten.

It's all like an endlless dream from which I wish never to wake up, and it just keeps going on. Osman's declarations off "Scene, On Ho Gaya Hai!" and Sharif's "Doh rupay ki thi". Samay, always doing the mock imitations of laughter followed by her eye-rolls. Jabi, you always used to light up like a light-bulb when you laughed. Monty would always say the phrase "Tu bohat harami hai!" like a compliment. The twins who always failed to see the point but would never let that stop them from laughing about it never the less. Waqas, you will always be such a matyr to be picked on: "Pindi!" Mazzy, the Jaime to my Tyrion (and of course the elder sister to my hunter). Did I forget someone? Nah, I don't forget, remember.

You can't be sad, you've lived so much and you've got so much to remember. A memory for each step you'll ever take, another one for every breath and yet another for every smile. We're all richer for the lives we've lived, yes everyone. If you can remember that look in your mother's eye. If you can remember you father's embrace. If you can remember glances that held meanings deeper than words. If you lose your breath over the past, then you have lived.

I ran like the wind
Chasing storms of fantasy
Fearless, thunder beneath
And I laugh for every drop
The storm spent

Kissing death with fury
Loving life with passion
Jumping for the sky
Reaching for the ground
Always falling, always rising

Memories guiding my way
Running forward, looking back
Dancing with measure
Loving without
Words to live a life by

Memoria est eternus

One Song, Glory

Erratic strumming, fingers too eager to pluck a new cord that they don't let the mind catch up. No words for now, at times its best that way. Just one instrument, it has to be that way...can't let someone steal your show. It's your song, after all.

Sing, you know you can't stop yourself. Don't search for the words, you've been dying to sing this song for all your life. What's the word going to be? Not any word, the word, the one that gives it meaning. If I choose love, then i'd be singing about life and that's been done, still maybe I could do it better. But see i'm thinking, that's not it...i'll know the word when I see it.

Close your eyes, you can't be here when you sing it. Your song isn't meant to be shared, it's just yours. So close your eyes and sing, and whatever you do, don't stop.

Sing. Sing. Sing.

That's what my life will come down to in the end, a song. I think anything that can be expressed in a 900-page densely packed tome, can be summarized in one word. I could tell you how I feel or I could just smile and you'll wonder what you really learnt more from. Words, emotions and people just work that way.

They say anything but the girl, dammit what's there left after the girl? She smiles and you swoon, she frowns and you cry, she looks your way and you can just read those eyes, Ocean Eyes. Mysteries, they're great because you can never quite guess what's next and every step you take towards unravelling them only leaves you deeper in their trance. Skin doesn't tingle at touch, it just goes numb much like the mind. It's nothing, hey there's a word 'nothing', I wonder if that'll be my song.

Burning, some songs will go that way, Cobain's did, and who is to say that isn't a good word. When you've done it all, you've shined too brightly for this world so its time to shine somewhere else. I'd never do it, I'm a slow learner so I very much doubt i'll get around to doing it 'all' anytime soon. People live lives in a day, you see so much that you feel 60 at 16. You even get that weird wisened look in your eyes, the glaze of knowing.

Wisdom, now there's one I wish I could make my own. I think my granny used to be like that, she just looked at you like she knew too much. I think if i'd asked her a question, she'd have just smiled at me. Wise people never tell secrets, its your secret to learn they think. Don't quite get it eh? Yeah, not there yet...not quite there yet.

What if I don't have courage to sing it? Everyone looks at you, and suddenly you start wondering whether you had it right all along. Maybe it's not your word, maybe you borrowed it, it doesn't feel right now. They'll judge you, that's what everyone does, they judge and then they never think about it twice. I think i'll get off the stage now, they're snickering at me...wait. Snickering at me?! I'll show them a snicker, godamn i'll show them a sneer and then, then i'll sing my heart out.

Euphoria, when the words come out, it'll be your heaven on earth. The words won't seem your own and you'll just sing transforming from that cocoon you never quite grew out off. You'll sing it the day you know you've come home. This is who you were meant to be, and you'll know it.

One song, glory
One song, to leave behind
My word, my only
My heart, to set at peace

One kiss, glory
One kiss, to remember you by
My smile, true to me
My breath, true to you

One bow, glory
One bow, to show love
My One, Almighty
My life, mine be

Teardrops, sighs and lullabies
Songs, words and smiles
You'll never know who you be
Sing it, maybe you'll see

Turing Test

Q. How are you today?

A. Troubled, my wife left me today. No, it wasn't for another man even though that seems to be the popular theory. It was much simpler than that, we didn't love each other.

Q. Why didn't you love her?

A. I didn't say I didn't love her, I said we did not love each other, there is a difference. A one sided love is merely a prolonged infatuation, infact that is exactly what love is in the one-dimensional sense, an unending infatuation. She didn't love me and because of that I was forced to sleep with another woman.

Q. Didn't you say she left you?

A. Well, yes...she was the one unhappy with the arrangement, I loved her enough that I would've continued our rocky relationship. She was a very selfish woman.

Q. Let's change the subject, where do you see yourself going from here?

A. No where, absolutely no where. I'm destitute, you moron. Without money there is nothing in this world, no place left to go, no sense of worth, no happiness, no love...you can't buy a woman what she wants without money, god damn materialistic world. When they are wearing pearls and furs they love you and the moment they are fed a skim meal, they hang you out to dry.

Q. Were there finanical difficulties in your marriage?

A. Difficulties?! Godammit you're a f'ing idiot. You can't put two and two together without someone telling you to. Ofcourse there were financial difficulties, that was the crux of the issue. If her good-for-nothing father had left her the share of wealth which was due to her I could've cashed in on the easy life years before. I was deceived, and the damn wench wasn't even willing to fight for her rights. You know, she had the gall to ask me: "But aren't we happy now? Why do we need money?" Well, i'm sure I showed her a thing or two about happiness...damn, right I did.

Q. Did you use abuse her physically?

A. What the fuck are you trying to say? Abuse?! You make it sound like a crime, yes I hit her damn it, I hit her real good and then I raped her little sister...damn bitch had it coming anyways, with the kind of clothes she wore, and the number of male friends she had. Had made by honest home into a whore house. Good thing, I did her in.

*******************************************

Ralph: Hey, thought i'd give you guys a heads up, the Big Guy is headed...

Big Guy: That was amazing! I just heard it over the broadcast channel. I can scarcely believe the work you bastards have done, 2.0 is actually connecting coherency fragments together in a logical manner! I mean granted...

Zimmerman: Uhmm Doctor...

Doctor: ...granted that the links its making are somewhat outrageous and I found its way of responding to the questions rather indirect, we'll have to work on that. Also, what Morals and Ethics module did you load the test up with? 2.0 sounded positively barbaric, at times but that's still remarkable...

Ralph: Doctor Steinberg, that wasn't 2.0...

Steinberg: ...remarkable. I especially loved the witty wordplay it was displaying with the meaning of love...wait, what did you say?

Zimmerman: I'm sorry, Dr. Steinberg. I wasn't expecting you to be back so soon, I was just playing the audio from my psychotic neighbour's trial, he was convicted of raping and murdering his wife's younger sister.

Steinberg: Remarkable, I would have never thought of that.

Steinberg leaves the room beaming like a madman. He rushes outside to greet the rain which is pouring down in earnest now. It's not invertible...the Turing Test is non-invertible, or is it? He relishes that thought for a moment. Oh it IS invertible, we just don't want to understand what that means. He writes down the words on hand and then stares back to admire them.

The Steinberg Test: "If a remote observer cannot tell whether a human being is responding to his queries or an automation, then the questioned is indeed, not human."

Humanity, is not a birth-right, its a privilege.

Of Sweat and Dust

I remember lying in my bed, damp with sweat, hovering somewhere inbetween being awake and hoping to fall asleep. 'Load-shedding' they called it, and i'm not sure to this day whether this was a witty innuendo being made on how this country was straining under the weight of its population. Inside the concrete walls, submerged in the darkness I could see perfectly. If I concentrated really hard, I thought I could here the entire nation breathing, the majority sleeping in peace since the majority were as Mohsin Hameed put it 'un-cooled'. I allowed myself to become amused then, amused at all the aunties tossing and turning in their beds because they could not sleep under their winter blankets in the dead of summer. At times, i'd even laugh a maddening little laugh for them.

The first time I walked home from school it was because my driver had neglected to inform my mother that it was time to pick me up. My mother was doing chores, clothes i'm sure you understand are the mark of a woman in Pakistan; right up there with jewellery and how much money their husband gives them as 'pocket-money'. 'Tis was not a short walk I assure you, but for some reason the idea seemed as natural to me as bhangra does to the music of a shaadi dhol. The sun rose to its greatest height to get a good vantage point on my journey. The whoosh of passing cars mocked my progress and the ricksha drivers questioning looks almost made me regret my lack of finances on this venture. It was hot and humid, basically, another perfect day in paradise. It had rained yesterday, a false pre-cursor of a monsoon that would never truly arrive that year. Puddles of warm, dank water sporadically lined the roadside and had I been a pedestrian wiser to these streets, I would have put two and two together.

The first two, a speeding Toyotta Corolla came veering down Sher Pao bridge driven no doubt by a 14-year maniac who thought that depressing a pedal took great skill. The second two, reflected back the sun's rays as if sharing a smile with the sun at having guessed the punchline to this slapstick event. Drenched as I was, I remember laughing rather than feeling angry. I guess it takes a lot more drenchings before you fail to see the humour in these situations.

I don't think I tired in those days, getting tired is a concept young boys are immune to, I believe. As I finally neared L.C.C.H.S it started to rain, I've always liked rain and I took pleasure in its company as I walked the last leg of my journey. I received an offer for help from a motor-cycle driver but it was politely turned down, after all I was so close now. When I finally arrived at the gates to my mansion, our hired help was confused to see that there was no car in sight. I still treasure the look of disbelief on my mother's face, but what I cherish more was her amusement rather than distress at my feat. She was my mother and mother's have a way of knowing their children, but I think I was still somewhat of an anomaly to my mother. Where one of her children insisted that she felt disgraced by having to ride home in a Potahar (our government assigned bright blue jeep), the other child would soon find it perfectly normal to cruise about Lahore in Rickshas.

On my first visit to 'our' village, I felt like I was being taken to a strange land of which I was apparently king. During our tour of the fields in bloom, I remember my younger sister becoming distressed as to why the local school did not bear her name instead, I didn't know exactly what to make of the revelation that it was named after me. My elder sister went running about the fields, hauntingly similar to idyllic visions of children running with glee in green fields, exclaiming in disbelief: "This is all ours? Woooooow!" I think we all wanted to share in the happiness that this place brought to our father. He was from here, these were the roots of the greatest dad on earth. He wanted us to like it so much, that we did...through sheer force of will, at first but that changed all too soon.

I remember sleeping under the open sky for the first time, the buzzing of the insects, the hooting of the crickets and the shuffling of critters somewhere nearby. But what I remember the most, is how clear the sky looked then. Lying there, on a charpai staring up at the stars my mind was slowly taking it all in. You never really feel it until you leave it behind but a city is alive, even at night. Ceaseless in it's drone and buzz where as the village slept at night. And in the middle of nowhere, hours away from civilization as I knew it, I felt at peace.

I looked at the silhouette of my father, and it was the first time I understood that I will never truly know this man. I still do not know what to make of the love shown by the elder women and men who worked for Sheikh Ihsan Tariq, the old croons would kiss my forhead as if kissing their own child. I keep thinking that they had to, after all would my father not take offense to a lack of affection for his sole heir? It seemed genuine though, and I felt unworthy. I also felt more than hesitant because these people were as strange to me as surely I must seem now to the people that I study with. And the irony in that is not lost one me either.

Old man Bashir, Baba as everyone called him, came to work for us one day. He's worked for so many of our relatives that whenever guests came to our house somehow...someway, they'd always ask him: "Baba, kaisay ho?" Everyone knew Baba and Baba knew everyone and their children. I like to think, he did genuinely like me as a son though i'll be honest, it seemed wrong that someone old enough to be my grandfather was working for us. He was a brilliant cook though, and Mum needed all the help she could get because as the Pakistan Housewife's RuleBook states: "You can never have enough hired help." I will say that perhaps he was treated with the respect due to him, and maybe that is what inspired his sense of loyalty. I think he still tells stories of how 'Ali beta would never let him carry anything'. 'Ali beta' was a young man, and should have cut his wrist if he couldn't carry his own bag a few more steps to his room.

My younger sister, missed me terribly whenever I was gone from her life. But never till her later years ever showed any affection when I was around. Like a prized collector who only misses his plastic-wrapped trophies when something goes amiss. I was, I realize now, naive to think that. She would, at times, come knock at my door late at night and come smiling in as if completely oblivious how rudely she had snubbed me infront of her friends (I was universally adored amongst my sisters posse, much of which had to do with the fact that I can crack amusing/embarassing jokes about their friend which they were not privy to). In our late night talks, i'd mostly listen but there was one thing that I never said to her which i'll remedy the first chance I get. My sister at that time, with all her trivial superficialities, was the coolest person I knew. A poet, a writer and a friends' friend. I think she moulded who I wanted to be in more ways then even she knows, and I care to admit.

When I met you, I changed so dramatically that most of my peers are to-date still in shock. I learnt about love from my family. Not the many extended relatives which insist that they used to carry you in your arms when you were little, those I disowned long ago. But from the way my mother cared for her children, the way my elder sister let me sleep in her lap when I was young. The way my dad would, even when I was young, treat me as an equal. When you finally arrived, life became something that it was always meant to be. It became the difference between knowing and knowing. I remember everything from our quarrels to our silliness. From the restaurant hopping to the abrupt goodbyes which you'd almost perfected as an art-form. I remember the tissue papers and all the waiters which would take pride in escorting you to our table (I also remember you always being late, and i'll admit that I never did mind waiting for you). Foremost, I remember the heat of the city around us, ever impeaching on our trysts as if only showing its presence to tell us that our secret was safe within its suffocating confines.

I remember Friday prayers, where the world it seemed would collect upon one canvas to give homage to their God. My grandfather would always try and convince my father that he should say his full prayers, not just his Farz. But the heat was unbearable and we could always complete our prayers at home. I didn't always listen. It amazed me that at my first Eid prayers, complete strangers hugged each other without qualms and hesitation. The west would have branded us all as having restrained homo-sexual tendencies, and I still wonder about it when I recall the times spent with the 'Boys'.

We were not quite men, and certainly not children any longer. The lazy cricketing afternoons, the insistence that we play video-games just a lil longer (I was horrible at the former and brilliant at the latter). The soul-searching conversations and ofcourse the lewd comments which became an education unto themselves. Boys will be boys after all. I remember my education at friendship, an on-going affair taught by a teacher whose patience to put up with an obsessive, spoilt brat has left a 'lasting impression', to quote Tasslehoff Burrfoot.

The bonds, forged in the unbearable heat were cast so strong in those days that they have become etched too deeply in memory. The lessons learnt while choking in the dust have so harshly burnt the skin that their presence has left marks of identity. I am born of sweat and dust, and I shall forever carry its scent.

Chaos Theory

I dreamed a dream. I think it was real, I remember thinking it had to be, but now i'm not so sure, no wait I am. In the dream peace reigned, and I hated it. Peace reigned, everyone hated it.

Eat well, work hard
We're watching you
Sleep well, are you happy?
We know you are

Everything had changed, we didn't fear any longer. There was no change, no unpredictability, no decisions and perfect happiness, fate was telling us what to do. All we did was follow, follow like white rabbits throught the looking glass. There were some people unhappy, but there are always some. There were some people dying, but there always are. There was no blur, all lines were distinct. There was no doubt that we were in utopia, we had made it by shaping our destinies with the iron will of order.

Everyone was equal except those that were superior, but there always are some. Some were inferior but we never heard much from them, I wonder what happened to the inferiors. We were told that we were better off than everyone out there, we were all superiors relative to them. We were a super race. And we were being lead by people who were more apt to do that sort of thing, people were forced into leading...nobody wanted to it, we were told.

We showed you to live
So you are good
On your own, who knew your way
So, are you good?

People didn't have friends, friends are only temporary. They happen to be going through life at the same time, place and experience. We didn't have relationships either. We had marriage, it is a social contract, there is order in marriage. There was no love, love is fickle and unpredicatable, thus it is clearly chaos. We didn't have choices, choices are unpredictable. We had rights, rights can be defined, what is defined is predictable. We had laws, they were broken at times but we were told that they had to be. Everyone was the same under these laws, except the superiors and the inferiors, obviously.

I broke a rule
Oh what are you to do?
Your law I obey not
Boo hoo, boo hoo?

And then...from within order, Chaos reigned. There was choice, there was unpredictability, there was love, there were friends and there were no leaders. Everyone was different, people had different rules, everyone their own master. There was fear. There were those who were lost, yet some had finally found their way.

I dreamed a dream. Chaos reigned, and we were free.

Chasing the Cheese

I'd like to think we all had our priorities straight once. I'm pretty sure it wasn't chasing after the greenback, yet like all rats that are newly joining the race the whiff of cheese is in the air and before we know it we're off, in frantic pursuit of a goal which stands to gain us little and may help us lose everything.

For people of religion, we have shown that we are truly the ones who have been blinded. Even as I write this out I wear my blindfold proudly. I understand the necessity of all that the paper marked as the bill of trade provides but then again I did say I was blinded didn't I. We're being brought up day-by-day to be more practical individuals, to understand the importance of money, to be thankful to our parents for providing it and helping us in accessing futures that will enable us to earn it.

Money is a source of life; it pays for bread, water and the roof over your head. It doesn't make any sense does it, why would we be told not to hoard this precious commodity. Over time as our goals change we won't do it for need any longer. Because money is also the mark of success and after all a little healthy competition never hurt anyone...or did it?

You know, if everyone was brought up with a carebear mentality (say it with me, 'I care!!!') then eventually some exploitive harami, with a troubled upbringing and abusive childhood, would come along and ruin our utopia for us. We have to learn to embrace the game because we are NOT living in an ideal world, it is forced upon us and therefore we willingly become its slave. Look at us all, isn't that the sorriest looking bunch of victims you've ever seen. To quote an old mentor: We're all 'simply pathetic'.

How much ambition is too much ambition? How little is too less? At what point does quitting from the rat race not label us a with a big L (either meaning) on our foreheads? In this society, which preaches that winning silver actually meant that you lost gold, who truly decides the winner? Ironically, a race which has no finish-line can only be won by a determination of who got the farthest before he/she croaked. You're welcome to your gold.

I have found and lost what I live for more than enough times in my very short life. At times, it's been because plausibly the goal seemed to far but the key has always been that distance is a relative issue and if I thought it too far for myself, then it well and truly was. Anything that you want more than your life is worth running after; running till your lungs burn, your legs ache, your muscles twitch and your heart bleeds. No matter which goal you find, you'll find that pitter-patter of small feet and the smell of cheese will always accompany it but nobody says you have to run the race.

Fables aside, The tortoise and the hare both got to their destination. What if the finish line had been a little sooner for the hare? I bet that though would have traumatized us as children (especially the 'big-boned' ones) but as adults we can learn a useful lesson from it. Being all that we can be is immensely important and something that we have had ingrained in our heads since youth. But what is more important, is when to learn to stop being all that we can be and becoming all that we wanted to become.

Following the golden brick road
I reached a branch in its wake
I thought about taking the one less travelled
For all the difference it would make

I thought about cutting my own path
I dreamed of sprouting wings and taking flight
I considered just sitting still, breathing slow
I even considered treading back, the way I came

I waited, others waited not
They hurried along with nay a tarrying thought
All off to see the wizard, that none had prior seen
Then I saw the glances, thrown back at me

So I pitched me a camp, I knew I had arrived
For my heaven lies beyond the starry skies

What I Am to You

Slow and soft, music and words are best said that way. Especially words spoken under the illusion of love. A pessimistic smiles at my comment, a knowing smile shared by two aqquaintances which have shared a greater truth. I bet he's confused when he sees me smiling back...not at him, but instead through him. I fear for people who think they've guessed the game to early, they miss out on the best twists.

Love is an illusion, simply because it is nothing substantial. It is not life, not desire, not a volcano nor the sea. You have to find what it is for you and maybe we can share the knowing smile that the pessimist was attempting to share with me. When you find it, you'll find out that you might not have wanted it but never the less you can't go back to being ignorant. Once opened to the sun, your eyes can't just go back to seeing in the dark.

You'll never find what you're looking for because you're not looking for anything. If you think there is a scarcity of intelligent, charming and beautiful out there then I suggest you take the blindfolds off because they are everywhere. Yet still, why can't we find what we look for? It's all present in the beautiful mistep of your first love and if you've never had one then you can stop kidding yourself.

If you can remember back far enough in your memory to barely recall her (excuse me ladies) then consider yourself blessed. If the memory still burns deep like a dormant volcano then allow me be the first to say: 'Don't worry, it's not going to get any better.' But if you can remember at all, then you know of the illusion that I spoke of because you conjoured it once...you know you did.

The illusion constructed that you would never find someone else. That this was the single most momentous time in your life. That you would always remember her scent. That you would never be able to move on. That she is and would always be The One for you. The kind of stuff bred in by repeated listenings of Black when hurt. The Catch 22 being that if you believed it, the illusion took on a life of its own. It was true, simply because you cannot deny something that you want to believe that bad. An illusion that powerful sometimes doesn't shatter, it can perpetuate into a living thing that haunts you in moments when you just want the world to move on without you.

If you're still fascinated by the pretty lights, you're a very lucky man. Grab a parachute while you can, it can be a long fall from those heights. If you're smiling, just hold it for one breath because we're not quite there yet.

Don't hold yourself like that
You'll hurt your knees
I kissed your mouth and back
But that's all I need
Don't build your world around volcanoes melt you down

What I am to you is not real
What I am to you you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains
And I'll ask for the sea

You were fighting a losing game because you were looking for the wrong answer. Even now, if you're looking to break the illusion you're on the wrong track. If you allow the illusion to exist then you can live within it. Within time, it will become your truth. The greatest of mountains were seabeds once and just like that, you'll realize that you want the illusion to exist so that you can act like the matyr who saw the sun for a brief moment. No one gets hurt, we all get what we want and if you have the courage to see that the illusion is the next best thing, then you'll find the courage to turn your mountains back into a sea.

Meant to Live

When I was young I wanted to be Remington Steele, no not because of Laura Holt but because he was a private detective...and well private detectives were just cool. Did you want to be Superman? I did, because Superman was just super. I never dreamed about becoming a computer scientist, did you ever dream of becoming an investment banker? Thought not.

Why are we allowed to dream? It seems that people never expect their dreams to come true any longer. The world jolts them to reality so hard that they start scrambling to join the rat race, to stay afloat while the ships sinks. Are we rats? Little rodents looking to just let life pass us by while we think from day to day how to avoid Tom's claws, because it is time to wake up and realize that this isn't the cartoon we're used to in which the mouse always has its way. Welcome to real life and Tom has real claws and guess what, even he gets tired of playing after a little while.

Were we meant to live for so much more? Do mice and men have second chances? So, my grown up side says great euphemisms like: Life is what you make it, All are equal in front of Allah and ofcourse, It's never too late. Well you know what? choice words to my grown up side. I know how to live life and be perfectly content with it but I wanted to be Remington Steele, dammit not Stephen Hawking. You wanted to be Superman and you're Clark Kent, they maybe alter egos and you may still have the heart of the Big S but lets face it, leap tall buildings with a single bound you do not.

I could just come right out and say it, you know, but i've always felt that too many writers insult their readers intelligence and I won't be guilty of doing the same. Maybe this is just a grown-ups tantrum, maybe I haven't even grown up or maybe you understand what i'm saying without having to say it out aloud. Quickly now, erase that thought from your mind because you don't want to tear away the protective layers around you and discover that no red and blue suit is adorned inside.

If everyone is super, no one is and that alone is a comforting thought because maybe i'm meant to be normal so that others can be supers. Important thing to remember is, the supers are human too...so why not me? Why not you? It's a game of chance with the question being that when your chance comes will you leap fealessly off the building or cower within the safety of normality?

Here's to the graveyard of dreams
Where they shall rest in unpeace
And here's to me, for I've shed the skin
Discovered no blue but plenty of red
I'm human and that's my crimson cape
I can fly, I'm not afraid

Remember that if you didn't find your blue underneath, Superman didn't really need it to fly. It was merely a costume. We can do without costumes...but I think i'll get myself a cape just to be safe.

Hallelujah

I wonder at times.

If the world is unhappy. You and I, Them and us; all of us. We just seem pre-occupied. This isn't a 'smell the breeze' message. I think anyone who's lived past their teenages (a proud mark that we all seem to be achieving these days) will willingly lay down more reasons than you can count as to why life is a cruel joke at times. How we seem to lose the things we care most about and then they seem trivial...but not quite. How, at times, no matter how hard you try, you just can't win and that serves to etch the reality of your misfortunes even more firmly in your mind. How we can't live the life we want, how our lives seem to be mapped out to an infinite horizon or the much more simple but just as effective cry of woe to the heavens; Why me?

If we've lost faith in God. Those three letters that we're supposed to love more than life, when was the last time you turned to him in earnest. In our actions do we show that we are muslims? Or is that a convenient term we use to define ourselves, just like many others ? It's not a question of practicing, what we've done is far worse...we've removed religion from our lives or at the very least given it a back seat to society, family and ourselves. Somehow, we've become more important than the world, our actions, their consequences, our heartbreaks, our lapses of madness and even our trivial non-securities all get nourished with more thought than something thats supposed to teach us how to live. I'm smiling at the irony, bitter-sweet as it is, that the answer to our problems can be laid before us and we'll refuse to see it. When the Book said that God can choose to blind us so that we cannot see the truth, I think I now understand what he meant.

If the game is already up. The game of life just like any other game needs a strong start. From there, you come to the crucial part the mid-game. Here the rules are yours for the making but the necessary caution is provided, anything changed is potentially permanant, there is no right answer; just your answer and you won't be allowed to create save-points which would help in fixing the mistakes we make. Then before you know it you're in the end-game where the only purpose is to live. Days passing with their usual suprises but even the dull can see the pattern. Because there will be a pattern, something that will come to define your life. Any game is only fun when it's outcome is still up for grabs, in the end-game of life we're reduced to being passive bystanders and the question really is: How do you know when you've reached it? And even more importantly: Would you be satisfied with you life now, if you're number was well and truly up?

I wonder at times, these times fly by
Much wondering leads me to light
I strain hard to see the answers it brings
And like life, I see that I have again misunderstood
For I stare not at my answers shining
But at the morning come with night yawning

Forty Plus Two

First mistake: Life has a purpose. It's the most natural mistake to make perhaps because we can't live without a purpose. There is a difference however between needing a purpose to live for and there being an inherent purpose to life. The former exists, the latter is a figment which we're fond of because without a greater purpose to live for we are forced to face the reality of our organic existence with a built-in timebomb ticking away with every breath.

We all need something to make us get back up when we've been knocked down, something bigger than us to believe in. We need that special someone to hold us tight when we're falling apart, we need the search for answers to find value in who we are, we need religion to bring peace, we need ethics and morals to differentiate ourselves from 'the others' and we need you to acknowledge all these needs as genuine otherwise it may very well prove to be the wind which blows our house of cards down. Because the great thing about doubts, they may be reasoned away but they always linger at the fringes defying our attempts to extinguish their existence. If it irks your mind it must be rationalized, if it disturbs than it has to be passed away as a freak occurence, if it depresses than it the silver lining has to be found.

What if life really had no purpose? What if all you had to do was live? What if you never found the answers you're looking for? What if everything didn't work out? And even if it did, would you be satisfied? I don't have the answers i'm looking for, at least not all of them and i'm beginning to understand that I may never have them. I'm also mildly surprised to realize that its alright because at least I still have all my questions. And then it becomes clear, maybe it isn't our answers that define us, maybe its the questions we dare to ask. If I can question the 'truths' of today then maybe someone else can rewrite them for tomorrow. Who knows maybe that someone else will be me because life isn't over yet, not just yet.

Stairway to Heaven

I've always found introductions boring, not because of the necessary formality at times, the rigid ordering of events, the procedure without which the event would cease to be itself. No, I dislike them because they represent a beginning, which is fine since everything must have a beginning but where as it can be gripping and at times even immersive, I think we'll all agree that the meat of the story comes a good deal later, after many page numbers have flicked by and almost always before you realize that you've read enough for one night (if there is such a thing).

So no introductions on my part, we're too far ahead in the story for me to bother with recaps. We've found the staircase, ascended it, found the Pearly Gates and taken whatever gifts we wished to take from the heaven of youth. It's time to start the descent back to earth, back to the real world. It's a much more interesting place, perhaps solely because time here is fleeting and before you know it heaven will come knocking on your door.

I believe this world is at the doorstep of many Angels, it presents many choices but there is one that shall come knocking for you regardless, a calling you will be challenged to ignore.