His dreams, goals, desires and ambitions
All dumped by some ruthless traditions
And when he tied a knot on his hopes
Fate crossed, burning his golden-ropes
And then he wore a shroud of silence
Aliza Mushtaq
1st year MBBS
Three children, two being twins; a
brother and a sister of age 9 ,and, another aged 5, a very innocent child with
two side pony tails; each of them trying to be the unimpeachable hooligan,
being firmly shaded into the delusion that she has a regular appointment. All
three very far away from the awareness of the thinned and being thinned further
fragile line of the fleeting moments; those little souls are left with, to be
rejoiced with the knowledge of her presence with them. All three firmly put
into the dupe by their father that they are soon going to go back home,
together, and it is nothing but a routine evening family hangout.
Those contented faces, that ignorant
giggling, those haunting chuckles; and only you know out of all them, how much
of this is going to remain by the next four hours. Only you know, you are
entrusted by The Ultimate Power of this universe for the maintenance of that
glee profile; and only in your hands will He be putting that magic wand that
would save the innocence of all three from being faded away, in the distance,
of this shelter-less world; and their shining ignorant eyes, with that
beautiful grin on their faces, haunt you for one last time before leaving for
the theatre; and finally, you muster up all courage of your heart; and request
Him of that magic wand for your fingers to be firm on, and your heart to be
solid as rock, and your nerves to be strong as iron.
Four hours last, the three still
deluded by the warm satisfaction of their biological father, and the sound of
their little toes, running across the lobby, still echoing as the potential
most threat to your kinder heart; and finally, the two-forty minutes of time in
this earth's dimension is over!
You look at her brain tumour, readily
removed, with a pleasing feeling of fulfilment, and place that tumour aside in
a jar of apt solution, and you do this as soothingly, as if you have picked up
all hard luck from a happy domain and have thrown it away from the kindred.
There, you pay humble gratitude to The Driving Force of your lumbricals and
interossei, and rejoice by yourself as if the whole of this world's happiness
has found way to your soul. You acknowledge the soul of this universe
rewarding you with contentment!
Those cheerful titters of all three,
and those reiterating giggles of all three, and those unenlightened glittering
eyes of all three stop haunting you now The earth beneath your surgeon flats
stops shivering, and it seems as if with that magic wand, you have succeeded in
silencing the shakes.
You rejoice with the
victory of binding the thin line of fleeting moments they were left with the
existence of hers. You are left in full awe of the realization that one house
on this earth will continue witnessing young souls being brought up under the
purity of the affection and care of their biological mother. Three children
from one house won't have to make their hearts tough and rough for this world.
Their laughter vibrations are still sensed by your auditory centre; but this
time, after you have worked your level best those four hours, your heart laughs
out with that laughter. You beam inside with the idea of you being His tool for
them to not lose their innocence for the loss of their "one anything and
everything”. An involuntary smile of victory adorns your face as you watch
those kids still under their umbrella of childhood; as you know at the back
end, that this childhood was about to witness the brutal art of putting their
everything beneath this indifferent earth. The Power of this universe lead your
fingers to save those tiny little fingers from this savage torture that could
have imprinted hard on their raw fresh conscience; for life!
YOU
MADE A HOUSE BACK HOME
And your heart sweetly and softly
whispers to you
THE
TREMBLING PIECES OF EARTH ARE BACK IN SHAPE
I love travelling by rail, particularly at night. Maybe part of it stems from the wanderlust borne unto each one of us by the curiosity that has served to define mankind’s very existence on this rounded rock that we have greedily come to call our home. Maybe it is a consequence of the aura of tranquility tinged with chaos that pervades me every time I step foot on a railway carriage; surrounded by bustling men, women and children I have never seen before nor will hear from again, going about doing what they usually do, oblivious to the proceedings in their whereabouts. There was a time when I used to gaze upon them with a distinct condescension, wondering why the norm of social mannerisms was subjected to such complete disdain in those quarters. But I have come to accept what happens as the new norm, for it happens too commonly to be looked upon in disgust. Now, within my bubble of calm I walk through the narrow aisle until I come to my personal throne that others refer to as a window seat.
With Beethoven’s Ninth caressing my eardrums I gather what I can from my immediate surroundings as the train noisily begins its harassment of my digestive system along with part of my tailbone. I see the commoners talk, argue and sometimes fight but the commotion usually subsides as a horn signals departure and the friends and foes beg their leave. As if in answer to my constant grumbling, the roof of the railway station retreats and in its place thereafter lies Xanadu itself: a full moon beaming down upon endless fields of wheat and rice, punctuated here and there by pastures replete with dozing cattle; a couple of rivers roaring in their might as the moonlight graciously imparts them with a little of its own splendor; and the stars of course, resplendent as always, floating in an ocean of oblivion that serves only to intensify their apparent sagacity. The occasional comet or satellite is what makes the journey all the more worthwhile; well that and, as I now realize, the increasingly false sense of philosophical wisdom that has begun to take shelter in the familiar cage of narcissistic surety in my noggin. Then reality becomes a distorted illusion, paving the way for fiction to take its place. It is in these circumstances that the realest of questions come to haunt me, as they’ve done Plato and Nietzsche and Descartes before me. Unanswered though they might be, they still beg me for my unworthy opinions and I gladly oblige, having nothing better to do.
When I see children roaming about in the compartments I ask myself why we insist that man is born pure and free; innocent and above all reproach even when greed, narcissism, selfishness and vanity come so easy to us while altruism and love must be taught. Why must our whole lives be spent in trying to fight ourselves to please others, culminating in the death of our natural selves until what is left behind is only a mold trying to mimic its cast, failing miserably at times and partially succeeding at others?
As the train makes its way along the tracks, meandering through the countryside and taking the same old turns that I have come to commit to memory, I ponder upon predestination and free-will. Are we truly free to choose as we please, or is the very notion of free-will a glorified façade, a reassuring one at that, because there only ever are so many choices to choose from? Why do we detest the path that is laid out for us and choose the one that caters to our idea of free will? Is it all a consequence of the vanity that has haunted man from before time began?
Speaking of which, why should vanity exist at all? I can understand the remainder of the emotional spectrum, everything save this single sentiment, for it has no true cause and it most certainly serves no purpose. Why must we take pride in who we are and in what we’ve accomplished, when we are but specks of rust going in circles around a fairly mediocre star?
When the conductor approaches me, I hold out the ticket in front of him and am reminded of the infinite manners in which numbers define our lives, and indeed ourselves. Is our perception of the world around us only a series of numbers being subliminally comprehended by the darkest corners of our brain? Are our feelings entirely the answers to a series of mathematical equations hardwired into our brains? Are beauty, ugliness, good and evil all thus objective, or a consequence of this evolutionary set-point, rendering the concept of objectivity rotten to its very core?
I ask myself whether all that is around me is real or not, because though a certain someone did say ‘I think, therefore I am’, a mere existence of the consciousness does not entirely satisfy me. Are all of our desires, feelings and ambitions a figment of our imagination, so dream-like that we never truly know we’re actually asleep? Is what we term ‘death’ only an awakening of our consciousness from this livid dream? Or is it oblivion; emptiness stretching on forever and ever, too long to be comprehended by the feeble minds that we possess?
With the Ninth still blaring in my ears, I continue to feel every bit the Plato that we have all come to think we are at one time or another. I think to myself that though the aforementioned thoughts might be harrowing to the uninitiated, I must brave through the murky waters of my mind’s deepest echelons and emerge enlightened on the other side. In my search I look up to the sky for answers and the stars in their infinite wisdom smile down upon me, divulging some of their secrets and imparting a little of their wisdom to me. They tell me that though I might not find the definitive answers to most of the questions I pose to myself, I must not worry, for I’m not the first to fail. Perhaps we should look up to them more often. We might find some of the answers in our origins; in knowing that we were born in the cataclysms that birth and kill the stars, ejecting plumes of stardust that eventually became our reality. That should at the very least give cause for our arrogance.
My temporary intellect leaves me as my journey ends and the symphony dies down, leaving me feeling grounded once again. I take a few minutes to rest at the railway station as the commoners hurriedly go about getting to their destinations. I look around and absorb, taking in everything that the eye can see, appreciating the fact that of all the planets in all the star systems in all the galaxies in the universe, mine is probably the only one that houses life so complex and advanced that I can gaze out at the universe and realize how small and insignificant I truly am. It is then that I realize that I do serve a purpose: I am the universe’s own novel way of experiencing itself; and it really does not matter whether what I sense and feel is fiction or reality, for all I can care about is that it is truly beautiful while it lasts.
Blood was dripping from his body as he staggered on the footpath. His
clothes were torn and filthy. He reeked of blood and vomit. His eyes were
swollen, partly from the beating and partly from hours of crying. It was late
in the night, probably after midnight. There were very few people roaming
around at this late hour, none seemed to notice his condition as they walked
past him. The area was a well known place for addicts and beggars, they took
him for one too since they could not see his bloody clothes in the dark. That
night it fully dawned on him how truly lonely he was. It hurt everywhere and
there was no one he could turn to.
__________
They were dancing flawlessly. A whole pack of them, all wearing white clothes with golden sandals, signature dress for the dancers of the Ayyash Ghar. Their faces were covered with long white veils. Their big silver colored payals were chiming loudly, something that the visitors of that place had become very familiar with. A large gathering of men was there to watch them. Men of all ages and from all walks of life. They had formed a circle around the dancers and were chewing on paan and special kinds of sweets that the house offered. Everyone was mesmerized by the performance. Every often a man from the audience would throw a few rupees towards the dancers. Shouts of appreciation were coming from every direction, some valuing the dance and others, the dancers.
__________
He had always known that he was different. From how his mother used to pay more attention to him than his siblings despite them being better in every way to the way his father never mentioned him as his son anywhere, he knew he was not like the others. Nobody liked being his friend. Nobody liked talking to him. Everywhere he went, people avoided him. Even his brothers and sisters tried to stay away from him.
“You are very special to me, my jaan, and I love you very much. We are a team and we don’t need anyone else.”
This is what his mother used to say every time he went to complain to her when someone had said something bad to him, which happened very often. That used to be sufficient for him when he was a kid but as he grew up, his mother’s kind words weren’t enough anymore. He wasn’t allowed to play cricket in the street like the other kids were. He wasn’t allowed to go with his brothers to their friends’ places. His sisters didn’t introduce him to their friends as well.
“What’s wrong with me, mom?” He would cry in front of her, "Why don’t they like me?”
“Stop it! There’s nothing wrong with you. You are my SON! I love you, ok?”
He would stop crying in front of her. But whenever alone, he wept for hours. He knew there was something wrong with him. But he didn’t know what it was. Unfortunately, he had to find it out the hard way.
__________
Ayaash Ghar was founded by Ustaad Sakhi and his sister, Arzoo bibi. It wasn’t always called that. Initially it was Khawab Ghar, a place built to teach young people how to perform traditional folk dances. But after the death of Arzoo bibi, Ustaad sahab changed everything about the place. In a matter of weeks, he transformed that respectable place into a house of sin, as the locals started calling it. Gone were the tranquil music and sweet sherbat that Arzoo bibi liked to serve her guests and in came loud fahash music and sweets filled with tobacco. All the respectable dancers left the place and Ustaad sahab hired the professional ones. The place also became notorious for taking in stray kids and turning them into explicit dancers. Many people tried getting the place shut down but failed due to Ustaad Sahab’s connections with a lot influential people, many of whom were the regular customers of his Ghar. So it stayed and gained a lot of popularity among the vice of the city.
__________
He almost fell as he opened the door of the house. Please God, help, he whispered as he dragged himself forwards. He turned on the light. Everyone was asleep. He moved forwards and came in the hallway. Only one room was still illuminated. He slowly made his way towards it. He was soaking the carpet red behind him.
__________
His mother died when he was thirteen years old. And just like that his whole world got crumbled down. She was the only person who ever loved him. After her death he had no one to look after him. His father, an alcoholic, was barely able to take care of himself, let alone his son. His brothers and sisters already hated him. It wasn’t a surprise that they closed their doors on him. None of his relatives agreed to take him in. Wherever he went, people sprung away from him like he was a bee hive.
“You’re a disgrace to our society”
“An abomination”
“Khusra!”
He went from one orphanage to another but nobody accepted and provided him with shelter. He was not normal, they said. He couldn’t be placed with other kids. So in the end he had to turn to the streets. He would sit on the muddy roads near his house all day long, begging for a rupee or two and in the end, hardly made enough to fill his belly.
__________
One Saturday night as Ustaad Sakhi was rounding up his last show, his friend Qudrat came to his house. At first he was very displeased as he liked to be alone on Saturday nights, getting high and occasionally enjoying private shows from his dancers. But when Qudrat announced his purpose of visit, Ustaad left everything he was doing and got welcomed his guest warmly. His friend had brought with him a gift, a young child for him to enrol in the list of his dancers.
“So Ustaad jee, heard one of your dancers ran away a few days ago. What do you think about this one?” he pointed at the anxious looking boy sitting beside him.
“Hmm.. so thoughtful of you Qudrat. And yes he seems like a fine lad. Hey boy! Stand up!”
The boy obeyed the command nervously. Sakhi checked the boy out, nodding approvingly.
“Yes, you have fine taste Qudrat” he said laughing a little, delighted with what he had seen, “I presume he won’t have people looking for him, right?”
“No No Ustaad jee! I know him personally, no one alive to miss him”. The both men laughed, easily ignoring the frightened boy standing in the corner of the room. They agreed on a price and just like that the boy became a property of the Ayaash Ghar.
“So boy, what do you know about dancing?”
__________
“Mom look! A khusra!” shouted a little boy excitedly from the backseat of the car. They had stopped when the signal turned red at Kalma Chowk. His mother turned to look where her son had pointed with disgust on her face.
“Make sure your door is locked, Ali.” She said.
It had been fifteen years since his Qudrat uncle had brought him to the Ayaash Ghar. There Ustaad sahab taught him how to dance and please his guests.
“From rust to stardust. Remember this”, Ustaad Sakhi would say while teaching them dance moves, “You lot are nothing, mere rust and a burden upon this society. But this dance”, he’d take a dance step pointing towards the sky, “will elevate you to stardust. You will become…beautiful.”
They would learn to dance all day and then at night, performed it for an audience. Ustaad sahab made them dress like girls. In the beginning that used to upset him a lot. He was a boy! His mother always told him that dancing was for girls. In his initial days at ayaash ghar, he would refuse his elders, gurus as they were called there. He wouldn’t dress in girls’ clothes or learn dancing.
“I’m not a girl!” he would cry out loud when the gurus came to take him to learn dance.
Then one day Ustaad Sakhi came to see him. He seemed like a nice enough man, kind too. So he complained to him about it and told him how the gurus were asking him to do girly things. That day he learned how misleading appearances can be. For when Ustaad ji was finished beating him, he couldn’t even walk straight for days.
“Girly things, huh? And what exactly are you? You are a hijrra! And hijrras dance.”
“But I don’t want to stay here! My mama always said that I’ll become a doctor!” he cried trying to get away from the angry man.
“A doctor?” the man laughed out loudly, “YOU? Your mom was a fool. Khusras don’t become doctors. They dance and beg and dance more!”
And that was the day he learned what was wrong with him, why nobody liked him. He was a mutation, as Ustaad sahab told him, a mistake of God, a sinner. And as much as he hated this, he knew Ustaad Sakhi was right. What else would a ... a khusra do if not dance?
“Hey you!” someone jerked his shoulder and brought him back from his train of thoughts. “Dance for me, will ya?”. It was a man sitting on the backseat of a bike with his friend. They were sneering in his direction.
“Certainly” He replied faking a smile on his face. And then he danced. From rust to stardust. People around him whistled and hooted. Others looked at him with disgust. In the end when the signal turned green, the boys on the bike threw an old ten rupee note towards him and drove away laughing. Nobody noticed his sad eyes glistening with tears of humiliation and shame.
__________
In Ayaash Ghar, they were taught how to dance to attract and seduce. That was not a traditional dance. Instead the moves that Ustaad Sakhi taught them were very vulgar.
“Look around you. You’ll see a bunch of garbage. None of you have any place in this
world”, Sakhi would say as he paced around their practice room, “here in this house, I teach you a way of filling your stomachs. Always remember, this world has a weakness, exploit that and get whatever you want. Besides, there isn’t much a khusra can do besides that , is there?” he’d finish with a sly smile on his face.
__________
“Ustaad jee...” he fell in front of Ustaad Sakhi as he opened his door. He was very badly beaten. Every inch of his place was wet with blood. Ustaad ji looked up at him.
“Heavens! What happened to you?” he said startled at his appearance.
“Those people... those guests.... they took me when I was dancing.... kidnap... they beat me Ustaad jee... their hands all over me.... drunk..” he tried his best to explain what those monsters did to him. How they violated him and beat him and then left him for dead at the side of the road when they were done with him. He could still hear them laughing and wooing, could still feel their hands over him..
“Hmm.. so go and wash up. Then get some sleep. You’ll be delighted to know that they paid double than the usual rate. They really liked you!”
“Wha...What?
“Go on now. Get yourself cleaned up.”
“You.. You knew?”
“Of course I did. That’s why I sent you. They really like them young you know.”
“But.. But you said... Rust to stardust.. Through dancing.”
“Oh come on now. It wasn’t dancing so what? You fulfilled someone’s needs. That is your role, isn’t it? You’re a khusra. You can’t possibly ask for more, can you? And besides, look at all this cash. You did transform yourself from rust to stardust.” He winked, “Now off you go. I need to get some rest now. Busy day tomor.....”
It all happened so fast. He leapt towards Ustaad Sakhi before he had even finished what he was saying, grabbed the first thing he saw in front of him, which happened to be a large stone showpiece, and smashed it on his head. Ustaad went down without a fight. It even surprised him how his broken body suddenly had found somuch strength. What Ustaad said made him angry and mortified. He knew he was worthless. But this? Sakhi couldn't be right. It wasn't supposed to go like that, not even for valueless people like him. He deserved at least more than that, right? He had to. He couldn't seem to stop himself from hitting Ustaad. Khusra! Khusra! Khusra! He started hearing the voices of children mocking him when he went to play with them.
He kept hitting.
“Look at yourself! You disgust me!” his father, when he asked him to take him to the market with him.
He kept hitting.
“Stay in the room and don’t come out until they are gone, okay? His sister, hiding him in a dusty old cupboard when her friends came to their house. He was really excited to meet them and had prepared his welcome all day long. But in the end, didn’t get permission to meet them.
He kept hitting.
“Alas! such a shame he’ll bring to this family!”
“Throw him out, he is a punishment for your sins!”
“A khusra in our own family? Astaghfirullah!”
“An abomination”
He kept hitting.
“Khusras are just meant to dance and please, don’t fool yourself by thinking you’ll ever have any sort of respect in this world.” Ustaad Sakhi’s words.
He kept hitting.
He kept hitting until all the voices had vanished. He kept going till he could no longer hear the amused voices and laughs of the men who abused him, as he cried in pain. All the people who made fun of him when he begged for money on various Chowks, he didn’t stop until their voices disappeared.
“Mom look! A khusra!”
“Make sure your door is locked, Ali.”
He kept going. Chunks of flesh and blood spread all around him as he kept hitting what used to be Ustaad's head.
And then in the end, came his mom, her kind face, her beautiful angelic smile.
“My son will grow up to become a doctor, the world’s best doctor!” And he remembered lying beside her, her hands gently caressing his hair. Her calm soothing voice when he used to cry in front of her.
“WHY MOM....... WHY?” , he cried, “WHY D....DID YOU HAVE TO LEAVE SO... SO SOON? WHY??” his tears mixing up with the blood all around him, some his, some Ustaad’s. Blood of two sinners combined, stale, rust colored blood. Wasn’t blood supposed to be red?
And then he danced. He danced on the blood of the man who had taken everything away from him. He could no longer feel any pain. It was all gone now. He had become numb. He danced and danced and danced. Just like he was taught to, but this time, he enjoyed it too. Now he knew what it was like to achieve stardust through dancing. He danced until he couldn’t, smiling at the transformation. He was free now. He had gotten rid of all of his rust. Rust and stardust. Rust and stardust.
“You were right Ustaad jee. You were so right.” he murmured as he fell on the corpse of the man he had just killed.
__________
When they buried him, they wrote this on the gravestone;
“Only in death do we realize,
We find stardust after shedding away our rust”.
__________
__________
They were dancing flawlessly. A whole pack of them, all wearing white clothes with golden sandals, signature dress for the dancers of the Ayyash Ghar. Their faces were covered with long white veils. Their big silver colored payals were chiming loudly, something that the visitors of that place had become very familiar with. A large gathering of men was there to watch them. Men of all ages and from all walks of life. They had formed a circle around the dancers and were chewing on paan and special kinds of sweets that the house offered. Everyone was mesmerized by the performance. Every often a man from the audience would throw a few rupees towards the dancers. Shouts of appreciation were coming from every direction, some valuing the dance and others, the dancers.
__________
He had always known that he was different. From how his mother used to pay more attention to him than his siblings despite them being better in every way to the way his father never mentioned him as his son anywhere, he knew he was not like the others. Nobody liked being his friend. Nobody liked talking to him. Everywhere he went, people avoided him. Even his brothers and sisters tried to stay away from him.
“You are very special to me, my jaan, and I love you very much. We are a team and we don’t need anyone else.”
This is what his mother used to say every time he went to complain to her when someone had said something bad to him, which happened very often. That used to be sufficient for him when he was a kid but as he grew up, his mother’s kind words weren’t enough anymore. He wasn’t allowed to play cricket in the street like the other kids were. He wasn’t allowed to go with his brothers to their friends’ places. His sisters didn’t introduce him to their friends as well.
“What’s wrong with me, mom?” He would cry in front of her, "Why don’t they like me?”
“Stop it! There’s nothing wrong with you. You are my SON! I love you, ok?”
He would stop crying in front of her. But whenever alone, he wept for hours. He knew there was something wrong with him. But he didn’t know what it was. Unfortunately, he had to find it out the hard way.
__________
Ayaash Ghar was founded by Ustaad Sakhi and his sister, Arzoo bibi. It wasn’t always called that. Initially it was Khawab Ghar, a place built to teach young people how to perform traditional folk dances. But after the death of Arzoo bibi, Ustaad sahab changed everything about the place. In a matter of weeks, he transformed that respectable place into a house of sin, as the locals started calling it. Gone were the tranquil music and sweet sherbat that Arzoo bibi liked to serve her guests and in came loud fahash music and sweets filled with tobacco. All the respectable dancers left the place and Ustaad sahab hired the professional ones. The place also became notorious for taking in stray kids and turning them into explicit dancers. Many people tried getting the place shut down but failed due to Ustaad Sahab’s connections with a lot influential people, many of whom were the regular customers of his Ghar. So it stayed and gained a lot of popularity among the vice of the city.
__________
He almost fell as he opened the door of the house. Please God, help, he whispered as he dragged himself forwards. He turned on the light. Everyone was asleep. He moved forwards and came in the hallway. Only one room was still illuminated. He slowly made his way towards it. He was soaking the carpet red behind him.
__________
His mother died when he was thirteen years old. And just like that his whole world got crumbled down. She was the only person who ever loved him. After her death he had no one to look after him. His father, an alcoholic, was barely able to take care of himself, let alone his son. His brothers and sisters already hated him. It wasn’t a surprise that they closed their doors on him. None of his relatives agreed to take him in. Wherever he went, people sprung away from him like he was a bee hive.
“You’re a disgrace to our society”
“An abomination”
“Khusra!”
He went from one orphanage to another but nobody accepted and provided him with shelter. He was not normal, they said. He couldn’t be placed with other kids. So in the end he had to turn to the streets. He would sit on the muddy roads near his house all day long, begging for a rupee or two and in the end, hardly made enough to fill his belly.
__________
One Saturday night as Ustaad Sakhi was rounding up his last show, his friend Qudrat came to his house. At first he was very displeased as he liked to be alone on Saturday nights, getting high and occasionally enjoying private shows from his dancers. But when Qudrat announced his purpose of visit, Ustaad left everything he was doing and got welcomed his guest warmly. His friend had brought with him a gift, a young child for him to enrol in the list of his dancers.
“So Ustaad jee, heard one of your dancers ran away a few days ago. What do you think about this one?” he pointed at the anxious looking boy sitting beside him.
“Hmm.. so thoughtful of you Qudrat. And yes he seems like a fine lad. Hey boy! Stand up!”
The boy obeyed the command nervously. Sakhi checked the boy out, nodding approvingly.
“Yes, you have fine taste Qudrat” he said laughing a little, delighted with what he had seen, “I presume he won’t have people looking for him, right?”
“No No Ustaad jee! I know him personally, no one alive to miss him”. The both men laughed, easily ignoring the frightened boy standing in the corner of the room. They agreed on a price and just like that the boy became a property of the Ayaash Ghar.
“So boy, what do you know about dancing?”
__________
“Mom look! A khusra!” shouted a little boy excitedly from the backseat of the car. They had stopped when the signal turned red at Kalma Chowk. His mother turned to look where her son had pointed with disgust on her face.
“Make sure your door is locked, Ali.” She said.
It had been fifteen years since his Qudrat uncle had brought him to the Ayaash Ghar. There Ustaad sahab taught him how to dance and please his guests.
“From rust to stardust. Remember this”, Ustaad Sakhi would say while teaching them dance moves, “You lot are nothing, mere rust and a burden upon this society. But this dance”, he’d take a dance step pointing towards the sky, “will elevate you to stardust. You will become…beautiful.”
They would learn to dance all day and then at night, performed it for an audience. Ustaad sahab made them dress like girls. In the beginning that used to upset him a lot. He was a boy! His mother always told him that dancing was for girls. In his initial days at ayaash ghar, he would refuse his elders, gurus as they were called there. He wouldn’t dress in girls’ clothes or learn dancing.
“I’m not a girl!” he would cry out loud when the gurus came to take him to learn dance.
Then one day Ustaad Sakhi came to see him. He seemed like a nice enough man, kind too. So he complained to him about it and told him how the gurus were asking him to do girly things. That day he learned how misleading appearances can be. For when Ustaad ji was finished beating him, he couldn’t even walk straight for days.
“Girly things, huh? And what exactly are you? You are a hijrra! And hijrras dance.”
“But I don’t want to stay here! My mama always said that I’ll become a doctor!” he cried trying to get away from the angry man.
“A doctor?” the man laughed out loudly, “YOU? Your mom was a fool. Khusras don’t become doctors. They dance and beg and dance more!”
And that was the day he learned what was wrong with him, why nobody liked him. He was a mutation, as Ustaad sahab told him, a mistake of God, a sinner. And as much as he hated this, he knew Ustaad Sakhi was right. What else would a ... a khusra do if not dance?
“Hey you!” someone jerked his shoulder and brought him back from his train of thoughts. “Dance for me, will ya?”. It was a man sitting on the backseat of a bike with his friend. They were sneering in his direction.
“Certainly” He replied faking a smile on his face. And then he danced. From rust to stardust. People around him whistled and hooted. Others looked at him with disgust. In the end when the signal turned green, the boys on the bike threw an old ten rupee note towards him and drove away laughing. Nobody noticed his sad eyes glistening with tears of humiliation and shame.
__________
In Ayaash Ghar, they were taught how to dance to attract and seduce. That was not a traditional dance. Instead the moves that Ustaad Sakhi taught them were very vulgar.
“Look around you. You’ll see a bunch of garbage. None of you have any place in this
world”, Sakhi would say as he paced around their practice room, “here in this house, I teach you a way of filling your stomachs. Always remember, this world has a weakness, exploit that and get whatever you want. Besides, there isn’t much a khusra can do besides that , is there?” he’d finish with a sly smile on his face.
__________
“Ustaad jee...” he fell in front of Ustaad Sakhi as he opened his door. He was very badly beaten. Every inch of his place was wet with blood. Ustaad ji looked up at him.
“Heavens! What happened to you?” he said startled at his appearance.
“Those people... those guests.... they took me when I was dancing.... kidnap... they beat me Ustaad jee... their hands all over me.... drunk..” he tried his best to explain what those monsters did to him. How they violated him and beat him and then left him for dead at the side of the road when they were done with him. He could still hear them laughing and wooing, could still feel their hands over him..
“Hmm.. so go and wash up. Then get some sleep. You’ll be delighted to know that they paid double than the usual rate. They really liked you!”
“Wha...What?
“Go on now. Get yourself cleaned up.”
“You.. You knew?”
“Of course I did. That’s why I sent you. They really like them young you know.”
“But.. But you said... Rust to stardust.. Through dancing.”
“Oh come on now. It wasn’t dancing so what? You fulfilled someone’s needs. That is your role, isn’t it? You’re a khusra. You can’t possibly ask for more, can you? And besides, look at all this cash. You did transform yourself from rust to stardust.” He winked, “Now off you go. I need to get some rest now. Busy day tomor.....”
It all happened so fast. He leapt towards Ustaad Sakhi before he had even finished what he was saying, grabbed the first thing he saw in front of him, which happened to be a large stone showpiece, and smashed it on his head. Ustaad went down without a fight. It even surprised him how his broken body suddenly had found somuch strength. What Ustaad said made him angry and mortified. He knew he was worthless. But this? Sakhi couldn't be right. It wasn't supposed to go like that, not even for valueless people like him. He deserved at least more than that, right? He had to. He couldn't seem to stop himself from hitting Ustaad. Khusra! Khusra! Khusra! He started hearing the voices of children mocking him when he went to play with them.
He kept hitting.
“Look at yourself! You disgust me!” his father, when he asked him to take him to the market with him.
He kept hitting.
“Stay in the room and don’t come out until they are gone, okay? His sister, hiding him in a dusty old cupboard when her friends came to their house. He was really excited to meet them and had prepared his welcome all day long. But in the end, didn’t get permission to meet them.
He kept hitting.
“Alas! such a shame he’ll bring to this family!”
“Throw him out, he is a punishment for your sins!”
“A khusra in our own family? Astaghfirullah!”
“An abomination”
He kept hitting.
“Khusras are just meant to dance and please, don’t fool yourself by thinking you’ll ever have any sort of respect in this world.” Ustaad Sakhi’s words.
He kept hitting.
He kept hitting until all the voices had vanished. He kept going till he could no longer hear the amused voices and laughs of the men who abused him, as he cried in pain. All the people who made fun of him when he begged for money on various Chowks, he didn’t stop until their voices disappeared.
“Mom look! A khusra!”
“Make sure your door is locked, Ali.”
He kept going. Chunks of flesh and blood spread all around him as he kept hitting what used to be Ustaad's head.
And then in the end, came his mom, her kind face, her beautiful angelic smile.
“My son will grow up to become a doctor, the world’s best doctor!” And he remembered lying beside her, her hands gently caressing his hair. Her calm soothing voice when he used to cry in front of her.
“WHY MOM....... WHY?” , he cried, “WHY D....DID YOU HAVE TO LEAVE SO... SO SOON? WHY??” his tears mixing up with the blood all around him, some his, some Ustaad’s. Blood of two sinners combined, stale, rust colored blood. Wasn’t blood supposed to be red?
And then he danced. He danced on the blood of the man who had taken everything away from him. He could no longer feel any pain. It was all gone now. He had become numb. He danced and danced and danced. Just like he was taught to, but this time, he enjoyed it too. Now he knew what it was like to achieve stardust through dancing. He danced until he couldn’t, smiling at the transformation. He was free now. He had gotten rid of all of his rust. Rust and stardust. Rust and stardust.
“You were right Ustaad jee. You were so right.” he murmured as he fell on the corpse of the man he had just killed.
__________
When they buried him, they wrote this on the gravestone;
“Only in death do we realize,
We find stardust after shedding away our rust”.
__________
I have roamed the earth since time immemorial, slipping between the receding shadows at dawn,
flickering dimly in sunbeams that choke through forest canopies overhead. I have heard the wind sing
sweet and musical hymns, which taste of salt, by the sea, seen it roar with rage in its wild turns, ripping
out trees from their roots.
I have heard the sound of rust, gathering with age in places long forsaken, its soft metallic whisper
dissolving into the silence. I have seen loneliness, murky and misshapen, roaming unchecked in rooms
filled with people, where laughter rings loud through the air, and the high-pitched echoes bounce off
the walls, sounding strangely hollow.
I know of people with world-weary souls, their spirits worn away by feelings caged in, their tongues tired
of biting back retorts. I see men seek solace in things never meant for comfort; see them lean against
pillars that do not hold.
I watch quietly as people direct their wrath at loved ones; see the way they crumble under the weight of
dagger-words. I hear the unmistakable shatter of something break, never to be mended again. I look on
gravely as the ceaseless wait continues, seconds turning to minutes, the hours cycling into days, and
women continue to glance askance with hopeful eyes.
I see men with stone hearts, too set in their ways to take delight in a wee one’s babbling or melt at
tender caresses, light as feather-too far gone to be moved by love. I smell the bitterness and anger that
dwells in hearts, acrid and volatile, scalding everything in its path.
But as I stand at the edge of oblivion, I catch sight of lights flashing above, a kaleidoscope of hues that
descend across the inky sky, weaving and spinning into each other in a hypnotic dance. The stardust
cascades down and the horizon begins to glow, imperceptibly at first but gradually bathing the land in its
warm celestial radiance. And I remember.
Gushing rivers meandering into sprawling seas, ice-cold water in thawing streams where time stands
still, bubbling rapids that wash away regrets. I touch an impenetrable blue and watch it mirror the depth
of the galaxies.
I see quaint old cottages scattered across moors and perched upon cliff tops. I sense love; made tangible
by the dying embers in the fireplace, watch the amber light cast on a child marveling at a crude
plaything, the unspoken tenderness of a woman reaching for her mate’s hand. I witness something
being born as his fingers close around hers, her palm hidden in his, pulsating with warmth.
I hear the universe hold its breath as high notes of mirth bubble out, spontaneous and unscripted,
watch the sounds soak into the wooden floorboards for years to come. I see joy, pure and unbridled, run
rampant amongst kin. Among those who strain to listen to the undertones of the wind, who run free
without care among the tall grass and pause to look above at the skies.
I taste the freedom that forgiveness brings; remember the swift way the tightness in chests loosens all
at once, the hot outpouring of tears that binds people together into closer knots. I feel constellations
birthing, producing magnificent harmonies, when gentle smiles are exchanged and kind words are
gifted. I know the oceans stir when humility wins and resentment soundlessly surrenders.
I remember it all: the zesty magic of youth and the earthy wisdom of age, the subtle mystery in
moments that cause galaxies to shift, the sacred instants when lives are joined together, when one life
arrives whilst the flame of another is blown away, the beauty and pleasure that love contains, causing a
deep gnawing ache one minute and overwhelming bliss the next. I see the labyrinth that life is. The
inextricable web that keeps people tangled.
I cry uncontrollably. And I laugh without restraint.
I realised I had dozed off when I felt my head hit the floor. I sat myself upright again, trying to remember where I was, the single dimmed light making it harder to recall. I felt around the cold floor under my palm.
Oh, the bathroom.
Slight fear rippled through me as realisation set in. Instinctively, I reached for my left thigh and winced under the pain. Damn it, no more score to keep count of. 62 days clean, that's farther than I had ever come. And now, poof, all gone. Back to zero.
Ah, well, it was never going to last anyways.
In a way, I was glad - with every increase in the number on the wall, the pressure to not fail mounted too. It was always going to be just a single, swift moment of weakness and I would be back at square one, the calendar stripped clean of any markings. But then again, I had failed at everything else; failing at this only complimented the rest.
I tried to find my weapon of choice and noticed that it was still in my hand, carefully gripped between the thumb and the index finger, even while I had slept. So I managed to not cut myself in that state of stupor, but had consciously drawn parallel lines while fully awake; the irony was definitely not lost on me. A little half hearted chuckle escaped my lips, immediately followed by something stronger, a gush of emotions, perhaps a scream that seemed to get stuck somewhere in my throat, and when not finding a way out, looked for an alternate route out my eyes, escaping as hot brine, down my cheeks and onto the floor, that was now beginning to warm up under the heat my conflicted soul was emitting while fighting its internal battles.
I lightly moved my fingers down my thigh, feeling the landscape, all the little hills and valleys previous such encounters had left. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, and now the fortieth. It was still raw, the surrounding skin had puffed lightly and I stared, mesmerised. I had been doing this for years and yet the scene never ceased to amaze me.
That clean thin slit.
I looked at the older ones and saw the jagged edges and the unsightly scars. I have come a long way, perfecting
the technique until I got that beautiful, sharp stroke. It doesn't need to be circumferencing all around, nor needs to be extended long, winding along the muddy-blue tracks; it needs to be deep.
And that initial singular drop of blood that slowly peeks out, growing larger and larger in size until it is a shiny sphere, a reflecting orb. And finally, it becomes powerful enough to be set in motion, to be pulled under gravity, a lifeless planet that hosts nothing but an overflowing blood-red ocean.
I looked at the dull, worn out edge of the razor and then the soft, swollen boundaries of the cleavage. It was fascinating, bordering on surreal. How many times had I sat in the same spot, unbeknownst to the world, drawing portals for galaxies yearning to explode out of me, the brilliant stardust that shimmers through them, running down my skin, leaving behind their tracks, their orbits, all by a blade that was once as glistening as the luminosity it caused, but now blunted down and turned mahogany by rust, or the dried remains of my body's elixir, not that it makes a difference; my blood may as well be all rust too while inside, but when it flows, God, when it flows, its incandescence can put stardust from the brightest nebula to shame.
And so I can't help but let it be free. Sixty-two, zero, all meaningless numbers when compared to the beautiful paradox this sight beholds. Who's keeping count anyways?
Rust is the color of demise
Its the smell of dejection
Its in the air when I fall down on the floor, leaning on a wall
There is sweat over my forehead
I am drenched all over
Its the smell of dejection
Its in the air when I fall down on the floor, leaning on a wall
There is sweat over my forehead
I am drenched all over
And the first thing I register in that moment is the smell of rust, sweat and urine.
The bathroom that I am hiding in has 4 stalls, all with dysfunctional flush systems and the taps that won't budge
But who cares about the plumbing when there is very little time to be alive
But who cares about the plumbing when there is very little time to be alive
There is a strange, twisted sense of completion
In being destroyed so thoroughly
And when the realization hits, I break into a smile.
In being destroyed so thoroughly
And when the realization hits, I break into a smile.
I quickly look around to see if the windows are closed, the door is locked and the mirrors aren't judging me
Because in my experience, they always do.
They always have.
They always will.
Because in my experience, they always do.
They always have.
They always will.
Mocking is not a challenge I want to tackle
Not in my final hours
Not in my final hours
The smell of urine is nauseating yet I take a deep breath
The air around me has closed so tight
The air around me has closed so tight
I tell myself to calm down
One, two, three
One, two, three
One, two, three
One, two, three
Breathe in
Breathe out
And try not to vomit
Breathe out
And try not to vomit
There is no time for paper bags
There is no time for nostalgia
There is no time for nostalgia
I take my phone out of the bag and toss it down the flush
There is a disgusting splash and I am soiled beyond repair
There is a disgusting splash and I am soiled beyond repair
You would imagine that after 12hours at least one person would notice your absence and ask after you.
You would imagine wrongly.
Rust colored life
With rusty smiles
Angels with rusty wings
With no power to watch over me
With rusty smiles
Angels with rusty wings
With no power to watch over me
Rust is what my breath smells like
And the taste of my love is rust
So when I take a step towards the end
Rust dissolves too easy
And the taste of my love is rust
So when I take a step towards the end
Rust dissolves too easy
There is no tombstone where dejection is buried
There is not mark to point the way
The rust is in the forest
Rust is all I have
There is not mark to point the way
The rust is in the forest
Rust is all I have
Until there is more
Until my final breath
Until the poison they have fed me works
Until hopelessness breaks my heart
I go back to the night
Until my final breath
Until the poison they have fed me works
Until hopelessness breaks my heart
I go back to the night
Night hides me well
Night has stars on the horizon
And there is a sparkle that I want to catch
Before the darkness take me home
Stardust is what I lust after
The only love I can spare is for the dust of my demise
Night has stars on the horizon
And there is a sparkle that I want to catch
Before the darkness take me home
Stardust is what I lust after
The only love I can spare is for the dust of my demise
Rust and Stardust
Death and Death
Its in the taste
The beauty of both
Death and Death
Its in the taste
The beauty of both
- Sania Mumtaz Tahir
