Oblivion

 

Ever wondered what happens to the apple core you throw away after having the acceptable chunks in your mouth ?

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Ever wondered what happens to the bread crusts you set aside on your plate ?

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Or Have you ever wondered what happened to your blue shirt that once was your favorite when you were little ?

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Perhaps you don't.

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It was the last night when I had puffed my last cigarette of the day. I threw the butt somewhere in the corner and saw its red burning ashes slowly dim and eventually extinguished. I thought- Probably this is the last time I'm seeing it. A few seconds before, it was an extension of myself and the next moment it was just a plain nothing.

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It reminds of last year and many other times when I met people and asked for directions, when the GPS failed. I reached my destinations and had my works done but the persons whom I asked for the directions slid out my consciousness. I don't even remember their faces. But once in a while when I sketch portraits, I shudder, and say I've seen this man somewhere. But that man is gone, somewhere I'll never find.

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Where do all these things go?

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Do they exist even after I'm not around? I believe They do, regardless of where I am.

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In a plain simple word, last night I had my own explanation of oblivion.

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Things that stay but at the same time they don't. They remain stuck somewhere where death isn't a word that fits.

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There is a world of apple cores, bread crusts, forgotten promises and slaughtered dreams. You know what I call that place?

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"OBLIVION"

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🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

Cake

 

When they were little, they played kitchen-kitchen everyday. Not that they didn't have any other toys, it was just because Rabia loved food and Sabia had all the love for her little sister.

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The cakes they baked were made up of discarded sponges and for the cherries they used buttons. The deliciousness was never doubted. It was served on a folded newspaper. No matter what the dish was, the newspapers would always be used as a plate and Maa's hair clips as spoons.

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They played and cooked whole day for years until the play ended inside the real kitchen. The deliciousness were never doubted even then. Sabia indeed had magic in her hands. Rabia never grew tired of trying her various mouth watering cake recipes.

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Rabia observed Sabia for years, and learnt the process enough to bake on her own but that, she never did. The crucial ingredient- her sister's love, couldn't be find anywhere except in her hands.

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Then came a year when time took a different stroll. It was a year when the world was about to witness a war. People were moving to different places. A slight mismatch of time while boarding the train, set the family apart. The train left with Rabia alone.

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The seriousness of the tragedy didn't stuck the crowd of thousands. Sabia, Maa and baba boarded the next train but locating Rabia was impossible. They did what they could but all efforts went in vain.

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They lost Rabia And hope.

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After a decade. Far from home, Sabia arrived in a new city. Before proceeding with the work, She went with the Idea of a desert for lunch.

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A cake was ordered. It arrived. Cherries scattered, over a thick layer of cream and veneer of chocolate crumbs scattered uniformly, edge to edge.

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One mouthful of it and Sabia receded into the past. Memories were misty but the heart ache for her lost sister was sharp. She resolved to meet the chef and order a few more pieces of the cake for a quick take away.

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And what followed made the entire restaurant weep.

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Her Rabia had grown up as a beautiful woman. And was now a city-renowned chef.

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Well, Sabia didn't have to pay for the cake. It was a long due treat from Rabia!

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🎂🚂🎂🚂🎂🚂🎂

Labyrinth and Unrequited Love

 

Amir Khusrau Said:

🌱"The writ of destiny went thus:

The soul will be lost in love.

And in short, it went as it was writ."🌱

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🍂I questioned myself where does the tormented soul who endures the pain of an unrequited love, lose itself ? It certainly isn't the void nor does it recede into the oblivion. Because that would mean death.

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When I excavated my mind; mind full of tangled realizations, I found the answer lying on my mind's doorstep.

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The soul loses its way in a high walled labyrinth of wakefulness. There is no escape out of it. The soul runs, finds many doors and windows but all are nothing but another gateways to another wakefulness.

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The soul in its wakefulness sees world revealed. It witnesses the cruel world like no other soul can see. The soul that never loved, sleeps all along but those who loved, witness the crooked world in utter disbelief.

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The soul longs for a sleep; deep and sound. It wails loud, but this is no easy job my dear friends. The walls are too high and strong; your wailing soul might not be able to break it.

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Like a wounded lion in a cave, the soul rests inside the labyrinth. It waits for the wound to heal. But the soul knows, even if its healed it won't be able to escape the labyrinth of wakefulness.

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Its the price you pay for losing your soul in love. Sleep you fancy and wakefulness proves a friend.

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Perhaps that's the way things are in the kingdom of unrequited love.

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To live inside the wakefulness is the biggest death of all. 🍂

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🧱⭐🧱⭐🧱⭐🧱⭐🧱⭐🧱⭐🧱⭐🧱

Lights

Her world shattered when everyone she loved, left. Days spent in misery that knew no bound. She loved lights but her world was set apart and all that left was darkness that haunted her every moment.

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Standing late at night in the expressway, she watched the trails of red and yellow lights that always reminded her of her dead mother.

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"If you love lights then first you must have a piece of darkness of your own. But never let it eat you up." Her mother would always say.

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She was deep in her thoughts when an old woman stopped by her and gave her a small box. Her face was concealed.

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She looked at the box and before she could ask anything, the woman had already gone.

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She returned home in haste and opened the box. It was empty.

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Days and nights passed by but the woman was seen no more. Until one day when it was unusually silent in the expressway. No cars passed by and no lights were seen around. The woman was seen at a distance.

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"Why did you give me an empty box? What was it for?"

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"It was a piece of darkness. As long as its tightly shut, the darkness inside is yours'" She vanished mysteriously once again.

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That night she saw a childhood incident in her dream.

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The 3 years old said to her ailing mother.

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"Please get inside this box, maa, I'll keep you inside, so that you can never go away. And I'll have this box dug in our garden."

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"It will be dark in there, it will scare me, pls don't put me inside the box." Cried the mother.

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"Okay, I'll kiss the box for you, my kiss will lit it up. Now get inside."

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Her mother kissed the box too and convinced her that she is now inside it.

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When she woke up, the incident floated vividly before her eyes.

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She ran to the garden to dig out the little box.

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The spot was excavated widely but the box was missing.

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And the old woman was never seen again.

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🕯🚥🕯🚥🕯🚥🕯🚥🕯🚥🕯🚥🕯🚥

 

Rain Water

 

This was one of those days when sky went ruthless. The man sitting on his chair on rooftop didn't yield to thick drops of rain. Within a moment his body drenched.

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He touched his cheeks and tried to feel the rain mixed tears. And wondered:

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"Somewhere high above the sky there must be an ocean. And in that ocean the saltwater must be tears. Otherwise what else might happen to my tears?"

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After leaning his head backwards he gazed at the misty sky. The rain fell heavily on his face. He slept and dreamt:

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Sorrounded by crows he was lying on a riverbank. His body felt light when all the crows held him between their beaks and lifted him up. Like an air filled balloon he soared up in the sky.

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A dense cloud engulfed them, and soon after they were inside, the crows flew away. His body kept floating. Next moment he stood on the ankle-deep cloudy floor. With his hands he cleared some of the clouds and a heavenly view welcomed him.

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A clear river was flowing down from one of the distant mountains. Then there was a waterfall. Birds were gathering clouds below so that the waterfall fills it. Everyone seemed busy except an old man who watched everything in silence.

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"Can you let me stay here? I want work, you don't have to pay me, just let me stay here." He asked.

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"If you start staying here then the river will dry. You see, these are your tears. Return or it will never rain again."

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He stood and saw the birds happily doing their work. Hundreds of birds pushed and pulled the massive clouds beneath the waterfall. When the clouds were filled with tears, it rained down subsequently.

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"That's the secret of rain." Yelled a bird from the mountain. He turned to look but the bird gripped his shoulder and took him towards the horizon."

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When he opened his eyes, the rain had flooded his home.

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🌧🕊🌧🕊🌧🕊🌧🕊🌧🕊🌧🕊🌧🕊🌧

Why Books are Important for me?

 

■Why books are important to me?■

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Let me put this straightforwardly. I've a problem dealing with pre-existing ideas about things and the world. To be honest I don't like abiding by the rules of reality that are being thrust upon me since childhood.

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Take an example. People often ask me, What am I?

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Writer, storyteller, poet, painter, singer, guitarist, graphics designer, photographer, sketch artist, VFX artist, video composer, video editor or a businessman?

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Man, trust me, this confused me like a lunatic. I used to consider myself inauthentic. Later I realized, 'Priority' doesn't work when you have a multiple shit of talents to deal with. That'd be sheer injustice.

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I do all of those things and I'm pretty good at everything (not sure about writing). Then what the hell am I? How do I define myself?

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Then I came across Kafka and Sartre. My buddies who are dead long ago but what they wrote literally make sense.

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Kafka said: "I don't wish to be easily defined."

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I said to myself: "Bro, take a high five because you are hell of a cryptic entity trying to validate your existence through everything you are doing."

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After completion of my creations, I feel alive...! Zinda !!

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Then I say: "Agar tumne kuch create kiya hai toh samjho Zinda ho tum" (pun intended, Sorry Farhan Akhtar !)

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So the bottom line is, Books unfold ideas that often work as a synthesis to the preexisting social thesis. Age old prejudices and age old rotten ideas stink like rotten potatoes so I seek new ideas that must smell of Musk. Ohh yeah I love it. I have a Musk attar that I apply on Fridays.

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So the point is,

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Why the heck do I've to fit myself into a defined set of parameters and constructs of the society? Why can't I be something that can't be defined? Ohh C'mon, humans, get over with definitions and all. Read books. Live undefined that's fun and adventurous.!

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And now whenever someone asks me what am I then I just say:

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"I'm Zakir Aatish Khan. And I don't wish to be easily defined. Not at all."

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End of the story, cheers !

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📚🌟📚🌟📚🌟📚🌟📚🌟📚🌟📚🌟📚

A Lamppost and a Beggar

That lamppost on the sidewalk, sleeps whole day but wakes up with the Moon. It lit none but itself, glowed weak but consistent.

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The light was His only companion who never failed him. He showed up every dusk and it lit up all the same.

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After Maghrib, he'd sprawl on his mat spread under the lamppost and would wait for the namaz to get over. Tinkles of coin hitting the steel bowl would follow.

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But this day it rained mercilessly. His spot went muddy. Standing under the lamppost with the mat tucked under arm, he waited. His calloused feet was ingrained to the muddy foot-walk and his unkempt hair dripped rain.

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He thought: "If I can be here for little alms then all those people who arrive for God's grace will surely visit the mosque. This rain cant stop them."

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Time slipped but he heard no exchange of Salam, no footfalls and not even a single coin hit his bowl this evening. The silence, was unusual. Thrusting his back on the lamppost he called it a day and resolved to return home.

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Upon turning, he was stopped by an old man. He smelled of a beautiful admixture of wet Earth and attar. The beggar exchanged the first Salam of Maghrib and received a crisp note from him.

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He was blind but could feel the high currency. He left afterwards.

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After the beggar left, rain receded. The elderly spread his own mat under the lamppost, from under his bag he pulled out his own bowl and waited for the Isha's azaan. Waited for coins to hit his own bowl.

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🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂

 

Two skeletons

He lived in a tree. Once when a drought hit the land, The roof of rustling leaves, from where sun rays would make its way, left his home one by one. Nothing but a giant skeleton of the tree remained. He sat dejectedly holding one of the dried leaves between his fingers.

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"What If I go absent too?"

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A hot desert wind, strongest of its kind scattered all the dried leaves that were spread around. No trace of the color green remained except the golden leaf held between his fingers.

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Surrounded by the Vast stretch of dry lands, his home spoke up.

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"I will wait for you, you go and find yourself a shelter before it hits you too."

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"I can't leave you like this, it will rain soon, don't loose hope, not yet. I will stand by your side."

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He dug a hole right beside the tree and buried himself up to his knees. He spread his arms and pledged to keep looking at the sky until it rains.

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Hours past into days and days into weeks. Like all the green leaves, the time, touching and brushing his soul was passing and falling too.

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Upon the land of misery stood two skeletons. Looking at the stars he waited for the downpour.

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But It never rained.

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While breathing for the last he conjured up his entire strength and cried out at the sky. Louder he cried weaker he became. At last his body failed him.

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The hands that were spread like tree dropped down. His body crashed on the ground. The dry surface went harsh on his skin. Tears rolled down sideways and fell on the land. His weakening body released many more drops of tears until he breathed for the last.

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It was a beautiful cloudy morning when after few days, right at the center of the tree, a green leaf took birth.

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☀️🌱☀️🌱☀️🌱☀️🌱☀️🌱☀️🌱☀️🌱☀️

 

A Lamp and a Sun

 

She was an ordinary girl but held Sun in her hands. Her love for a lamp that flickered even by the slightest hint of wind was paramount.

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The lamp shone up at dusk and the girl would sat beside, whole night long. Not even for once she revealed the Sun to the lamp. A little house, abandoned, deep in the woods was her home.

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Once while sitting next to the lamp her hands started burning. This was new and she didn't know why the Sun was leaking through the gaps of her fingers even after it was clenched tight. The strength of her fingers started giving up. She wrapped her hands tight with a torn piece of cloth.

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The lamp mustn't know about the Sun. So, She ran to the ocean, sailed for a week to reach the center and there she opened her hands.

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The next moment, her hands emanated rays so bright and fire so red that it drank the ocean. The Sun killed itself. This death gave birth to thousands of Mirrors. When she opened her eyes, she found herself lying on the riverbed.

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The pain of the Sun's death seemed little when the lamp flickered. As far as her eyes could see, mirrors of all sizes and shapes were spread all around.

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When oceans die they become mirrors, this was the rule of the land.

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Home was far away, her ship wrecked and lost. That was when she started assembling mirrors. And there after years on the riverbed she built a 'Mirror castle' of her own. And on the final day when she entered and placed the lamp on the middle; each and every single mirror reflected its fire.

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Everyday The castle shone bright. Even the stars celebrated its glow.

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Standing afar from the glowing castle, one day she made a confession to the stars.

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"It doesn't matter to me that I don't hold the Sun anymore because now a thousand lamps hold me."

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☀️🪔☀️🪔☀️🪔☀️🪔☀️🪔☀️🪔☀️🪔☀️

A 'Make Believe' game.

I went to a funeral today and saw the deceased right before it was wrapped in Kafan.

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Upon bed, the body that approximately weighed seventy kgs and stretched to a hundred and seventy eight centimeters, end to end was spread like a lump of flesh on a butcher's pedestal.

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This lump of flesh didn't end up inside stomachs but in neurons. One spark and it registered itself. Will Stay as long as the sparks of its existence run across inside someone else's brain.

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When you are gone, the spark dims slowly to vanish into the oblivion. You cease to exist after that.

You are nothing but a chemical and a few electric sparks in someone else's head. You are no one to anyone.

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So that was life and that's how you vanish, like it wasn't a big deal. I always say "Life is nothing but a big circus, and we all are jokers struggling to perform our best."

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But now tell me, do you think you are giving your best ? Half of the life we waste applying makeups on our face and body to make ourselves acceptable to the stage where all our fellow jokers meet. We know no one, yet we collectively believe that we do. This is a futile effort where end is nigh. Where the performance is just a 'make believe' game.

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It doesn't matter how your performance was, you will always end up being like a junior artist in films. Always unimportant and always replaceable. Your efforts and your silent performance, no one cares about.

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All my life I've struggled to keep myself away from this grand show called 'Life'. I prefer living offstage or backstage you can say. I am a spectator of 'Life'.

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And that's how I've become a storyteller.

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Now, Tell me what's your story?

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🎭🕊🎭🕊🎭🕊🎭🕊🎭🕊🎭🕊🎭🕊🎭

 

A painter.

A painter, standing before a blank canvass, percieved golden horizon where dawn glimmered in patchy clouds. He, now composed, registered first swift stroke of crimson-tinged-purple and depicted an impression of the magnificent dawn.

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After calling it over-

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He-With dawn depicting canvass tucked under arm and a paint smeared finger, pressed between lips- wondered:

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"My painting is just an acknowledgement of beauty, 'Artist' is a word not fit for me. I merely create but extensively trace. Alas! If I could create a real art."

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And thus started the quest of a real art. Like a madman he stood before a blank canvass. Hungry eyes wandered restlessly for good many days. Eyes that knew beauty failed to create one.

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Starved Body, now on the verge of collapse. Throat, like a desert knew no oasis. Limbs frailed to excess, couldn't held him upright. Like a maggot he squirmed on floor. Lantern that lit, paid for all when one day it flamed the curtains.

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His house turned into a pyre and burnt to ashes.

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One after another, paintings succumbed except the blank canvass that like a soul remained industructible. It rained afterwards. Ashes, black and grey, created vaneer over his body and some fell on the white canvass too.

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Squirming towards the easel he took a grab of it and his bludgeoning hand tried warding off ashes from the canvas. The white surface ashened abstractly.

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Trails of the artist's blood, painted composition unseen.

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He took his final breathe as the virgin canvas deflowered at last.

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The masterpiece lived for the years to come.