Whispering Along the Dead Sea

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Whispering Along the Dead Sea

It was a beautiful March evening; a light layer of cloud veiled the sky. Crimson sunrays came out of that thin veil like blood falling through the coffin of some innocent man. I was sitting alone on a stone-made chair on the sad beach of the Persian Gulf. For many days I could not sleep. Staying awake was my only option.
So I watched the sea and he watched me.
I started writing a letter, which would never be posted. It was addressed to my disloyal beloved:
“Dear Shehla,
I am thinking of you with my blank mind and spiritless eyes. See, the dead waves of this dead gulf mock my helpless condition. Far away the yellow moon is coming up to add to my eternal sadness. He will be my fellow this night; we both will wipe out our tears to make a place for more. Moon also seems to be ashamed of his existence, rising without a natural bloom, begging God to reduce his duty.
This is the second month of my exiled life. You know I was not exiled by any authority or dictator, but by hunger. My land has become barren and now vultures rule there. As I saw the movements of vultures over me, sniffing the stinking smell of my half-dead body, I crept out of their reach. But I had to run in such haste, while carrying the weight of my own dead-body, that my panting would be shifted to many coming generations, if I am fertile. Now I am at the richest place in the world. It is the land of Prophets and it is believed that God showers His entire blessing on this land. I don’t know what was the blunder made by our ancestors that God has turned His eyes away from us forever. I have seen weeping mothers crying for help, but his anger does not seem to be melted. Definitely the sin of our ancestors was very severe.
See? Now the moon has come into some spirits and the dead waves are also showing some movements to prove their potency. Far away the sparking light is becoming very near. I am sure it is some ship loaded with the fruits of some poor country, leaving behind a few coins on the blank and dusty hands of poor farmers. How funny it is that the hard work under the burning sun gives them nothing except a few coins and dust.
Do you remember how these natural sights fascinated me? I could spend whole nights dreaming of such scenes, but what has happened to me? Is this the feeling of disorientation, which has sucked all my emotions, or is it the feeling of failure?
I am even unable to judge my own condition. Things seem to be empty; everything is past now. I am so much stuck to the past that I am unable to move further. I am stuck to the past but time is dragging me towards the empty future. I know time is more powerful than my feeble resistance.
So let me put my past on paper because I have heard that words are beyond the reach of this bastardly time. Let me vomit my emotions on paper. Let me surrender my hopes once and forever. Let me put this killing pain in this dead sea. I promise, I won’t remember you again. Believe me now, I want to be free from these bloody scars of love; let me sing this bloody song a last time; let me put out this holy poison; otherwise it will kill my soul. Believe me now. I want to live in the deep and dark sea of forgetfulness. I am sick of that! I want a normal life. I am sick of all the heartache and stupid strife.
Do you remember it was the month of spring when I met you in the bright light of noon? How did this fatal relationship start? Well, I will blame you. But that is not true. Somehow, I just seemed to be less real than the rest of the world. I know I was a penniless writer, fighting, and writing for the poor creeping creatures of my country that was my dream. Yet there was something in those dirty streets and withered faces, which gave me the sense of ownership. But how could you conceive the pleasures of sitting in the muddy huts? How could you …”
Somebody called me and I stopped writing. I heard a masculine voice: “Hello brother, do you have a lighter?”
I looked at the man and found something very familiar. ‘I have seen this man somewhere,’ I thought.
Suddenly an image of my very old friend appeared my mind. Yes it was Shahnawaz – a man who was thrown out of our own country many years ago when we were students.
“Can you please sit here with me? I am feeling lonely,” I requested of him.
“Why not friend? But I am sure you are writing something very personal, if I am not wrong, a letter to a very dear one.”
“Yes, once dear,” I replied.
“Oh, it is sad. But, my friend, never forget that everyone nobody can be sincere forever.”
From his mysterious smile, I confirmed he was Shahnawaz. Nobody else could give such a smile. He left Pakistan many years ago. Those were very long and suffocating days for our country. Our Army had conquered our own land once again, full of motley wickedness.
Everybody in this world has some resemblance to somebody, but our Shahnawaz was the only one of his type. We were young and patriotic with ambitions to die for our country. Though we were very poor, we were yet very rich in sincerity and love. Shahnawaz was an openhearted man in the cold and dried-up mob. He was a tall, strong man, with wonderful wisdom and intellect, but innocently open and honest. He could see those personal faults which are normally kept hidden.
Inspite of his rare wisdom he was not cloaked with clever words and pretended virtues. He seemed to be a child, grown-up into a man without learning anything about worldly manners, or maturing into hypocrisy. He often reminded me of a story of childhood in which an absent-minded king was addressing his ministers, without wearing clothes. He was a philosopher king and forgot to put on his robes. But nobody dared to tell him that he was naked. Many ministers praised his wonderful dress.
Suddenly a child entered the court and started laughing saying: “Oh, see the king is naked.” Shah was that innocent child. Sometimes, he seemed to me The Idiot of Dostoyevsky.
One day he stopped the most pretty but blunt girl of the campus on the center of a public path and said: “Excuse me?”
The lady gazed at him with her angry eyes and replied: “Yes, you are excused.”
“Thank you very much,” Shah said with his eternal innocence.
“For what?” the lady asked with more hot temper.
“For being so beautiful.”
She nodded to him with her serene smile as if he were of her long time acquaintance. She wanted to say something but Shah had moved forward as if nothing had happened. He did not know that she was titled The Queen of The University, and people were chased her for single smile.
But our Shah was indifferent to all these petty desires and lustful dating. That one sentence of our Shah made her crazy and we often saw her roaming around the department as the dogs come at the smell of bitch.
As is the case in all Pakistani Universities, professors are selected by nepotism; our professors were also shallow drums. Their stupid rhythmless noise depended on the guidebooks, which they used to hide in the dice. Once we threw that rostrum in the side-canal of campus. No professor dared enter the classroom, until new rostrum was provided.

AuthorMuhammad Nasrullah Khan
2018-08-21T17:23:20+00:00 July 1st, 2005|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 43|0 Comments