Loss comes in many forms: a son in the ground, a toy in pieces, a life nearly spent - but hope whispers the same message to each broken heart.
A tender, empathetic poem that addresses three figures experiencing profound sorrow: an elderly mother grieving her son, a young boy mourning a broken toy, and an old man facing mortality. Through a recurring refrain that acknowledges “your darkest hour,” this consoling verse offers a gentle perspective on different scales of loss - from childhood disappointments to the finality of death.
___________________________________________
It is your time, my friend, it is your darkest hour,
it is seemingly the end, joys and sorrows at par
All seems lost, and all seems dour,
all appears grey, and smiles are all sour
___________________________________________
You sitting by that grave, yes, you, the old hag,
appearing to be brave, holding onto your old bag
Why do you sob and why do you weep?
Was it your son, whom you loved so deep?
Please, do not cry, wipe off all these tears,
he is not gone, pray hush all your fears
Look into your heart, you will find him there,
he is but a memory away, with a face so fair
___________________________________________
It is your time, my friend, it is your darkest hour,
it is seemingly the end, joys and sorrows at par
All seems lost, and all seems dour;
all appears grey, and smiles are all sour
___________________________________________
You holding a broken toy, yes, you, the poor boy,
crying your heart out, you have lost all joy
Why do you sob and why do you weep?
Was it your treasure, you intended to keep?
Please, do not cry, do not be cross,
it is, but the first step on the stairway to loss
More toys will come, each precious and dear,
more toys will come with each new year
___________________________________________
It is your time, my friend, it is your darkest hour,
it is seemingly the end, joys and sorrows at par
All seems lost, and all seems dour,
all appears grey, and smiles are all sour
___________________________________________
You, lost in your reverie, yes, you, the old man,
all sick and tired, separated from your clan
Why are you sad, and why are you so glum?
Do you feel bad about what you have become?
Please, do not be sad, do not detest yourself,
it is, but our destiny, life always solves itself
Your days were a chapter in the grand book of life,
your soul was a traveler on the path to the afterlife
___________________________________________
It is your time, my friend, it is your darkest hour,
‘If strangers confess their fears to you, if friends share their deepest sorrows, the ancient Turtle would say you’re not cursed with sadness - you’re chosen for it.’
A reflective narrative about a writer who specializes in sadness, reuniting with his childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who reveals a profound truth: some souls are chosen to be “Prophets of Sadness” - those gifted with the ability to understand and carry others’ burdens. Through the Turtle’s wisdom, the protagonist learns that God kissed certain souls to give them the power to see beyond happiness’s seductive blindness and witness the pain that others overlook.
‘Do you know the problem with your writing?’ My filmmaker friend asked me.
He and I are old friends. He knows me well. I write, and sometimes he is kind enough to give life to my words.
‘Please enlighten me.’ I said, while smiling at him.
‘The world needs to be a happier place.’ His voice resonated with exasperation, ‘The world needs to hear happy words. People need to forget the dark side. They need a light at the end of their personal tunnels. But you, my friend, write only of heartbreak and sadness.’
‘Yeah! I guess you are right.’ I nodded. ‘But this is what I am. I can write of happiness and joy and laughter. But most of the time, I don’t want to.’
Yeah, you have guessed right. I am a writer. And yes, as my well-meaning friend mentioned, I mostly write about sadness and tragedies. In fact, I write when sadness resonates inside me and my eyes are filled with tears. Each tear gives birth to a sentence. Sometimes, the stories are about my own life. But mostly these are just figments of my imagination.
Writing enables me to wear the skin of my characters. I live the life they live, and I breathe the air they breathe. Their sorrows vibrate in my soul, and their tears cloud my eyes.
I see the smiling face of an old and poor woman. I am not fascinated by her smile. Instead, I walk along the deep lines creasing her skin. I peer into the cloudy pools of her eyes. I feel the roughness of her hands. I taste the bitterness of her broken heart, and I feel the tiredness of her exhausted soul.
I see a child playing in the park. I am not charmed by his excitement and joy. Instead, I see the burdensome life ahead of him. I feel the sting of thorns lining his path to adulthood, and I see the grey clouds of worry circling his head. I hear the thunder of disappointments, still distant and far away, and I fear for his sanity.
I see a couple romancing in the rain. I notice the magic of love, but I choose to ignore it. Instead, I see the fading colors of passion. I taste the sourness that comes with possessiveness. I sense the growing distance between the souls, and I hear the tinkling of breaking hearts.
‘Well, I guess my friend is right. Maybe the world does need to be happy. Maybe it does want to live in the light and deny the existence of darkness.’ I thought and walked into the open arms of the tired evening. The dipping sun is painting everything a pale-yellow shade of gold.
I looked around. Autumn was gently receding, making way for the blissful winters. I heard the crunch of dry brown leaves under my feet. And I felt the rustling of a dry breeze amongst the leafless branches of the old Banyan tree.
‘Hello? Who goes there?’ An old, raspy, and deep voice called out of the rose bushes.
‘Who is there?’ I asked and was surprised as the bushes were too small to hide anyone.
‘My! My! If it isn’t my old friend?’ The voice was warm and affectionate this time. ‘How have you been, son?’
I peered closely and there he was, my childhood friend, the ancient Turtle. For those of you not familiar with him, I had been friends with an ancient Turtle since I was very young, probably four or five. He lived in our backyard and had always acted as my mentor and an intimate friend.
‘Hey! You are still alive?’ I was amazed. I never knew turtles could live this long. He was at least a few hundred years old when I last met him. And I was just a four-year-old kid back then.
‘Yes, still alive and apparently in quite good shape.’ He winked at me with a warm smile and asked, ‘What about you, son? How have you been?’
‘I am fine. Just a little grownup, I guess.’ I answered.
‘Well, being grown-up doesn’t matter as long as you keep on believing in talking turtles. Eh?’ He cocked his gnarled head and inspected me in detail, ‘Fine, you say? You don’t look so good to me.’
‘I am just a bit sad, I guess.’ I smiled at him.
‘Oh! But, you will always be a bit sad.’ The Turtle chuckled softly and said, ‘You were sad when you were a child. You are sad now, and you will always be sad.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He always had a knack for saying the most shocking of things in the simplest of manners.
‘Please scratch my back a little. I have an itch that refuses to leave me in peace.’ Instead of answering my question, he requested me.
I just laughed, bent down, and started scratching his mottled grey-green back with a small twig.
‘Are you hungry? Can I bring you something? A carrot perhaps?’ I offered.
‘Nope. I have had my fill. The brown leaves tasted just fine this afternoon.’ He burped a little to confirm the fullness of his stomach.
Several minutes passed without either him or me saying anything. I just kept on scratching his back, while he closed his eyes in contentment. I looked at him closely. There was no change. He looked the same and smelt the same - the pleasant smell of dried up moss and ancient magic.
‘Why did you say that I have always been, and will always be sad?’ I asked him when he reopened his eyes.
‘Hmm! You see, son, when God created the souls, He first created a big shimmering blob of conscience.’ He said while shifting a little to catch the last rays of the dying sun. ‘Then He took that blob into His old, wise hands, and molded souls out of it. He sat back and took pleasure in what He had created. But something was wrong somewhere. God could feel it.’
‘Did He make a mistake?’ I asked the Turtle, unbelievingly.
‘No, not a mistake.’ The Turtle shook his wise head, ‘Once you can guess something is missing from your work, it is not a mistake. It just means you want your work to be perfect. And God is the ultimate perfectionist.’
‘And why have you stopped scratching?’ He asked annoyingly.
‘I apologize. I got lost in your words.’ I started scratching his mottled back again with a sheepish smile.
The sky had turned orange. There were a few stray clouds with purple edges. It was a beautiful evening - full of marvelous colors. The birds flew over my head - flying back to their hungry children and little warm nests. They looked down on us with amazement - a grown-up man and an ancient turtle - but had no time to stop and exchange gossip.
‘So, what was I saying?’ I was brought back to reality by the Turtle’s question.
‘You were saying that God thought something was missing in the souls He had created.’ I reminded him.
‘Yes, something was indeed missing.’ The turtle agreed with me while relaxing his body in pleasure. Apparently, my scratching was doing wonders for his itch. ‘God knew what was missing. He picked up a handful of souls and kissed them softly. With that kiss, His creation was complete.’
‘Why? Why did that last kiss matter?’ I said while looking at the Turtle in confusion.
‘You see, son, God being the creator of all, knew very well that life would bring sadness to the souls.’ The Turtle explained, ‘In fact, as life brings more sadness than joy, God wanted at least a few souls to understand the essence of sadness. This handful of souls, God made them the Prophets of Sadness.’
‘So the last kiss was the kiss of understanding?’ I was beginning to grasp what the old Turtle really meant.
‘Yes! The last kiss brought understanding and also a special power - the power to lighten the burden of sorrow and the power that could heal.’ The Turtle confirmed with a proud smile. ‘Happiness is a drug, which keeps you human beings sedated and oblivious. Joys make you unmindful of the sufferings around you. But pain and suffering live on, feeding on your blissful oblivion. There must be a few souls capable of rejecting the drug of happiness. These few souls are the Prophets of Sadness.’
‘So that is why some people come to me and confess their fears, and share their sadness?’ I asked the Turtle, while thinking of so many of my strange encounters.
I thought of the middle-aged friend of mine who held my hand and wept over a wasted life, and I thought of the old man who whispered of his fear of death in my ears.
I thought of a friend sharing his desperation for a love he was never going to find, and I thought of the woman who told me she was afraid nobody was ever going to love her.
I thought of the little girl who was sad because nobody liked to be her friend at school, and I thought of the little boy who was bitter about the bullies making fun of his short height.
I thought of all those familiar and vague faces, and I relived their pains, sorrows, and fears within a mere moment.
‘I listened to them. I felt their pain. I shared the burden of their sorrows. And I felt threatened by their fears. But I never healed them.’ I said while looking at the Turtle through the misty curtain of my disappointed tears.
‘No, my son. This is where you are wrong.’ The Turtle patted my hand reassuringly. ‘A tree never talks to the people resting under its shade. But still, it provides them with something they need. The tree provides them a place to shed off their tiredness and a place to rest awhile.
‘I would like to think I am a shady tree. But I am really not.’ I knew myself and my shortcomings far better than the old Turtle.
‘No? Not yet?’ He asked with a naughty smile. ‘Okay, no issues.’
But then, seeing my long face, he took pity and said, ‘Remember, son, ego is a poison that stunts the growth of the mightiest of shady trees. Ego climbs up their massive trunks and wraps itself around the delicate branches. It sucks the life force and keeps on sucking it until the tree dies. You get rid of your ego, and you will reach your true destiny. You will become the Prophet of Sadness.’
‘Baba! Baba! Where are you?’ We were interrupted by the voice of my young son.
I looked at my friend, and he was beginning to gradually fade away.
‘What are you doing here, sitting on your knees?’ My son asked, finding me kneeling beside the rose bushes.
‘Nothing, my love. Just chatting with an old friend.’ I stood up and held his tiny hand in mine.
‘Which old friend?’ He was surprised and looked here and there, but could not find anyone. The Turtle had long gone.
‘Don’t worry, he has already left.’ I smiled at him.
‘So tell me…had any troubles lately?’ I asked him as we started walking towards the house.
‘Why? What will you do with my troubles?’ He asked while looking at me strangely.
‘I will listen to your troubles and understand them. I will put them all in a small box and bury that box within my heart forever. Your troubles will trouble you no more.’ I said while drawing him close.
‘You know what, Baba?’ He smiled his peculiar smile, which was growing wider by the minute.
‘What?’ I asked while peering back into his mischievous, dark eyes.
‘You are becoming strange.’ He announced.
I stopped, looked back at the rose bushes, and took a deep breath. The Turtle had already left, but the air still smelled of moss and magic. ‘No, my love, I am not becoming strange. Rather, I am becoming a Prophet of Sadness.’
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.
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.
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.
‘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.
Shehryar khawar 