The Mystique

This poem is written in the POV of an orphan child who's a victim of bullying.

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A tomorrow without me,
The world would never stop its spree,
From everyone, I want to flee,
To a distant island and be free.

Cutting my chains,
I'll become a butterfly,
I'll spread my wings and fly,
Away from this land, which is awry.

I need a magic door,
A doorway that can take me away,
I want to be all alone,
Where I need not groan.

To that island, where there are no people,
Where your appearance is not your feeble,
Where there is no darkness,
Where there is no sadness,
Where there is no hatred,
Where the world is not parted.

I wonder if anyone notices my absence,
It should not make any difference,
Sun shines in the valley like everyday,
Wind plays with the dried leaves tomorrow and today,
Schoolmates go to school without any bother,
My so-called friends will live like nothing has changed altogether.

Or, would it be simple if I never existed?
If I never persisted?

A tomorrow without me,
The world would never stop its spree,
From everyone, I want to flee,
To a distant island and be free.

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Share your thoughts about the poem. And also, share your views about how we can stop bullying.

Making you go completely blank...

Of depression you sank...

Is taken by others with a fierce yank...

You can most reliably bank!

Victory will surely be on your flank!

With a loud, unconvincing clank!

You'll have only yourself to thank!!!

 Read part 2

Part 2 ending:

"No, don't go there. It's not safe. Gurman will be okay", baba tried to console me, utterly failing. He tried to drag me away from there. I resisted, I pushed him away and I ran, I ran fast to the street where Gurman lived.

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Part 3


                  I ran fast, faster than ever, hoping to be faster the fate which can separate us. My heart thumped loudly, but more than that, the word 'Gurman' reverberated more louder. Panting, I reached Gurman's house.

                  There was nothing there, no blood, no corpses, no house at all. All it remained were the ashes which shaped the beautiful hut of Gurman's. Fighting through the rubble, I searched. But, this time, NOT TO FIND ANYTHING. At least then, I could live the rest of my life, hoping that Gurman is safer elsewhere. But, in the midst of those ashes, there existed a half-burnt pink turban lying in a puddle of blood.

                   My mind stopped thinking, and I madly started to search for Gurman, kicking through the ashes and uprooting the bushes. Nothing found. All I could do was to hold the blood-stained turban to my face and cry.

                   Baba and I searched for Gurman for the next few hours, but all our efforts went in vain. What a drastic change it was! Just two days ago, I remember enjoying the Lahore markets, just a week ago, Gurman and I were playing with the glow worms, just a few days ago, people in Bilal lived in harmony without communal differences. All of that changed by a poison called 'hate'. Two days was enough to destroy entire Bilal.

                   The sun started to set. The usual orange sun seemed to be red, reflecting the state of Bilal. Still, there was no sign of Gurman. As the time passed by, our hopes started to fade away like the fading sun.

Baba and I split ourselves and started searching for Gurman in every place we roamed together, the masjid street, the open fields, British office. While I passed through the Sikh lane, I was chased by a small mob and I hid myself in the bunker, which I and Gurman used to play.

                     The bunker was pitch dark, the entire world seemed to be in charcoal. The night was dead except for the buzz of insects. But, the bunker seemed weird then. I could sense the presence of another being rested there. Fearing, I turned my lamp to find Gurman drooling in blood, lying unconscious. Tears flooded my face seeing Gurman in such state, but, finally, I was relieved to find his heart beating.

                    My heartbeat burst the silent night as I ran for finding Baba. After returning, we wiped the blood from his wounds. We knew that Gurman wouldn't survive if we were late to the hospital. Considering the scenario, we were sure that he wouldn't be admitted. Moreover, there was a high chance that he would be killed by the doctor itself.

                   Slowly, baba removed the turban from Gurman's blood-covered head. We cut his hair short with the knife baba brought for defense.  We knew that was against his religion, but it was necessary to save his life. We apologized god and hoped that he would forgive us for our mistake. Baba placed his white Taqiyah on Gurman's head. We admitted him into Shah Alam nursing home, lying that he was my brother Abbas who got injured in the riots.

                  Two '0 clock morphed into three, but the doors of the operation room were still shut. From the corner, I took the green mat and unfurled it across the floor. I bent my knees and prayed Allah with whatever hymns I knew. I only wish I had in my mind was to see Gurman alive. I prayed and prayed with my puffy eyes, and somewhere in the midst of my prayers, I dozed off to darkness.

                  I woke up suddenly, when a fighting trumpeted my ears. It was chacha, who was arguing with baba. His hand bore a long talwar with a sharp edge, which shone as it reflected the baby sun rays. I peeped out of the window as the conversation went on..

                 "You're a traitor to our religion", chacha said, pointing the talwar edge towards baba, "You know what religion he belongs to. They are killing our people in Eastern punjab."

                 With a rebellious tone, baba replied  "I'm sure that if I were born in a Sikh family, I would have followed Sikh traditions. We're born as humans first, and we stick to religion later. How is the child responsible for killing Muslims in eastern Punjab? Spare him. You know that he is nice to all."

                 "We should protect our religion. You're a coward. Move away", chacha looked undeterred.

                 "Allah never told anyone to kill people", Baba said emotionally, "He asked us to love and save people".

                 " You don't understand religion. Move away or you'll have to face the wrath of my talwar", chacha said advancing towards baba.

                My instinct told me to take Gurman away from this. We both held our hands tightly and started running from the back door.

                We reached the Lahore express which ran from Lahore to Amritsar. Gurman removed the taqiyah, and tied a turban around his head. The station was so crowded and we moved through the gaps to find a better place in the train. As we ran around, we dashed across a heavy-built guy and we fell down.

                 It took us a minute to realize that it was Habeeb chacha, disguised as a Sikh to save women and children. I handed over Gurman to him and he promised that he'll take care of Gurman. Departure was not easy, we  hugged each other tightly and tears made our faces wet. Gurman handed over his silver kadiyam to me.

                I ran back, this time with a sense of elation and joy. I ran across sand, dirt and pebbles, with the happiness that Gurman was saved. With the same, I reached shah alam hospital. My happiness evaporated seeing Baba drenched in a pool of blood.

                Chacha's talwar pierced through Baba's heart. Perhaps, baba was too soft hearted to resist that hard metal. Tears flowed through my eyes while the sky too started to cry along with me.

"Baba", I yelled.

                Life has been miserable for me ever since. There was no baba, no Gurman, no habeeb chacha, none. Still, I waited for Gurman hoping that he'll visit Bilal again. Every week, I visited the Wagah border in the hope of seeing Gurman. But, he never did.

                Ever since, people started measuring your patriotism in how much you hate the other country. Now, people of our countries die fighting with each other, often forgetting that their grandparents died fighting together, for independence.



                Akram closed the diary, as he wiped his tears. The two people in the photograph were still smiling, not knowing how cruel this world is.



                 From that time, our heart was divided. Nearly, one million people migrated to the other counterparts and ten million people lost their lives in the massacre. But, still people like me exist, people like Habeeb chacha exist. People like Gurman exist. We love peace. We're waiting for the day when people of India and Pakistan stop hating each other. After all, we're the children of same mother. What say?


End of the story      
Read part 1 part 2

Click here to read part 1

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Part 2:


               I went along with baba to my distant cousin's marriage in Lahore. The only reason I went is that it was in Lahore. After the wedding, I strolled across the streets of Lahore. I adore Lahore so much, it always intrigues me to the best. The evening markets are my favorite relishing points, carrying a lot of life. People move in between the stall holders, trying to push the people in front of them harder, to unload their wares. Baba and I purchased a new turban for Gurman and a bottle of Arabic perfume to Habeeb chacha.

                 Something seemed to worry baba. He seemed perturbed ever since the wedding. When I asked him about that, he said he wasn't feeling well. On our return journey, I insisted baba to travel on the newly laid train from Lahore to Amritsar. He agreed. We bought a newspaper and made ourselves comfortable. Baba's mood hadn't changed; I wondered if baba was still unwell.

                 After sometime, baba slipped into a nap and I picked Nawa-i-waqt newspaper which we purchased earlier. Every column of it was filled with the articles about dividing India into two parts. One of the article went like this

                "The entire nation is facing rampant communal riots, hundreds already dead in the consequence. The Radcliff line is the culprit, many lives depend on the impending decision of its location. Many villages were burnt, leaving no trace of life. Hindus and Sikhs killed Muslims in the Eastern Punjab, while Muslims killed Sikhs and Hindus in its western counterpart. The atrocities have no limits, men burnt alive, women raped and children murdered. And the British is enjoying the play, delaying the Radcliffe line announcement to weaken the unity. The British should act as fast as possible to avoid any more human loss.

                 A short, stern looking Caucasian man, who doesn't understand the Indian culture, is going to swoop out a decision based on a few statistics without considering the spirit of unity. How unfair is this? How can we allow the British to shape the most important decision which shapes the future of millions of people, the future of communities, the future of families?"

                 The newspaper was filled with many other articles mentioning the opinions of great leaders like Gandhi, Jinnah, Nehru, how the riots started, Lahore's position etc.. and my eyes became wet after seeing Bilal's name in the list of villages which got burnt the last day.

What happened to our Bilal? Is Gurman okay? Is this why baba is worried? My heart started to pound loudly, louder than the steam engine of the train.

                 Though I heard about gory stories from Habeeb chacha, the stories of brewing  communal riots, I couldn't fathom the fact that Bilal, my Bilal would find a place in that shame.

I couldn't control my anguish and I started to cry loudly.

                 Baba woke up, intermitting my thoughts. He saw the newspaper in my hands and he hugged me tightly, with his tear-soaked face touching my shoulder.

                 The train reached Bilal just then. A deep fear invoked by heart, overlayed by grief. I caught hold of baba's hand tightly and got down the train. Somewhere in my heart, I felt like going into that train and never return again. Everyone will be okay; I told myself to soothe my heart.

                Baba carefully drove me from the streets where there is  Mohammedan majority to ensure my safety. On familiar streets, I closed my eyes, fearing to see any disturbing scenes.

                The entire place is a devastation; a few corpses already started to rot, a few houses burned to the void, a few empty. The same Bilal, which once boasted the grandeur and regality became a grotesque piece of rubble, the place once puffed its chest for the unity of communities is no where to be seen; all I could see was the dogs hungry for power and control.

                  I felt ashamed to be part of that village. Hatred towards the people deepened when I saw the corpse of Rajji, our neighborhood  friend lying in a pool of blood. Her body was lying in front of her house, completely battered with broken bangles and a torn dupatta. Her family members lay dead not far from her and their house shaped to ashes.

                 All I could was cry, cry till my eyes become dry, cry loud enough to carry my prayers to the skies. I could hear her screams, I could see her struggling to fight, I could hear her begging those monsters to leave her alone, I could see her taking her last breath.

                I bent down on my knees and prayed Allah to grant peace to her poor soul, take her far away from these cold blooded people.

                "How can they kill her? She's barely of my age and Gurman's," I asked baba who was sobbing.

                The word Gurman hit me like a lightning. "Gurman, Gurman, is he okay?", my words came stammering. Tell me baba, is he okay?

                   "No, don't go there. It's not safe. Gurman will be okay", baba tried to console me, utterly failing. He tried to drag me away from there. I resisted, I pushed him away and I ran, I ran fast to the street where Gurman lived.


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End of part 2       

Read part 1  Part 3 

               The death of my grandpa made me visit our village. I don't know much about grandpa, but I had a few good childhood memories with him.

                As I peeped out of the bus, the Sun bathed itself in the giant blue sky and spread its glory to the world from there. The fresh air, the lush-green trees decorated by tiny slow flakes, and the sight of village food made me nostalgic. I used to play a lot in the streets of Bilal (Punjab, Pakistan), but later, we moved to Karachi. I always loved this place.

                After re-arranging things at the house, I moved into my grandpa's room. It was the first time I visited the house after his death, which happened a week ago. It was a rather a bleak, shabby and less furnished room which maintained an old library. While moving the things around, I found an age-old diary which read the title "Yaadein"  and it seemed to contain intriguing experiences of grandpa. As it was dark, I switched the old oil lamp on and with a lot of alacrity, I opened it.

                 As I opened the book, a crumpled old photograph, seemingly a polaroid one, fell from the book. It bore two boys, standing beside each other, one with a big smile and the other with a mousy look, with a turban bound to his head. A snowman rested in between them; it seemed that they were enjoying themselves . The beaming one looked awfully similar to my grandpa, but who's the other guy?

Wondering so, I flipped the page to read the story written in Urdu.

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                 "Those days were the best days. Like all the boys of our age, Gurman and I enjoyed every small moments. Gurman was an interesting guy. He was rather a shy looking, round-faced boy with a bit tilted smile, his teeth so white, enough to make you blind. But, in creating fun, he was the best, none could ever reach his mark.

                  Holidays were given to school every winter, that makes the winters best time for us. Every morning, Gurman would come to me, drag me to the fields, where we used to gaze the sunrise, perplexed and fascinated by its beauty. After that, Gurman used to come with me to the mosque, wait till I complete the Faj'r namaaz, and then start our quest for fun.

                  Deflating the tire of the Maulvi's old cycle was our most-to-do avocation. He was pretty annoying, often asking people for more money. That made us dislike him.

                  Apart from that, stealing the sweets from Habeeb chacha's dukaan, making a snowman army, catching Jugnoos (glow worms) at nights, strolling through the markets of Lahore were our all time favorites.

                   When baba asked us about the snowman army which we built, we replied that we'll use that army to defeat the British. We used to do many silly things which people never understood, but for us, it was fun. Gurman and I shared an invisible bond between us, inseparable.

Things went well  till one day..."

                   The oil lamp started to flicker and the flame popped out. Maybe the oil got exhausted. I put the book aside, with so many questions in my mind while moved into the kitchen for kerosene.

                     So, Gurman was grandpa's bestie. Where is he living now? Is he a Sikh? Why didn't grandpa ever mention about his memories? I opened the book again, hoping to find the answers to my questions.

"Things went well till one day...

The lush-green village of Bilal became red with blood."

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End of part 1                                                    

Read part 2 here

Latakia, Syria :

                Baba decided to sell our house, property, jeep and everything we have. Amma sold all her marriage jewelries which worth five thousand dollars 20 years back at a very meagre price of 100 dollars. All  this was done to get money for leaving the country. Still, that didn't bring us enough money for everyone of us. All we could afford was 2 tickets.

                 Baba and Mama forced me and my six year old sister to leave in those boats. Leaving them was very very hard, we all cried for the inevitable misery. When my sister didn't stop crying, baba tried to console her by promising that they would catch the next boat. I knew that it's never going to happen. And, that made me to cry more.

                 The city once thronged with life seemed to become dead. The lively fruit markets, the children playing football in the grounds, those petty street fights, all were gone. Even during the day, the towns were inanimate, except the dust clouds accompanying it. All those sandstone buildings which appeared elegant under the tangerine Sun are now decorated with bullet marks, a few devastated by bombs. The life in Aleppo moved to a heavy slumber. The once peaceful and city of glory became a symbol of brutality and savage.

                 Few of my friends already left the country, while a few left this world. We've decided not to stay in this country, not after my neighbour's house got bombed, killing the entire family.

                We decided to leave. The plan was simple. We've to reach the boat by 2:30 A.M. The night was silent. None spoke. But, under our silence, our tears spoke, and under those, our hearts prayed to Allah very loudly, asking him to shower His grace upon us.

               When the clock struck one, we hugged each other tightly and started for the quest of leaving for living.

               Baba led the path, he would give us a gesture if the area was clear and we'll follow him. After one and half hour of hiding and lurking under the shadows, we reached the shore.

               Upon the sand, there was a boat, the size of that not crossing the size of the rowers of the lake, with a few drag marks on the deep ocean blacked wood.

                There were kids, parents, oldies among the passengers, we all shared the same emotions. We cried again and after bidding farewell to amma and baba, I sat at the corner with my sister beside me. Leaving our own country forever hurts, but leaving our dearest ones to death is the ultimate pain one can bear.

                The boats started. There was no hint of happiness, not even of hope in anyone of our faces. Perhaps, we've suffered enough. Perhaps, that suffering has robbed all our feelings, except the sorrows.

               A child sitting in front of us asked his mother if he could meet his missing friends in the new place, if he could play football along with them. She didn't speak anything, hugged him tight. The old man near her told the child that his friends are waiting in the new land for him to play along with them.

              After few hours, the sun rose glittering above the horizon. Every night which pass reminds us that we've survived that day. Of many men dead. Of many children who lost their parents. Of many parents who lost their children. Of people who lost their homes. Of people who lost their houses. Of another city, which got destroyed.

              The days seemed to be like years. There were no supplies of food as that would decrease the carrying capacity of the boat. There was a very limited supply of water which was not even sufficient to quench the thirst of the passengers. Hunger cries became the common music along with the ocean waves.

                After a few sunrises (I don't remember how many), people started to disappear, the reason was obvious. They were dead and their bodies are thrown away into the sea. The child in front of us started to cry as the old man who was nice to him was no where to be seen.

                Finally, after the never-ending journey, one day, we saw the land. We intensely waited for the island to come. As we neared the land, we could see the people and rescue teams waiting for any boats. There was a loud cheer from all of us. Our eyes got covered with the tears of joy and we thanked Allah many times. I felt so happy for the first time since many years.

                Two months have passed and there was no sign of baba or amma. Here and then, we hear about the boats which got devastated to the wrath of the ocean, about the people who made to the land.

                Many times, I wonder what's the point of our survival. Who knows, we might collectively change the future of Syria again, we might eliminate the darkness and bring light again.

               

                  A gentle nudge on my ribs made me awake. Though my eyes are open, I can't think of why; my mind is empty. It's as if the hypodermic is flowing beneath my skin, emptying the carotid. I woke up almost suddenly but slowly, my breathing rate steadied after seeing Aditi's smiling face before me.

                "That's why you shouldn't watch too many horror movies", she said throwing a wink at me.

                 Aditi is my bestie, more a family member than that. She's a compassionate girl, complimented by her big doe eyes and never fading smile. With full of energy, she rejuvenates the every soul around her.

                  " Let's get some fresh air", she said and got down of the bed. "The clock ticked half past 3 and you want fresh air at this time? Ghost's time, huh?", I grunted with a slight anger which was quickly lost in a great elation.

                 We ran to the beach bare legged, enjoying the touch of the cooling sand beneath our feet. Aditi always loved the night ocean, she feels that, at night, the ocean speaks to the world through her powerful waves while at the day, it hides its deepest secrets. But, today, the ocean seemed to be surprisingly calmer than the usual.

                We sat at the beach while the waves caresses our feet like a newborn caressed by a mother. "Do you know why the haunted time has been shifted from 12 A.M. to 3 A.M.?" Noticing a hint of surprise in her face, I continued, " In olden days, 12 A.M. was considered as the haunted time. Now, why do we say that 3 A.M. is the haunted time?"

"No idea, why?" she asked.

"Maybe because nowadays, it has become a common thing for the people to stay awake till 12 A.M." And we broke into a laughter.

                 I was very happy to see Aditi laughing, I missed those smiles from few days. Since few days, she seemed to be perturbed, for the reasons unknown. My heart exhilarated again after seeing those dimples again.

                 After relishing for a couple of hours, we went back to our room again. "Thank you", Aditi said and threw herself under the covers.

                 While the abrasive morning rays struck my eyes, I woke up slackly yawning and stretching like a cat. " You know Aditi, I'm so happy for you. Missed you since few days." Unable to find her beside me, I walked past the corridor.

                 My numb feet pressed against the cold floor while I got down my bed. Something seemed to be wrong near the corridor, a sense of uneasiness occupied me. While I walked past that, I found Aditi, hanging in the rest room.

                 I broke into all tears and did my unfruitful attempts to save her hoping that she would be still alive. No, this must be a dream. We've enjoyed the beach just few hours ago, all those smiles, why should they vanish suddenly? Why?

                I called the ambulance immediately and she was taken to the hospital. While my tears pooled my face, it was announced that the postmortem reports have come.

The death time is 2'o clock, caused by hanging, the reports said.

What??Who was with me till the morning?