The isolated heart of Pir Rano Shah – Prologue

This story is the first in line to a few I am writing on prompts given by my readers.

For M, who filled many of my years with colour

x ————————–

The landscape changed outside as the silhouette of his Benz moved against the dark of the night. Inside, he sat with a troubled mind. He’d have screamed, if he knew screaming as a normal reaction. But he didn’t – for Rano of the clan Shah, screaming was not rational. He might’ve considered it womanly, if he didn’t think of it as downright disgusting. He looked back at the screen of his phone, where in simple words, Khurram had sent him a text message with a thousand implications

“Job is unfinished” read his mobile screen

And that was true, wasn’t it? The job was unfinished. He looked outside the window instead of replying back. In the moonless night that was, he saw shadows passing by as the car sped towards town – trees, scanty after every few kilometers marked the path; distant cabins were etched into the horizons, far apart from each other, lonesome and weary; he thought he also saw a single cow somewhere, wandering into the desolate night, where no other worldly creatures stood waking. But other than that, he mostly  saw fields – vast and expansive, as dark as the secrets of this night, where the only sound was the constant hum of his car as it bade way on these vacated roads that no one chose ride

The job was unfinished – back in the hut he had left tonight, the job was unfinished. It was seldom Rano left his secret night jobs unfinished, but this was one such night. He was rubbing his temple obliviously, he realised, and remembered the dull pain that was housed somewhere in his head. And he remembered much more

May it be – I

LOSS

a poem

Time you cruelty, thou never stopped,

The beating of my heart, did you see?

Like a pouring rain from that frail they dropped

Drops of blood mourning who ceased to be

In plain sight is your passing still,

Acceptance a constant rejected plea

What calms the storm that brews within,

if the winds of turmoil renew their spree?

Like a wilted rose your body lies,

Your fragrance fresh of the death decree.

That hearty garden reduced to this

What a beastly assault to my prairie

Carefully tread on this path of loss

Here lay pieces of my shattered world in scree

Gone, when naught a warning came,

A drought to a rising fearsome sea.

My trembling lips sore from these cries,

Cry still you find all triumph, may it be

May it be you eat from the fruits of Eden,

May it be in death thou find thee free

MAY IT BE – Prologue

Everything stopped moving yesterday – ever since that call, the world came to a standstill. I don’t remember what I am doing throughout this time, the only memory I have is broken into screens where I see what’s happening around me, as if I didn’t live those moments myself but somebody put them into my head, asking me to accept it as reality.

That call – something about death, but it couldn’t be true;

the ride to the hospital, surely it’s not true;

the ride back home, is it true?;

nothing;

and then: this shroud?

My 17 years old son?

 

Chal dil meray.

(o heart! Let’s leave this place)

Infatuation – the word is embedded deep within my brain. Each time I look at you smile, your hair flowing down to your shoulders, brown eyes full of longing and happiness, those plump lips. The word echoes in my mind, bouncing around the walls of my skull. It is infatuation that makes me want you, my own selfish need for pleasure and satiety – from that unquenchable thirst that arrests me when I look at you.

You enchant me; with just a stroke of your lazy attractiveness. You seduce me, awaken temptations within me – enticements, delights, ecstasy. I don’t even understand your charm. Yet by a force unseen and unheard of, I find myself drifting towards you, like the opposite pole of your magnet. You attract me, so effortlessly and so heedlessly, and I rush to you like the sea lapping up in the arms of the shore.

You work like magic on me.

I long for you, passionately and obsessively. I spend my time making excuses to see your face. When I see your face, this desire multiplies tenfold. I lust for you, uncontrollably and hypnotically. I find you in my thoughts, in my sight and in my dreams and even there you always leave me wanting more.

You are like magic on me.

I realise my desire is temporary, my passions interim. It’s all selfish. I don’t want to love you, I don’t want to hold you close to my heart, I don’t want to make you a special part of my life. But this flame inside me to which you are the fodder; the boiling of my blood, the flushing of my skin and my arousal – they are so real. So so real.

You are magic on me.

Let me have you. Once. Let my infatuation die. Let the beasts inside me rest. I will never love you, but my craving for you keeps you so high in my regards. You fascinate me, you mesmerise me, leave me in awe. I don’t like feeling this way. Be mine just once.

You are magic.

---

I realise this post is pretty corny, I just haven’t written in a while and so sat down after a night out and wrote whatever was on my mind. Also probably cause the past few posts on here have been really heavy and so to take it down a notch (erm). Nojudge. Adios.

Voices 2.

Shall I not tell you what made me suicidal?

Desertion, apathy, or neglect,

or was it plain loneliness?

would it if I knew.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

I blink as the darkness gives way to light. Little by little, the sun rays creep into my bedroom from the white translucent drapes, falling onto the wooden dressing table, and then across the floor to the wardrobe, revealing that same old space, the same old-timer. No shut-eye, I think. In my own voice.

I think…

“Breakfast” says Samantha.

So I get up, lowering my feet into the slippers and I walk to the kitchen. I open a cupboard and pull out a packet of corn flakes, from the refrigerator I take a carton of milk and make a seat at the table, where a green bowl sits proudly, washed last night, next to a spoon glimmering in the morning light. That same old habit, every day on repeat.

A soft hand gently touches my shoulder. Samantha. It was twelve years ago she died.

“You haven’t gone out in such a long time, dear” she says as she joins the table next to me. Still that same old elegance, that same red lipstick, brown hair bouncing by her sides.

“I don’t like the world outside.” I say

I could see the look of disappointment on her face. But what did I care?

she is dead, not real

oh, and you are?

I rub my temples to shut the voices out. They’ve become constant companions now. I had initially wondered if the voices in my head were different people, then I had wondered if they were acknowledging them, were they going to go away? Then I had tried shutting them out. That’s when I lost control and they became so strikingly different. Different voices for different tones, my subconscious communicating with my conscious mind. I had freaked out, but now? Now I didn’t wonder about anything. I let it be. What could an old retired guy gain from getting himself checked, it’s not like I had something to look forward to either.

“Are you talking to yourself again, dear?” Samantha asks.

“No, I’m not” I reply, “and I’d like to be left alone, please”

“Oh, dear” she says “you know I speak in concern. You are going crazy”

as if.

I shake my head as if to clear it all out, and start eating my corn flakes.

what a sad, sad way to die.

Voices.

Darkness. Absolute darkness; a world ruled by shadows, a harem of gloom. I hear voices in my head; whispers of faceless phantoms, a rustle of my sins. Speculate, predict, brainstorm; something’s going awry, a loose link in a chain of gold, a slip of the foot, life taking a bad turn. Don’t lose your mind, hold yourself together, work it work it work it! Decay; the smell of rotten cheese, or a fall of existence itself. Memories turning grim, why don’t I remember, were there no happy times? Floating… on the edge of consciousness. Elated, or plain crazy?

xxxxxxx

 

I lay on my bed as the hours go by, locking and unlocking my fingers, waiting in an insomniac hell. My apartment is silent as a grave; and it might well be a grave, for here lives an old antic without any family to look for him, without any crutches he could call children. The irony of life laughs at my face as I rest on the same lonesome bed, living the same lonesome nights, with nothing to keep me company but the sounds of strangers in my head. This is my descend to schizophrenia. Hallucinations, delusions of grandeur – it’s a mad, mad world.

Hello, world. I’m not holding back.

Summer in Karachi

O, silly, sullen summer breeze,

What do you see amiss?

The wind that holds her breath in wait,

Fair Maiden who won’t kiss.

The woolen blanket cast a dark shadow; within, the customers sipped chaye over bitter argument. It provided enough shade, but the heat the thick wool absorbed combined with the humidity on this sunny morning, drenched Chotu in his sweat. Mercury on the moods of the customers was a similar story – only an hour back, a scuffle had broken out between Dilbar Khan and Achakzai.

“Took her with her maidenhood” Achakzai had boasted about Dilbar Khan’s sister after smoking two joints. That had led to Dilbar Khan beating Achakzai a good deal before the others came to rescue. Two of Achakzai’s canines lay broken on the pavement where Cafe Quetta stood, marking Achakzai’s fleeing with a trail of purple blood. But scuffles like these were not uncommon in Cafe Quetta. There was a different unrest today, even Rehman Bhai judged so.

“My bones are silent today” The 40 years old innkeep said when Chotu went to him to refill his tray with more cups of chaye “there has never been an ill omen where my bones weren’t silent”

Chotu took the chaye and turned to the debate lit in the house today.

“your Prime Minister is dismissed by court,” Allah Dino said while chewing tobacco “such is the fate of those as steal from their country”

“We won’t desert his support” vowed Bilala, his tummy bouncing with his change of syllables “He is the true leader of this country”

“He is no leader.” proclaimed Imtiaz Khan as he scratched his white beard “the true leader is Imdad Khan, he does not steal”

“They are none of them leaders, ye fools” Allah Dino shouted, his fingers curled to a fist “They are both of them those rich bastards. I swear they do something for the likes of you or I will shit from my mouth”

“You shit from your mouth anyway, old tobacco teeth.” retorted Motorwala, a 17 years old mechanic.

Chaye tipped over the brim of the last cup on his tray as Chotu reached his final table. Hamdullah sat there, wearing his white doctor’s coat and his slim spectacles. He hailed from the North, where mountains spoke to the clouds. Like all northerners, his skin was pale snow, with little red spots of wisdom spread across his cheeks. He lived in Karachi as a student of medicine, and away from home he often tore bread at Rehman Bhai’s kitchen. Chotu liked speaking to Hamdullah whenever Cafe Quetta was less busy.

“Salam Alaik, Hamdullah” Chotu said in greeting as he approached

“Walaik, Naseemjan” Hamdullah replied. This was another reason Chotu liked Hamdullah, he called him by his birth name.

“Sangai Khair, Hamdullah?” Chotu asked while lowering the cup of chaye.

For all his effort to not spill it any further, as soon as he kept it on the table, a huge blast rang around them, shaking the very Earth beneath. Time itself slowed down; within a second, Chotu saw the cluttering of the cup on the saucer, the face of Hamdullah turning, and the cars parked on the street going up in fire. Whoosh, flames rose as high as Chotu imagined mountains to be. From one of the cars, a man emerged, burning arms spread wide and feet swaying on the ground in a mad dance, a drankard asking for a hug. His screams lasted a century in those few seconds before he fell on the floor, crisp in his death.

Chotu was slapped, shouted at, but Chotu did not blink. Nor did he speak a word. He stared like a man hypnotised by art, so Rehman Bhai swang Chotu on his shoulder and carried him, as the other customers also flee. Chotu saw Hamdullah carrying his bag of books  slung across his arm. Bomb, Chotu heard in the waste of words coming from Rehman Bhai’s mouth, terrorists.

His ears heard little, his brain was exhausted by the information his eyes sent its way. There from Rehman Bhai’s shoulder, he saw a hand, an arm, a leg – sprawled on the road in their bloody puddles, forgotten by their owners – a face with half the skull devoid of skin, bones without muscle in places, burned black from fire. There was a smell too, the sweetness of blood mixed with the bitter of ash and the tangy petrol and barbecue, giving the air a retchworthy aroma. Guts were exhibited on the grey concrete bathing in pools of blood and bile. Allah Dino stepped in one such pool and slipped as he ran. Chotu closed his eyes and opened them again, unable to believe if this is reality. Too bright, Chotu thought.

Too bright, and then he fell asleep.

Once upon a high.

My spine felt heavy with the load of my sins. As if all the dark atrocities I had committed since birth were piled up, one on top of the other, instead of my vertebrae in the back, and the weight of it were crushing my frail nerves. I tried to balance, failed. Tried again, and actually fell down on my knees. The world shifted just a little bit before coming back into view and I rubbed my eyes against the light piercing through them. So bright, was it not night yet?

Taking support from the wall of the bathroom, I got up halfway to a crawling position and stumbled out in the bedroom. The room resonated with vibrant energy which pulsated with my throbbing head. I managed to get to the bed and sprawled my clumsy body on it while I figured what was happening.

As soon as I lay down my neurons went into overdrive. I felt a passing tingle up the middle of my back to reach my skull where it stole away the little sense I had left. My body felt like it was giving off radiating beams of electrons, draining me of my aura. I felt like my spirit was leaving, packing away from the cage of my body that had held it with such possessiveness and yet care. I felt like my spirit did not care, as if its term was over. My brain was slowly going numb, going to sleep, shutting off, but ever so slowly. So slowly I saw each stage of an insomniac’s dream and lived in it wholly before it moved to the next. I willed to slap myself and stay awake, not knowing if I’ll be able to sit up later if I gave in just now.

What was happening.

I breathed in hard. Okay, it was okay. I was just hypoxic, my body was running out of fresh oxygen to breath and so I willed myself to fill my lungs to their proudest most capabilities and exhaled with power. I sat up, repeated this process several times. Fuelling up on oxygen, giving the cells of my body enough gaseous nutrition for cellular respiration. But it didn’t work.

Instead, my chest felt compressed, me eyes stinged and my left arm tickled. It was a satisfying sensation. Only a minute later, I was wondering if I’m enjoying the pain of a heart attack. It wasn’t uncommon in young boys anymore after all. But I trashed the thought as soon as it formed in my mind: this was certainly not pain. This was pleasure beyond any I had experienced before. Each inch of my body was cutaneously ellicitable. Each fragment of my skin was hyper excitatory. This was ecstasy, even if it was dying. Was I dying?

Angina pectorus was a possibility, heart attack that is. So was an epileptic attack, not that I had had any before, but I had family history of epilepsy all the same. Or I could just be fainting. Is this what fainting felt like?

I leaned back on the bed again and eyed the ceiling with caution. What was happening. I wasn’t being paranoid, I just wanted to know, I was curious. Did I have a fever? I definitely felt cold. Why was I not being paranoid if I was actually dying?

But the answer to that was simple enough. I felt relaxed beyond complete anaesthesia. A thousand invisible fairies sang lullabies to me as my descent into an abyss of numbness continued. Upon the music of an unseen orchestra my body spiralled into a deepening euphoria. I kept going down, and down I went, where each step below was another level high. Higher than the skies this galaxy consumed. The stars were all my acquaintances, and they all wished well for me. This was my soul draining away, and it was leaving me so peacefully. No drama, no “give me my gifts back, I hate you, you are such a douche”. No. No judgement either. This was probably what end felt like, and if it was, then did I have a right to complain?

Except I wasn’t dying.

But what was happening then?

I slapped myself.

STAY. ALERT.

FOCUS.

Oxygen. No we already tried oxygen. My tissues didn’t require oxygen quite as bad as I had expected. But then what else do they need? In their greed and race for survival, they were forgetting I could only provide them with so much.

BUT OF COURSE.

SUGAR.

Your tissues require glucose and oxygen for respiration. I glanced up, proud of my discovery and followed my feet into the kitchen. Sugar. I took a bag of chips and a few dozen biscuits with me. Yes. Sugar. Gulping down a full glass of water like a parched land absorbs water, I opened my bag of chips and munched on a few biscuits.

The dizziness went away. Yes. Okay. Everything was fine. I should probably go watch a movie now, I thought to myself and got up.

Two step forwards, one step back. March, march, march, soldier!

Except my legs were fluid, and they gave way below me as I put my weight on them. My brain gave a final shudder, like a low-voltage scream for help, a desperate call to remain connected to my body, wishful thinking to stay switched on. And then consciousness was replaced by darkness.

So I dreamt…

Like the changing of seasons, life betrays. Too impatient to stay constant, stationary in its drive to fluctuate. Expect the unexpected.

Memory has started to betray me now, in all the years I have lived in this world, in all my friends my family, in all moments I’ve won’t as a boy, a man and now an ancient rot, like a dying autumn leaf, I recall only a few things.

Wilfully, more like, I’ve forgotten the faces and names of people I beheld dearly all those years. Like a glass full of water, spilled out, forces between molecules lessened, cohesion, or adhesion, or maybe it’s both. All science, explainable. 5th grade science, 88 year old man. Who remembers?

Yesterday I had a dream, and I woke up to a stream running down my eyes. How long ago was the dream? Twenty years ago, or last night only? How was the memory so fresh? Did my mind remember? The brain, the scientific miracle, the one they couldn’t figure out. Her face was clear last night, with her blue eyes and wet lipgloss, her skin golden, hair buoyant. The image was clear. As crisp as a winter’s wind, sharp as… well, memory.

Memory… It lingers. After the old lead has died, memory lingers in the back of tree, where two grow in the old leaf’s place, or maybe a new branch, come the season.

Reach out. Hold out your hands in the rain and feel the gentle caress of nostalgia. Feel the reality of it, hold on to what you find. Don’t let go, not yet. If you dare.

The season will change. Memory will linger. Hold on…