4.The Dilemma of Differences

“Do talk to him, the boy. I am sure, you will find the cues you look for the story.” My therapist always had her way of directing me towards more thoughts. “And you have fun at work. Take care.”   I got out of the car and walked towards the classroom, each step towards the building was a powerful recollection of my own identity to myself. The strong red colour and the beautiful architecture of the building was always welcoming. The way to the classroom was filled with morning greetings and smiles from my students, all the young minds I adored. I entered the first class and closed the door. The click of the door was an escape to me, simply a room filled with thoughts. The white board was scribbled with some theories and creative jokes. The 30 benches were occupied, the classic first week.

“Good Morning! Just a single mail? Nobody else likes to write here? Take some more time you guys. You, people, are here for 4 years.” Talking to the classroom was another important intricate activity that defined my own self to me.

“This is going to be marked upon?” A student sitting on the first bench asked.

“Marked? Oh, alright. Yes, every interaction in the classroom is marked in my lectures. But I spare the room of technicalities for the first-year batch. And let talk less about things that appeal differences.” The classic queries were always around a materialistic thing inside the classroom, tried my best to make a distance in philosophy and materialism in my classes.

“That brings us to the topic we shall think about today, differences. Why this topic? I really don’t know, but it is a concern that literature links up widely. Every single text you read will be composed off a difference in the human society. Think about it, tell me the name of any literal work that does not appeal a social difference.”

“Harry Potter, J.K Rowling. The lady never talked about rich and poor, it was always about one thing in the entire world, magic. No levels of identity there?” A girl spoke up. The enthusiasm made me smile. “You Muggle! Or shall we say Mud-blood! Don’t say this to Hermione Granger, alright? Nice attempt and I love the fact that you find fiction unifying.”

“Poems? There are many, I suppose. Wordsworth never talked about differences in Daffodils.” The boy from the back questioned and had a point. It felt great to be challenged by the students.

“You got me here! I shall rephrase, A story including at least two characters. Even a lot of monologues in the romantic era showcased the differences in the country living and the urban side. But the point is that a single thought of the difference in a story can be the whole basis of its origin and why is that so? For what I believe we humans tend to make conflicts out of those differences.” I walked towards the podium and examined the different faces in the classroom.

“Conflict is the major reason that led you out to this place, the reason why you had to leave your native place. Might be economical in the form, or maybe a social outbreak against you? The reason I want to address this to you people is simple, you are the victim of differences and even here in Europe, you guys are studying in the migrant batch. So can anyone tell me what was the first question that the migration department people asked you?”

A unanimous response of the word, “Name” was followed through the classroom.

“Names, the entities purely derived from religion in most parts of the world. There are exceptions of course, for example, my Indian friend names the Greek Goddess, Athena. Yea, I have been around the world to study these differences for my first book. Religion is the formation for every difference and conflict in the world today or you may believe in the Capitalistic perspective, which is alright. So, this element religion, I want to start with this phenomenon that binds you and me to the roots of our culture.” My phone vibrated, I always hated the vibration of the alarm that was set forth for the end of the class.

“E-mails! Come on. That is all for the day, I want you all to ask your parents about the religious perspective and my dear atheist friends, tomorrow’s lecture will be a better one, I promise. You guys can go on to the next class.” I sat on the bench and looked out for Irfan, hoping that he might approach.

3. Mornings

It was 6 in the morning, the phone alarm didn’t have to wake me up today. Alex was sleeping right next to me, never liked waking her up in the morning when I could just look at her and not think. My mind had been a wreck lately, so we decided on practising meditation every morning. I gently put my hands on her forehand.

“It’s 6 o clock. Let’s put our brains to sleep for a while now, dear.”

She woke up with the struggle of aa hard-working lady and an upset sleeping pattern. I hated waking her up but the meditation time was a must for her as well, she had a job to look after a whole chemical operating base in the city. Despite the fact, almost every morning it seemed that post meditation, the bed transformed into psychotherapy with my wife been my psychologist and handling my thoughts into a powerful structure. And today, I needed her for framing a lecture that shall uproot the void space that my students might have and the one mail I read, Irfan needed a straight pavement to find himself again.

“What Is the matter?” It was Alex looking into my lost eyes, one of those moments when you get lost in the thoughts and forget the actual visual. “Professor seems lost into his first lecture for the year, huh? “her voice could capture my attention as if home.

“I have this student with a massive story, he has struggled and lost himself somewhere on his way to Europe from Syria. Not by mistake or the dreadful loss of his family but deliberately he had to forget himself to come here and live a life. His name is Aadesh for the Europeans, the boy only has one manifestation of himself, his love for his ideals. Religious and social impaired.”

She had her way of looking into my eyes and telling me things that set apart the whole issue to me, unlike any other part of the day the mornings were silent and only accompanied a healthy conversation. “So, you will be telling them the story? The science, religion and magic. I never got it. But maybe the social impairment thing aligns with it. Let’s leave early today, have some meetings and I need to prepare the team for the same.” I held her hand and gave her a kiss. “I will talk to them about something, thanks. All the best for the day sweetheart. I have a few classes and then I need to start the new story.”

 

2. Styx and Ganges

Irfan, the name I feared to hear. The name my father gave me. The name that meant to be thankfulness. The name that shall make me die if heard by the people. I had no clue of my whereabouts, I was in the refugee boats supplied by the European Union, left the land of terror but being dumped under 50 men made no difference to my being. Just the lack of oxygen and no light of the sky that seemed dead to me. I didn’t know where my father was, my mother was taken up by the flare of the terror, all that’s left of my decent was my name, Irfan and the stories in my head from the Quran. My name was to die if I got the chance to breathe in the air again on the European soil, the man strictly called out that no Muslim shall board the boat.

My father never came to the boat, for that we had to cut the sacred form of the beard and he believed that religion should be accompanied by the sense of pride. I left him and I have no reason to as why I left the surface on fire to die in this place.

No light, no food, numbness to adhere and a void of pain. I was 19, lived in the crisis and hoped to suffocate to death as soon as possible. The weight of the men above disappeared soon after my body went numb, I don’t know how many days had passed and how much more to come till I die or breathe with a different identity. If Allah wishes so. If Allah wishes so.

I opened my eyes in a refugee camp and thanked Allah for my life, but it seemed the void had captured my breath forever until now, that I write this to you, sir, I am not Aadesh, My name is Irfan and I might get forced out of the arts centre if the name is disclosed. I opted to come to literature because The Quran made me believe in the whole world as a unit that adheres to Allah or God.

Life has been broken so far and I had no jigsaw puzzle to replicate a meaning that I could write about, but this is all I have. Irfan will always be thankful to Allah, no matter if the void exists with me forever. Literature is the only sweet essence I have experienced so far in life and I shall be dealing with the same to help me with the entire scenario.

I am looking forward to learning more about this world and I had to tell someone about my journey and the loss of identity.

If Allah Wishes So, Aadesh and Irfan will always be the one person who writes this mail.

Your new student,

Aadesh Sharma

 

1. The Classroom

I entered the classroom with the excitement of meeting the new batch, unlike other professors I always waited for the young minds exploring the world of literature. I remember when I began my journey in the field and how I was not sure about anything related to my decision. The classroom had the usual sense to me, the place where I can talk to anyone about anything, that was my job after all.

“Greetings! Young minds. I am Atlas Rogue and I will be dealing with deceiving you people.  Deceiving you all to take a journey with our rusted head to the plane of isolated imagination. Too much? Well in simple language I am responsible to let you all know about the roots of literature, we will talk about mythology and psychology side by side. But I need to know each one of you and I don’t believe that names are the key to individual understanding. So here is your first assignment, you all will be mailing me the jigsaw events that were put together to add meaning to your actions. Consider me as your friend, everything will be kept as a secret and we shall work upon adding on to the meaning of our story.”

I could see how I skipped a few steps here when the batch of thirty students were sitting still.

“Any questions so far?” the usual drill was followed, none of them put up a conversation. No one was to blame, I opted to teach the refugee students that were taken in by the French government. I could see some faces filled with fear and no intentions to be here at the educational arts centre.

“I will take a leave now, my friends. Hope to read your stories tonight, 20 lines will do. Have a good day.”

While driving my way back, I knew I would not receive the write ups today. I had to find out a way to connect to them and the reason must be unified. I kept thinking about how all the names in the class list had the Hindu descent despite of the fact that the families were saved on their way from Syria, an Islamic country. The world of literature shall treat all equally, the new class brought mysteries to resolve.

A Writer’s Quest

The story begins with a dream,

A vision that collide with my need,

And further to delay the call of thoughts,

I rest myself in the lonely meadows of the lose.

A step into the illusion and the tear of my fright

To be the man I drive onto the forest.

This path is going to reveal itself,

And the man shall meet himself,

Through visions and strikes of our mind,

He will meet the pieces of god,

Will wither away from their sight,

The man who will lose it all,

Shall reach deceived on to the land of the third eye.

Die or live, let the divine interfere,

For now, I proclaim the creation of the man,

Who will be lost within to find the hymn.

Un Voyage

From this word, I breathe to lie,

To the world an illusion and to me, myself.

A world that appears to live with your mind,

With each word that you read,

My lie elaborates a reason to live.

Now that we are together,

You and me, lets embrace my visions though your eyes,

I will write about the sunset,

And you cry out for the moon,

I will incarnate a feeling,

And you colour it within.

But, before we leave to this empty page,

You should know that I am here for the play,

I run away from my own desires,

and leave such thoughts to rust in deny,

And do we really need to rhyme our journey ?

And I should warn you again, my friend,

Dante never burned in hell.

It was the man who wanted the travel,

Lost and never to be found again.

If you are willing to come,

Let me tell you, the river often flies with the dead of love.

And now you are my creation, a song,

We can fly like a bird,

Die in another word,

Live like the Bhrama’s call,

Deceive the stars of destiny above.

A poet’s point being a puzzle,

What difference resides between a human and a word,

A word and a belief,

A lie and a truth,

Rather all began and die out lose?

I believe I am a word of my poet,

I will end within the verse of life,

Yes, with a meaning that only he will decide,

A lie, A thought, Just an inspiration to write.

Incarnation of The Words

 A little dwell on the pen to enumerate an expression,

To let the ghost be aware of the dark,

Or the dark be afraid of my ghost,

To entangle a hopeless vision and adore,

A million feelings that knock my door.

A poet, they say need the cry of the muse,

But will they ever know the secret of the doom?

For every time, I lose myself into the room of words,

I call upon a thousand spirits,

To guide my hands and spell the right song.

Enumerating through my past,

The affair of the ink to last,

To repeat the same sentiment of my greed,

I befoul myself into a clown.

To paint me in the ink and enrol the aura of belief,

A poet, they say need the cry of the muse,

But who am I to lie?

I can only wonder and host a point of view.