Tag Archives: happiness

Past, Present & Future — The Sacred Triangle

Posted in Short Stories English by

‘Past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’

A lyrical philosophical tale spanning ancient Damascus to the desert mountains of Balkh, exploring humanity’s relationship with time through the teachings of a defrocked priest and the mystical wisdom of Maga, an enigmatic desert woman. The story weaves together the concept of the “sacred triangle” - where survival, love, and desire intersect within the singular reality of the present moment.

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‘Jawdat, please listen to me, son.’ My old father requested me, while we sat on the dunes, watching the long worms of caravans, leaving and entering Damascus.

‘Jawdat, my darling son, everything in this universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds - they all speak. But to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’ My father said in his usual poetic manner.

He was a strange man - my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad, and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his unceremonious ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together, and took long walks in the golden deserts surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.

It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look past the obvious. He had seen the true light, and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.

‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.

‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.

‘Does the light speak too?’ I asked thoughtfully.

‘Yes, it does, and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head, and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.

‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing. Even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’

‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’

‘But what do they say? What do they tell us - the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.

‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff. ‘The first corner of this triangle is survival, the second corner is love, and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements - a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival, a crowned heart for love, and a snake for desire.

‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him as to me, the soul encompassed all.

‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within. ‘The scared triangle with all its three elements, exists within a real moment of time.’

‘All moments of time are real, Father.’ I laughed.

‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly. ‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a vague possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the sacred triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’

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I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist, and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in, but it all drained out.

I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.

‘Tell me, O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.

‘What is the most significant of the past, the present, and the future?’

‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The reds and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads. ‘What do you think, child? What do you believe is the most significant of these three?’

I looked up at her. She was silent, but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.

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The old woman was strange. Maga - that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.

I found her in the desert. Rather, it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst, while each night burnt me with her cold, freezing fingers.

Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh, and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was moistening my lips.

Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision - an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.

We were inseparable thereafter, though Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except that sometimes she chewed on some dried roots and mushrooms.

Maga was my scared triangle - in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire, when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.

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‘So what do you think, child? Maga asked, breaking my reverie.

‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.

‘What is the most significant of these three, the past, the present, or the future?’

I thought hard before presenting an answer. ‘My past has made me what I am, and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.

‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered back into them, and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me. ‘Past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real - as real as it can be.’

‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.

‘That is possible too, of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am.’ I confessed.

‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands, and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows. ‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, the present, and then the past, in turn. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’ She finished her brief lecture and smiled at me.

‘Maga?’ I asked her, ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’

‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child.’

I sat down on the cold sand, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us, and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon, it became just a yellow shadow in the West.

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‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear, and I opened my eyes.

The night had enveloped us completely, and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down, and the lonely stars were sparkling silently - witnessing our present.

I looked at her, and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears.

Shadows were hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming human forms. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.

I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.

‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.

I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled underneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:

‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties,

caress my eyes, that have dreamt a million dreams

Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties,

and run in my veins, that once pulsated with extremes

But no more, my friend, no more, no more,

I breathe no more, I am dead for sure

I am a lonesome traveller, walking a dark path,

my fate is unsure, my end is all vague

There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath,

my heart silently suffers - loneliness is the deadliest plague

I was a man once, but now I am just a bundle of flesh,

the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink

I wish I could start my whole life afresh,

I wish I had more time to ponder and to think

Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief,

but her tears are drying up really very fast

Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief,

I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past

Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons,

they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope

Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only stuns,

for their future is bright, as they will slowly climb the rope

Listen, my friend, and listen carefully,

my time has come, and yours will come soon

Listen, my friend, and listen attentively,

I am now dead, and you too will die soon

Life is a dew drop, vanishing once kissed by the sun,

dust on a moth’s wings, only ash once kissed by a flame

So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun,

for in the end, there’ll be nothing left but regrets and shame’

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‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what have you understood?’ ‘That past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’

The Inevitability of Sorrow (Previosuly, Seeds of Happiness and Fruits of Sorrow)

Posted in Poetry English by

What if happiness is only the beginning of sorrow?

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All those who cultivate seeds of happiness,

will one day surely, eat the bitter fruit of sorrow

It’s your destiny, and your legacy, my dear child,

just follow your past, don’t seek a new tomorrow

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All those who know how to love and how to care,

will one day surely meet a sad and lonely end

It’s bound to happen, oh please don’t weep or cry,

it’s not something broken that you can readily mend

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All those who dance, and who laugh clear and loud,

will one day surely shed the bitter tears of loss

It’s the rule, my friend, you can’t run and fight,

you always pay the price, you always bear the cross

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All those who forgive and carry no black grudge,

will one day mourn the loss of their own hearts

You can’t keep on giving, giving more and some more,

there’re always expectations, even when hope departs

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Those who plan and cater for all possible regrets,

will certainly be the most regretful of all in the end

Regrets are the fires that keep the memories warm,

without regrets, there’s only coldness, you can’t tend

Sehnsucht – The Circle of Wistful Longing

Posted in Short Stories English by

A devastating circular narrative where five lives intersect in a single afternoon, each envying what the next possesses.

The story has been made into a multiple award-winning short film by my dear friend, Naqi Khawar. It is available for you to watch at:

https://youtu.be/1_pWkF5ulYo?si=svUABXzH6wueJZlr

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Anna is sitting naked on a high-backed chair and is looking at her sad reflection in a cheap, aluminum-framed mirror. It is a small and sparsely furnished room in a grey, depilated apartment building.

There are two plastic chairs, placed in a corner, piled high with dirty laundry. A small TV is mounted on the wall. It is on mute, and the faded screen is alternating between static and a music video featuring a few garish characters from hell.

There is a double bed in another corner, and it is covered with a dark purple quilt. It is presently occupied by a naked, hairless man. He has a pale complexion and a bulging beer belly. His hairy belly button looks like a single eye staring back.

Two lamps are placed on side tables on each side of the bed. One out of these is throwing a red glare across the room, while the other is dark.

The room smells of cheap sex and sweat, and the stink of unwashed bodies. The room smells of desires, repeatedly fulfilled and repeatedly regretted.

The man gets up slowly, grabs hold of a soiled towel from a chair, and wipes his hairy and shriveled genitals. He examines the towel after the deed, and disgusted with what he sees, throws it on the floor. As he starts getting dressed, a tattered wallet slips out of the back pocket of his trousers. He picks it up, opens it, seems frustrated by what he sees, and puts it back in the pocket.

Anna gifts the man with a cold, hard glare, and her hand automatically starts inching towards the red panic button. The man understands the glare and looks unceasingly at the panic button. He knows the implications of Anna pressing this button. Once pressed, two burly gentlemen in cheap polyester suits, with shining boots and dead eyes, will appear, just like demons summoned by magic.

The man thinks of the steel toes of the shining boots, and fear creeps into his shrewd eyes. He is aware of the pain, which can be caused by the marriage of steel toes to his groin.

‘Fuck!’ He whispers, pulls out the wallet, and throws a few bills on the bed.

Anna duly observes the action and mentally counts the bills. Her hand withdraws from the red button.

The man looks at the inviting curve of Anna’s hips peeking from under the chair’s back and licks his dry lips. He checks his wallet and finds it almost empty. Groaning with disappointment, he gets out without a second glance.

Anna gets up, locks the door, and clicks the safety chain is in place. Picking up the soiled towel from the floor, she wipes herself down between the legs. Then, she picks up a cheap, disposable lighter, lights up a cigarette, and walks out on the balcony.

Anna examines the street below, oblivious to her naked body and the cheers from a few workers passing by. She is more interested in a couple. They are hurrying through the light, early afternoon rain, making splashes in the small pools of rainwater.

The couple looks married. The man is tall and is wearing a dark-colored overcoat. His female companion is also wearing a dark overcoat and is tightly clutching his arm. Suddenly, she slips in the water, but the man’s quick reflexes prevent her from falling. She looks up at him with a small, grateful smile. The couple walks on and vanishes around the corner.

Anna takes a deep drag on her cigarette and wishes she were the woman in the street, safe in the warm embrace of a man - her man.

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The couple is still walking in the street, and the woman is still grasping the man’s arm. They walk on and enter a small pizza place. The man walks to the counter, while the woman removes her coat, and moves towards a small table in the corner. She adjusts the chair and examines her surroundings.

It is a small place with cheap furnishings and old movie posters on the walls. Only one other table is occupied - a tired-looking man, sitting with a small girl, five or maybe six years of age.

The woman eyes the child with interest. She is wearing a beige skirt and a red woolen cap, and is busy finishing her French fries, smeared with ketchup. She eats the last fry and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Let’s go, Father. I am full.’ She tells the man, who smiles, kisses her head, and gets up.

The woman smiles at the little girl and thinks of her two children. They were killed in a hit-and-run accident a few years ago. Her eyes start brimming with tears. But then, seeing her husband coming back, she composes herself and smiles at him.

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The man and his daughter walk out on the dark street, him holding the little girl’s hand. She tries to jump into every puddle, sometimes splashing her father’s trousers. But he does not mind, and instead encourages her on with a smile.

The rain has stopped since long, and the sun is beginning to paint everything with a golden-yellow warmth.

The man and the child pass by a small playing area, where a few children are enjoying the coldness of the wet slides. They are laughing in their sodden clothes, and their giggles and laughter catch the fancy of the little girl. She drags her father towards the park. They stand outside the fence, holding hands.

A boy stands out from amongst the small crowd of playing children. Almost as old as the man’s daughter, he is trying to swing as high as possible. Suddenly, he loses his grip and falls. A woman runs up to him, picking him up and wiping his bloody nose.

‘Look, what you have done,’ she sounds scared.

The boy smiles from behind his tears, and his smile calms her down a bit.

Looking at the now vacant and oscillating swing, the little girl looks up at her father with pleading eyes.

‘No, some other day maybe.’ He denies her silent request softly.

He looks at the boy and his mother and envies their happiness. Then, he grabs the girl’s hand and they start walking again. They are getting late. She has cancer, and today is her appointment for the first dose of chemotherapy.

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‘Keep your head tilted upwards. It will stop the bleeding.’ The worried mother instructs her son while they are hurrying home.

‘Don’t worry, Mom. I am fine. Look, the bleeding is almost stopped.’ The boy tells his mother cheerfully.

She examines his nose, and seeing the clotting blood on his upper lip, sighs with relief. They walk on and enter an old apartment building. The lobby and the staircase reek of stale piss and poverty.

They start climbing the stairs. The boy is happy and is hopping up the stairs two at a time. But the woman wishes the stairs would never end. She is thinking of her alcoholic and abusive husband, who is awaiting their return. She imagines him sitting in front of the TV, scratching his hairy belly, and thinking of some new means of torturing his wife.

The woman and the boy finally reach the door of an apartment on the second floor.

‘The door to my personal hell.’ The woman thinks apprehensively, shrugs her shoulders in frustration, and unlocks the door.

‘Back so soon?’ A deeply slurred and sarcastic voice echoes from inside the room.

‘Come here.’ The voice beckons, and the boy quickly runs to his room, scared to the core of his being of his drunk father.

The woman walks to where the man is sitting. She looks at the leather belt, with its heavy, steel buckle, clenched tightly in his hand. A cold shiver runs down her spine.

‘Please God, no.’ She silently prays, but God does not live in the houses of the poor.

The man gets up with a menacing grin. She bends her head with silent helplessness and turns to face the other way.

The man raises his arm, and the belt hits the woman just above her hips. The leather traces liquid fire across her back. She screams in pain, and the man’s smile widens with pleasure.

Once, twice, thrice, the woman loses count and stops screaming after five. Finally, the man is tired and sinks back into the sofa in a drunken stupor.

The woman collects herself and walks out on the balcony. She rests her bruised back against the cold, rain-soaked wall. Tears are streaming down her face.

She looks enviously at Anna, smoking on the adjacent balcony.

Anna throws down the butt and goes back inside.

The circle of longing is complete.