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.

The Lost Ink

Have you felt the need to escape, my friend,

Have you ever touched the essence of your breath,

Maybe the hidden tear of the grief,

Maybe the word from the red ink that never preach,

Yes , I know how cries go of with grief,

And the words leave the ink and the need to believe,

This makes me wonder ,

 Are we those souls that left paradise,

Without a hint of what is left behind,

Are we those words that never meant an emotion,

Or is this a rhyme that makes no sense?

Maybe I am writing with the insane ink,

And maybe I am high on those allusions and dreams,

Where I saw the brightness enchant the terms of life,

Where the grief was stuck,

But the tear rolled into the deep sigh,

And again I might have flowed down with it,

And now I miss my grief,

I hope that the grief is looking down,

Oh! I know it is looking down,

On all the tear drop that fell from it,

And soon we will resonate back to the heights,

Unlike words that were never defined,

We will find our solace and escape the prison of the mind,

I did not take opium as my latter,

I am not Coleridge, but an anonymous rhyme,

The one I myself will never be able to recite,

I am that thought that you gave away to the world,

To the mirage of happiness ,

And the plague that  corrupted our sense,

The one sense that deals with the grief,

The one whose union is immortal to our believe,

I am that high enchanted rhyme,

I am lost rather hidden in a crown,

Wear that crown to find me ,

The crown of spirituality,

Find your own crown to find me,

That’s all this rhyme has to speak,

Raise yourself high but not with your deed,

Raise yourself high with your believe,

And find the lost grief.

 

Mira’s Darkness

Held by the symphony of the universe,

She danced to the music of the rain,

But the world, too rational to understand,

Drove a concrete wall to her land,

She blended her love into a rhyme,

For the world to dance in the night,

But how do they fathom darkness as their light,

How do they believe the world doesn’t render their dreams,

She plated the words onto a social plane,

Thinking maybe the souls will rejoice the claims,

And dance to the beats of the illusion that these shadows create,

But nothing was left of her to preach the world,

She went as one to the source of the song,

And the world was left with a blur of her aim,

They danced, but only on the plate she made,

Only her words remained under the literal space,

And here a son writes her account misunderstood by the human race.

The Story Of A Human Being

 

“She had blood, but no nation,

She had love, but not a destination,

She had colours in her life,

She was the Nur of Humanity”

 

She was trapped in a cell, grey walls were the only companion to her thoughts; no memory about her past, just the pain trembling through her nerves to the head where no questions could fall apart. A cell was her knowledge of the universe, somehow a woman in her twenties lost all her vision into an abyss made of four walls. She looked at the gate and gazed to the different colour in hopes, till her eyes lost the sense to behold the vision.

She opened her eyes in the hospital, she heard a lady near her calling out, “Nur?” “Open your eyes Nur”. The woman grabs a sense to a world unknown and he could decipher nothing but the colour of her cloths. She was in a hospital bed, with strings digging into her heart, has she lost it all? She thought, remembering herself, finding her consciousness. She asks out to the people around and the lady replied “My dear daughter, Alllha has blessed us! My dear child, you suffered an accident last month and just regained consciousness. I am so happy to see you, Nur.” She knew her name and the fact about how she cannot retain anything because of injury; she could not find herself within the mist of the situation, but she felt a sense of harmony with presence of the people around her.

Nur found a place in the Khan family as the only daughter and build up a new life, after a few years of regaining the senses of the world, she started teaching in a small school in Pakistan. She was able to educate herself with the new generation and her life was progressing with a normal phase of love and affection for her work.

Her injury remained subtle, but she used to have nightmares having no symbolic representation, she could gain her memories but her positive attitude lead her towards success. She fell in love with a man named Umair, they married and had a baby girl. Nur’s life was running through a simple and sweet approach of time and situation.

One day, Nur and Umair had a vigorous fight over an issue of her working for more hours and not looking after her personal health, the night following to the day bought a tormenting dream.

I remember what was told, shoot the prick in the face, that’s what commander general told me. Ahmed Husain, the man who gave coordinates to the secret Intelligence base in India that reckoned its faith to a terrorist attack. I remember what he said to me, “Neha ! Find the man and shoot the prick in the face”.

The target was aimed, I could sense the feel of accomplishment. I waited for Ahmed to be alone in the room, so that a hit can revenge the vice he initiated to my Nation. My aim was fixed on him, his family went out and the last member that went out was a small girl wearing a pink traditional wear, my heart throbbed for a moment, but I knew the mission that I had to accomplish.

I took the shot and that’s all I remember.

It was 3 am, she woke up with her heart running out a similar sense of pain to her nerves. “It was a dream, it is just not possible.”

She picked up her phone and typed the words AHMED HUSAIN. The search results flushed a sequence of visions, she closed her eyes and realised that Neha was never Nur.

The lady stayed there in her bedroom, with her eyes closed, with a heart throbbing out for something that cannot be described. The feeling could not be highlighted.

She opened her eyes and saw her daughter sleeping gently, the baby was dressed in pink and the single colour provoked a cry of her life.

“What’s the matter, Nur?” Umair asked her, as he woke up in fear.

The room with a family amalgamated through faith was reckoned to silence. The lady took her time to answer and after wiping her tears she said, “ I am lucky to have you, Umair. I love you”

Haunted by Diversions

The sphere of the mellow beings, linked through a web of dreams,

Guided by symphonies, rested through a legion of extremity,

Humans found their ethos, building coherence over a divergent identity,

Through the distinct culture and ways, a ghost of diversity came to play,

A ghost that haunted the zest sublime, reaching out to eliminate the colours to blind,

‘Terror’ was the phrase to define, the inhuman solace of the night.

The contemporary holds a vision of abhorrence,

The globe is held by the drought from the bane,

Terror found its peak for the reminiscence,

Eliminating life and love from the rain,

What we reckon is the cry of our faith,

And the cure to the demise, shall be a union of our names.

To save the mystical being,

To recover the scars of the fall,

An espionage shall emerge, seeking the ghost to preach,

Dealing with each move of the anomalous believe,

The symbol of life shall defend the one common deem,

The unique logos of the whole world,

A common name to call them all,

Shall uproot the occult of uncertainties,

And restore the regalia from the luminosity.

-Sagar Arora 

   

 

The Mystique Creativity.

The erythemic stance of the blood,

the vibrant speculation of the eye,

the hold of a sensation through the skin,

the essence of expression from a lie,

entangling the vision of light and darkness,

through the greatest valleys of our thoughts,

here we are, wandering in the canopies of our ethos,

the believe is fading, enabling the scripts to be lost.

Human, the  discerned existence of the universe,

are lost with the calibre to create,

unknown to the fundamental element of this curiosity,

and far away from the mystical existence of the clay,

the material was everywhere, abandoning the glare,

provoking the ethos to enable its birth,

and the creation to witness their fall from the grave.

The serpent drew its poison to the light,

and we were left with the fruit, well-defined,

the fruit was the emblem to learn and seek,

but where we breath, does not justify the need,

follow to seek, and provoke the totem out of reach,

find the lost mystique , be guided to the real colour of the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

Inferno and the influx of Humanity

The world is onto a verge of a revolution, the one that may define and break out a new definition to humanity. A small community to a country and a country to a continent that may uphold the life of Earth is indulged onto the intrinsic defeats all over, a complex war has began and this one might not need a name to popularize the conflicts within man kind. The virtual display of world war III is predicted over  the fronts of newspaper and through the enhancement of human hamartia of the colecsed set of personal believes the plague has taken its shape and inferno shall reveal the meaning of the true space Utopia.

This hidden war is not about the loss, but the influx to the human sight. Terrorism, Euthanasia, War, Territorial conflicts and Religious conflict shall spread the plague of disbelieve and the ruins will describe the story and justify the power of human conscious, the element of thought that a homosepian grow up with and eventually depict a unique definition to every single entity.
The plague is out and it seems we cannot contain the eruption of contradiction within our conception of human enforcement. The cry of every Syrian infant , the fear of every individual living in the terror of the outbreak war, the wounds of a migrant and the struggle to develop over racism in the European nation and the rebel inside the mind of a child shaping up his views for a certain believe of spirituality amongst the darkest core of contradiction will enlighten our faiths to a Renaissance.

A revival to human instincts is near, and for the plague to reach its peak, the plan is set from the space which is dark to us , the unknown entity beyond the sky shall reveal light of awakening.