Fixed

Shutting his eyes tight no longer blocked the image from Junaid’s head. The bloody face of 10 year old Grace kept lurking in his life day and night. 

She was always there in the mirror when he shaved in the morning. She’d be there in the driveway when he’d get into his car. She was there on his desk at work, and in the dark parking lot and on the kitchen table watching him make dinner. Always waiting on him. Ready with her bright smile, wearing the same pink floral dress with doilies in her hair and a dead rabbit in her arm. One would have thought of her to have come straight out of a postcard picture–if it weren’t for all the blood.

And it drove Junaid crazy. He had the death of his daughter on his hands and it had to be fixed. 

Ever since he had killed Grace, she’d been appearing to him. The court dismissed him as “not guilty” but deep down he knew it was all his fault. 

It was his fault that Angie wanted a divorce from him. It was his fault he failed as a husband and a father. It was his fault he took Grace for camping that day. It was his fault he got too busy starting the fire. It was his fault she went chasing after the rabbit. It was his fault that she tripped over the rocks. It was his fault that he couldn’t hold on to her hand. She had trusted him and he had failed her. It was his fault that the drop killed her.

He had failed her and it had to be fixed.

He shut his eyes tight again. His face was drained of any blood and his hands shook in terror. His breathing was laboured and his heart was ready to explode any minute. He felt the thick abrasive rope in his hands as Grace stood watching in the corner, streaks of scarlet caked into her beautiful hair and onto her beautiful skin. 

The door was locked and the neighbours were out. The knot was tight and the rope was strong. He slowly opened his swolen eyes and stepped onto the chair. His trembling hands slid the noose around his neck as Grace giggled. He had to fix it, so he shut his eyes tight again and with a forced kick to the chair, he let his body dangle from the noose.

The momentary peace was quickly swallowed by a crippling sense of regret. Panic started setting into Junaid’s body as he kicked and thrashed his legs and clawed at the noose around his neck. His vision became blurred and his head felt boggy as the noose slowly ceased any blood supply to his brain. As the rope dug into his windpipe, every inch of his lungs burned. He felt his heart give in. The flailing slowed as his limbs exhausted. And he saw his daughter playing in her school playground. And he saw Angie yelling at him. He saw his mother sleeping in her coffin. He saw a 5 year old Grace topple and giggle as he tickled her in bed. He saw the judge mouthing the words “not guilty”. And he saw Grace sitting on his kitchen table. Her face was angelic and there was no blood anywhere. She was smiling and alive. 

They were even now. He had fixed it.

His eyes had popped out and blood had engorged every vein in his face. His body had quit all struggling and his limbs had dropped. As he drew his last breath, a soft whisper echoed in the eerie quit of the room

“Daddy you’re home…”.

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Art

Pen held steady
Over a blank soul
With blank thoughts
A dam to the ink
Nothing flows out
Neither ink nor emotion
Stillness surrounds existence
And stillness kills creation
And it kills all emotion
Blank thoughts
And blank hearts
Bearing stories
Of blank souls
And your blank eyes
Staring into mine
Lifeless like your body
Another blank heart
Still and cold
The pen carves into your soul
And out your ink flows
Blank no more
What have I done

The Ultimate Medical College Survival Kit

Do you go to a medical college? Do you spend your nights in tahajjud asking for a way out? Do you secretly want to end this torture that they call parhai? Did your acceptance of a futile and purposeless existence in a temporary world full of inescapable chaos and incurable misery destroy your social life? Then worry not, dear friend! The ultimate blog post is here to teach you about things that must always be in your bags/lives to ensure a peaceful and non-violent year in your dream institution.

The Ultimate Medical College Survival Kit

Filth

Its 10:48 pm where I live. My sister made an amazing dinner and we all just ate. Everybody’s out in the t.v lounge, watching old songs. My youngest sister who’s 7 is playing with her doll house that Mum just bought for her today. Dad left for some work trip out of city last night. My brother is in the gym since the past 2 hours. I’m sitting here in my room playing with my matchbox. I’m thinking about setting my house and everything that we own on fire.

I want to destroy it all. The nice things we bought for ourselves. The stupid dollhouse. The stupid t.v. and the stupid fridge and the toaster and the car in the garage, the shit expensive furniture and the air conditioners and the shit expensive computers and phones, everything. Because I’m fucked up in the brain.

Yeah. That’s what they call this. That’s what they call you. Fucked up in the head. That’s what I am, for wanting to destroy everything in sight that is a reminder of the illusion I created for myself. The imaginary wall that I’ve made. The bars that I’ve set up and made from the finest and the hardest metals. I made my existence impenetrable with my own hands. Impenetrable to the filth of the world.

The filth. You’re not one of the filth of the world. No. Nobody looks at you in scorn when you step into big institutions. No, everybody listens to you because your voice must matter more. Because you are not the filth. Because you were lucky enough to not be born in a filth hole. 

Because you have a nice house. A nice car. A nice meal 6 times a day. Nice schools. Nice clothes and bags and shoes. That’s what separates you from another human that you call filth. The wall you have built with your material goods made sure you were separated from humans who are different from you by just a strike of luck. 

I want to set my house on fire because that is what separates me from another human who lost to luck when it came to money. I want the wisp of fire on this matchstick in my hand to turn into a source of revulsion. I want to burn my house.

Strike the dice again God. Boom. Filth. You’re the filth now. Nice things are a memory. Ashes. Burned to oblivion. No longer the happy family who walks with their noses in the air. No more mocking glances from behind car windows about beggars. No more scanty pity charity as a showstopper stunt in front of your in-laws. No more I have a nicer car and neighbourhood and phones and laptops. Only ashes. Finished. Taste the dirt. Taste the filth. Youre one of the filth now. The wisp of fire is feeding on the materialism of my existence.I let it grow. I watch it bloom. My brother’s back from the gym and I can hear him shout. My baby sister is screaming and my mother has passed out.

I burned my house because I’m fucked up in the brain. I yearn the taste of life as a piece of filth to be scorned at and hissed at and starve and beg out of misery and I want people to hit me for pestering them with my problems. I want a taste of the misery that is found in the ashes of these material things. So I burned my house and everything nice in it.

Me

When i was three
They would ask me
What i wanted to be
“Bunny!” would always be
The answer that’d get me
The most kisses and sweets

When I turned ten
They asked me again
But this time
I realized
Bunny would not suffice
Instead a couple lies
Would be enough
To get a few pats
And glances of relief
Wasn’t long until I learned
“Doctor” is what earned
The most nods in return

Then I turned twenty
And I waited patiently
For them to ask again
What I want to be
Now the choice was easy
And I had my answer ready
I knew me better
Than at ten or three
But nobody asked
And i waited and waited
Brain itching to scream
The words that gleamed
In neon lights
At the back of my eyes
Everytime I went to sleep

Heart thumping in my chest
Whispering to me
To say what burns
So passionately
The words all ready
To burst out and leave
This prison of the tongue
Alas!
Thoughts left unsung
And silently
They handed me
A college degree
A doctor is what you’ll be!
Just like you said
So live yor dream!
Congratulations! They said
Repeatedly

And nobody asked
If I wanted this mask
That portrayed a successful me
And all the while
The voice inside
Slowly muffled, then died
The heart and brain
No longer bothered
And the face accepted the mask
As the me I wanted to always be
At the expense of a dream
As silently bloomed a casualty
One this doctor could never treat

Beauty

It’s strange how we find beauty in destructivity. The night sky intrigues us. Trillions of magnanimous balls of burning gas capable of frying anything even a few million meters from them intrigue us. Sun sets make us feel at peace. A ball of fire large enough to fit a million earths, close enough to be witnessed from our tiny planet, inching further closer every passing decade, capable of boiling all land, makes us feel at peace. The moon, the beautiful, cold, lifeless, lightless, barren moon overwhelms us with emotion on a lonely night. The vast, never-ending, land-engulfing, moody sea brings us serenity. The beautiful sea that deceives you with the many colours it wears as times of the day change, should you discover what it truly looks like. The same sea with the potential of dragging you into a wet, painless embrace of sweet sweet freedom. Yet we lay in the sand and let our feet touch the shore and pick shells from its floor. We watch the sun set into it and we watch as it bleeds into the sky and we watch it bleed into the waters, adding another colour to the palette of nature. We watch the night sky imprinted onto its surface, distorted by the ripples created by waves that can engulf an entire city from the slightest nudge of a plate.

We find beauty in all of this. We find ways of incorporating it into poetry and art that we create. We define it in ways that best suit our interests. We calculate and measure it using systems that we pride in creating from raw thought.

Because accepting the meaninglessness of our existence in a gloriously self-expanding and self-sufficient universe prickles at our prides as flawed human beings.

Because for once we want to feel like we have control, like a child sitting amidst skilled architects showing off the fortress he made from building blocks. Or a drug addict thinking he controls what he feels, all the while rotting inside, enslaved to the withdrawal symptoms of what he calls “control”.

We think we are entitled to celebrate what we believe to be rightfully ours, drunk on delusions of being the sole heirs to an entire universe. Giving in to self-imposed falsely created megalomania.

We find beauty in destructivity because arrogance blinds man worse than ignorance.

Diversion

How do they describe
This strange emotion
I think they call it joy
Happiness or maybe satisfaction
The feelings that arise
By seeing fireflies in motion
The aftermath of a life
Spent caged in a prison
Liberation
Or the overwhelming sight
Of a star-lit sky
And Autumn leaves in piles
How do they describe
This feeling that lies
Deep inside
The crevices of your life
Escaping at times
When you decide
To finally ignite
The long dead soul
You keep burried inside
Your hardened heart
Cold, now alive
With this strange emotion.
Such a pleasant diversion

Human

Dust, flesh and bone
I began seeing the heavens
Trapped in human form
A nudge from reality
Would still not wake me
From the delusions I began to worship alone
I mistook man to be the reason why
Stars woke up to shine every night
While all along it was my Creator
Who held the reigns to the rays of light
I began imagining purpose
Where there was no purpose
I began seeing galaxies inside each heart
And I saw the devils inside each life
Always distracted by that heavenly smile
And they would lift up their eyes
And let slip their ugly sides
Dust, flesh and bone
Holding blades, sticks and stones
The Illusions would break
And the heavens would quake
And from these dreams I would wake
And a laugh would escape
From the lips that had smiled
That heavenly smile
Now mocking at my pride
Face the fate you had denied
Cradle your own whimpering mind
Bow down and cower and cry
You are but dust, flesh and bone
Standing before the Creator of these skies
He is the one who created you and I
And he created the heavens and the stars
How silly of you to think they all lie
In a mere human’s ignorant eyes

Carry

Hear them, when they say
You are nothing but a disgrace
The weight you carry
Grows everyday
Along with your bod
Rotting away
Such a disgrace
To the society
For you carry a child
From a man
Who’d had a little fun that day
Should’ve known better
Than to dress that way
And walk alone at night
Alone in a pumped man’s way
Now you carry the weight
Of the sin
Which you committed that day
By asking for it
With your provocative ways
Such a disgrace