The Sense of Incompleteness

The legendary King of Kings?

It seems almost heroic. Students will marvel at pictures of vibrant Libyan rebels, hooting in trucks and waving flags of freedom, in their history books, for many years to come. They will look at the Revolution as a fairytale, something that can only happen in the past, something only the pages of a history book can contain. History can boast about few events as great as the Arab Spring, and the idea of being alive to witness the whole thing is an ecstatic feeling, in itself. When the Jasmine Revolution first broke out in Tunisia, few would have imagined that Libya would be next.

Satisfying. Not as satisfying as capturing Gaddafi.

The Libyan Revolution was prolonged and painful, with mass civilian casualties and ruthless manslaughter. It’s been almost eight months since the revolution started and today, the rebels stand victorious. The government has lost most of its firepower, Tripoli has been captured, Muammar Gaddafi has fled- that’s where you stop and think. So, the man behind it all, Gaddafi has not been captured, eh? As I said, eight months have passed and the rebels have triumphed, or have they?

When the Libyan Revolution first came to light, Muammar Gaddafi became a symbol of hatred- an atrocious man, murdering and tormenting his own people, all in the selfish desire to maintain his autocratic regime. Muammar Gaddafi was the face most commonly shown on BBC- the man with those suspiciously secretive Chinese eyes, the radical chin hair, the loose, musty clothes and the maliciously sadistic smile. The media taught us to loathe Gaddafi- we had to see him as a man who was supposed to be killed, a man who did not deserve mercy. The issuance of the international arrest warrant, the approval of NATO and the admirably heroic protest movements, added more substance to this ideology and further augmented our contempt for the ‘villain’, Gaddafi.

Today, the resolution of the movement has been achieved, the drama has ended, and we have reached our happily ever after, yet the villain has not been defeated. Fearing that the rebels threatened his dictatorial power, Gaddafi has fled, without anyone knowing when, what, how, and most importantly, where. Hence, even as the rebels click pictures with victory signs, sleep on Gaddafi’s beds, and chant slogans of success (with gusto and enthusiasm), there is a sense of incompleteness present in the whole thing. Gaddafi is set to have fled Tripoli through a series of covert underground tunnels below his compound. After all this time, Gaddafi can be virtually anywhere, from Sirte and Bani Walid to Algeria and perhaps, South Africa. Many of Gaddafi’s family members have found refuge in Algeria, but Gaddafi’s location is still as murky as his eyes. One finds it hard to believe that after all that struggle; the antagonist still roams free, hidden from the world’s eyes.

"I am an international leader, the dean of the Arab rulers, the king of kings of Africa and the imam of Muslims, and my international status does not allow me to descend to a lower level" Arab League summit, March 2009
Gaddafi is famous for making self-righteously boastful statements. Even though his regime has been dismantled and his leadership ousted, Gaddafi has not been as snubbed as it may seem. Even after all the persistent battles, Gaddafi remains camouflaged and unscathed. And we feel whether the man who thought so highly of himself, the legendary King of Kings, the sole survivor of the American 1969 bombings on Libya, the maverick political philosopher, was not so wrong after all?  

Unless Gaddafi is captured, how can the woman and children sleep peacefully, knowing that the criminal will never return? How can the government establish control, without fearing that Gaddafi may one day return, perhaps as a greater threat? How can the world, though millions of miles from Libya, feel content and happy that all is well, without the frustration of Gaddafi’s escape? The loose ends still remain untied.

Ah, the sweet, incomplete smell of success

Although the rebels, heroes forever, have set their mark on the tide of history, there will still be many, who will see Gaddafi as the figure who fought till the end, the person who resisted despite all odds, and the man who defied destiny itself.

Enjoy the Rain

Enjoy the water’s cooling might,

The falcons’ frantic flight,

The thunder’s blinding light,

The fog that blocks all sight,

And the school holiday’s delight.

Enjoy the splashing sounds on the floor,

The lightning’s lion roar,

The beach’s clamorous shore,

The sputter spatter at your door,

And the electricity no more.

Enjoy the smell of silt and sand,

The muddy water polishing the land,

The playful child’s adventurous demand,

The pipes vomiting like a fountain grand,

And the taste of jalaybee from your mother’s hand.

 

Enjoy the soothing touch of the dewy rain,

The confused spinning of the weathervane,

 The brimming buildings with the wet stain,

The growth of the clean, green cane,

And the joy, dance and play in every lane.

Enjoy the rainbow and the light of day,

The children hopping all the way,

The serenity of Nature’s May,

The drizzly, long line of spray,

And the dirty mosquitoes on their way.

Enjoy the wintry rain of the sky,

The ripe fields of the farmer’s rye,

The cool comfort that will never die,

The childish feeling that you could fly,

And go to the highest of high.

From Ritualism to Retreatism

Most of us live life like this cat.

The life of a common man is ordinary and meaningless. He stares at the moon in awe, but does not aspire to reach it. He admires his boss’s Armani suit, but does not strive to wear it. He notices the high achievers being applauded in school but does not desire it. Most people, therefore, tend to be ritualists- people who live, what I call, a drab existence. They accept their position in society, considering it to be pre-destined and unchangeable and live their lives as a monotonous, continuous routine.

Most of us do things just because we have to, rather than want to. Most of the school day is spent sulking around, waiting for the clock to strike one-thirty, and your vans to drift you home. And why do you go to school? Because your parents said so, because everyone else goes to school, because you have to. This ritualist lifestyle continues on to plain, empty-shell marriages, tasteless work and grouchy old age.

Some part of every one’s life is spent in a ritualist way. Obviously, not everyone has the same dynamic life as Rebecca Black now, right? However, there are points in life which mark a transformation or a temporary transition. This occurs when ritualists have had enough of ritualism but instead of becoming revolutionaries, they become retreatists. Retreatists are people who ostracize themselves from society, disenchanted by the way it has condemned them to a failure.

It starts when we start differentiating between ‘us’ and ‘they’. It occurs when everyone around us just seem to have a better, more dynamic life than our own. For me, it was the feeling that everyone around me had more vibrant social lives, the feeling that having a girlfriend was everything, the feeling that school truancy was the only way to ‘fit in’. It occurs at a point when the rosy, serene picture of everyone being equal in society is smashed and thrashed by the reality of rampant social inequalities- when you realize that your buddy toured all of Europe but you could not, when you realize that your friend bought the latest iPhone but you could not. Thus, you start by blaming God, your parents, and then your friends, society and finally, when the blame game bears no fruit, yourself.

Our own brand of alcohol

Retreatists normally turn to illegal drugs, alcohol or smoking in the hope of artificially reforming their lives. Some of them do gain better lives, and are readily accepted in society’s most prestigious groups, the gypsies, the drunkards and the stray dogs. Most others, however, kill themselves by jumping out of the window, during their drug-frenzy hallucinations.

We kids, on the other hand, turn to our own alcohol and drugs- we grab a bowl of chocolate ice-cream, push a few Fox candies into our pockets, grab a huge cup of Pepsi and set off for our rooms, never to return again, at least not until dinner is served an hour later.

We all become retreatists at some point
in life.

Ritualism and Retreatism aren’t essentially bad things. In some cases, Retreatism allows us to mature and accept society’s horrors with patience and resolve. I am just highlighting the fact that many people lead ritualist lives without realizing it, and often, denying it. And, ritualism will, at some point become retreatism. This is one of the harsh realities of life, regardless of how popular or ‘hip’ you are.

This cycle reaches its end when we realize that we have no choice but to conform to the way society is and become the slaves it wants us to be. Hence, we become ritualists once again, leading a life without animation and colour. And after a few years… ritualism becomes a pain, again.

What Literature Taught Me

“Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.” – C.S. Lewis

Literature, as Google Images
defines it

Few people admire literature- after all; literature is nothing more than idealistic philosophy, a bunch of complicated words, and a waste of our oh-so-interesting lives. Yet, I dare say I loved Literature. I loved every aspect of Literature, be it tragic poetry, comic prose, or a notorious Shakespearean play.

Literature enabled me to lay down my emotions, be it a surge of happiness or boiling anger, in mere words on a paper. Literature taught me that each and every word that someone writes has some emotion attached to it, and that emotion can be felt by the readers if they explore it. Literature allowed me to feel Thomas Hardy’s pain after he lost his wife (The Voice), feel the torment of Macbeth’s guilt after he killed Duncan, feel Amir’s joy when Sohrab smiled with him for the first time (The Kite Runner). Literature allowed me to delve into a whole new dimension, and experience things, good and bad, that I may never experience, in real life. You may have not been born in the Victorian era, but you can taste the agony of historical patriarchy through Jane’s harrowing journey in The Yellow Wallpaper. You may not have lived in Afghanistan when the extremists took over but you know how torturous life was, if you’ve read A Thousand Splendid Suns. You may not have been selected to fulfill a divine destiny, but you’ve journeyed the desert and felt the ecstasy in The Alchemist.

You don't have to be alive in the 1980s
to experience the Soviet Invasion

Literature taught me that nothing was black and white- there isn’t a good and evil, a right and wrong, a villain and a hero. It is all a matter of perspective. Shylock was the supposed to be the villain in The Merchant of Venice yet I did not feel so- I felt that the religious prejudices against him had driven him to this felony. Antonio was more of an antagonist to me. Literature liberated my mind, allowing me to look at things from the other person’s perspective, understand his/her position, and not make assumptions about people based on a few, often impulsive, actions. Brutus may seem a shameless murderer to many. But when I looked at the world from Brutus’ eyes, his action seemed rational and patriotic, it seemed like an attempt to restore the power of the people where a single man was assuming domineering power (Julius Caesar).

The forsythia plant takes a long time
to grow, and hence, symbolizes
anticipation

Look beyond the obvious

Literature invokes the ability to look beyond the obvious. In fact, it is connected to our everyday lives in so many ways. The theme of love, for example, used so commonly in Shakespearean plays is so pertinent to our world- we lose loved ones just like Hamlet lost his father, we experience unrequited love just like Pip never obtained Estella (Great Expectations), and we start loving the most unexpected people just like Benedick starts loving Beatrice (Much Ado About Nothing). Literature illuminates the mind to the extent that even ordinary objects and events around us seem so extraordinary. Literature taught me that even common things like forsythia plants, magpie birds, or the chilling breeze have some symbolism attached to them. Literature added colour to a world, which seemed grey and bland. The Third and Final Continent taught me how splendid it was for people when man first landed on the moon, a thing so trivial nowadays. Allen Curnow taught me how Time exists all around me, be it in a keyboard, a paper, a pen, or a traffic signal. The Lemon Orchard taught me how nature watches man’s every action, and the fact that we are so closely connected.

Literature is difficult to grasp, but once you get hold of it, it expands your imagination, enlightens your brain and enhances your insight, all with a bunch of verbose, yet meaningful words on a paper.

The Dangers of Optimism

Yes. The Mummy is coming
to get you.

I am a pessimist. When I look at the moon, I am not amazed by its romantic aura or its soothing light. When I come across an opportunity, I jot down the hundred problems that could occur. When I look at Pakistan, I don’t herald hackneyed phrases about a more patriotic and prosperous future. On the other hand, we have the optimists, or the bunny rabbits of Disneyland. When they see the moon, they compare it to the light at the end of the tunnel. When they come across an opportunity, they smile ignorantly and jot down the thousand things they will do, leaving everything else to Nature, or some non-existent natural force. When they look at Pakistan, they chant slogans about resilience, about being loyal to one’s country, about waiting and praying. Then, they return to their American homes.

Now, when you read the paragraph above, you considered it black and white. The pessimist is the villain and the optimist is the hero, assumptions created by the societal belief that pessimism is essentially wrong. “I’m sure everything will be alright”. That’s what his mom had said before the tornado struck and vaporized their houses, swirling them around like rag dolls. The story basically illustrates the fact that optimism breeds irrational idealism- that everything will be alright, that the future will always hold something better, that all that 

happens is for the greater good.

Don't try this at home.

History proves optimism to be mere foolery. In the 1940s, when Hitler had first emerged as the fiery, dynamically arrogant dictator, he had come into conflict with Britain and France. These countries warned Hitler to show restraint- they held talks, provided some incentives and followed the notorious policy of “appeasement”. Under this policy, these countries allowed Germany to fulfill some of its power-hungry, baseless desires for territory and authority. Both countries hoped that this would lead to better relations and prevent a conflict. But we all know what happened next- Hitler went overboard. If they had stopped Hitler earlier, they could have saved a million Jews, prevented a global brawl and saved historians the pain of recording millions of deaths. Think of it this way; optimism might have very well caused the Second World War.

When I talk about pessimism,
I don't mean this.

Optimism also encourages impractical assumptions. The US invaded Afghanistan in 2001, in the buoyant hope that they would kill the terrorists, establish democracy and return to their homes, with peace restored. Luckily, they easily managed to dismantle the control of the insurgents and create a government. That happened in 2001. The war hasn’t ended till 2011- 10 years of barbarian fighting. Over these years, more terrible threats have emerged, instability has spread to Pakistan and casualties have risen. Hence, the war in Afghanistan has been quite a failure, despite the rosy, deceptive picture politicians depict to the public. The prudence of the invasion is another issue- the optimism was the grave mistake.

Optimism leaves you vulnerable, like an open chest on your front porch. Failure hits hard; like an unexpected meteor, while you’re strolling in your garden. Moderate pessimists, on the other hand, are ready for what is ahead- they see it coming, so you can’t tell a pessimist, “I told you so”. They know it themselves. Most people face far more failures in life than successes, so moderate pessimism leads to realism.

Optimism isn’t a sin- but it entangles you in your Disneyland, full of free rides, candy, cartoons, and freedom. Once you get addicted to that realm, it’s hard to come out especially when Mickey Mouse’s face haunts you every night! So, be moderately pessimistic, and the next time you get an opportunity, grab a piece of paper, and start writing: “Possible Problems, Chances of Success are…” 

What is Perfect?

Perfection lies in the
eyes of the beholder

“Oh mom, this dress looks perfect”, cried out eleven year old Ayesha, with that wistful smile on her face. She lives in the rural areas of Keti Bandar, a major poverty-stricken village in the south. The dress was old; the colour had faded away and there were dirty, brown and yellow smudges near the neck. A small hole in the dress at the bottom had been patched up untidily and the threads were still protruding out. As Ayesha embraced her mom, tears trickled down her face. Her mom held Ayesha by her shoulders, staring at her as a proud mother would. Living with an income of less than Rs. 200 a day was not as easy task. All that overtime work, weekend maid-work and strenuous saving had led to this- they could finally afford a dress for Ayesha’s wedding. Yes, the dress wasn’t perfect, Ayesha thought to herself. Being perfect was never about being flawless. The perfection of the dress lay in the perfection of her mother.

If I have to define my life mantra, it would definitely be, “Be Perfect”. Perfectionism is insanely difficult to achieve and hardly ever possible. At the same time, what is perfect for one isn’t what is perfect for the other. I have always tried to be perfect- the flawless kind of perfect. I saw perfect as being good at everything, from school to home, from academics to sports, from scrabble to public speaking.

When you see people like Ayesha, on the other hand, you realize that something doesn’t have to spotless to be perfect. You clean the floor; you can literally see your reflection on its shiny surface. It has hundreds of microscopic germs you can't see, but it’s still perfect. You brush your hair; you look great in the mirror. Some strands of hair are still coming out and some of the hair is not in the exact position you want it to be, but it’s still perfect. You work hard, do what you can, and give it your all. You don’t master everything, you aren’t always the top scorer but you’re still pretty perfect.

She didn't wear this,
but you get the point, right?

The marriage happened in the traditional way. Ayesha entered elegantly and gracefully and stared at the gleaming lights, the multi-coloured drapes and the vases of flowers. The room was small and modest, and could only accommodate the family members. During the past months, Ayesha had rarely seen her mom at home. She came back late, all sweaty and exhausted and woke up early in the morning, and took off again. She didn’t tell Ayesha anything. She was hardly ever at home too, and the days and nights Ayesha and her mom had spent on gossiping about the dresses and decorations in local weddings had become more and more infrequent. Everything had changed since then- her dad had passed away in a violent coastal storm, and Ayesha had grown older- it was time she got married too.

Ayesha’s eyes were vibrant and once again, she embraced her mother with that wistful smile, “Oh mom, this is perfect”