Philosophy of Dream
It was one of those cold February moonless night, light drizzle throbbing in the quite dark street with barely breathing light from the lamppost in the street. My day started even before I opened my eyes. I had the feeling that it was just before dawn when I saw her. I don’t remember her face but I remember her curves and edges quite vividly. I believe she was playing with me. She wanted me as much as I wanted her, maybe more. She understands very well that the anticipation makes the pleasure more intense. She wanted me to open my eyes so that she could look into my eyes. I just wanted to drink the wine from her eyes. She’s quite a romantic. She herself knew that she was just delaying the inevitable. She didn’t close the door on her way out of the dark and damp room. It felt as I woke up from a deep slumber she was standing in front of me. As she saw me opening my eyes she walked towards me in the dark room with a little bit of light coming from the small window on my left, near the head of my bed. I was lying on the left side of the bed, my usual spot, closest to the window. She came closer to me with a smile wearing on her lips. Her walk had a look of remembrance. All I could see was her lips in the little light, thin and natural. As she approached me, the lips grew wider. She leaned on me just enough that I could feel her warm scent on my lips. I inhaled deeply, cherishing every moment with my closed eyes. She put her left hand on the right side of my head on the white soft pillow, with her left knee brushing against my left leg covered by a white sheet which I probably would’ve taken it because of the cold but at that moment when I was feeling her breath on the top of my nose and lips, I was feeling anything but cold. She tilted her head to her right and just the top of her wet upper lip touched mine. My eyes closed themselves naturally but I could see her smile broadly. As I was about to raise my head to kiss her, she withdrew from me and ran to the door. I followed her with my eyes as she approached the door. Her thin body dancing in the air. She stopped, her whole back to me. She looked back at me with her right hand on the door. The intense light was coming from outside through the opened door. Strangely, not a speck of light was entering the room. It felt like the light was made only to beautify her and all I could see was the silhouette of her whole body with clear curves and edges. I could still feel her smile. Still looking back at me she advanced her right hand towards me and signaled with her four fingers, tilting her face to the side of the door to follow her. And then I realized that it was her own light that was calling me. She moved away leaving the door open for me. Just an inch of our lips touched and I felt two universes colliding.
It had started raining heavily, with rain banging on my window. I was still lying looking outside the window. The room smelled of dust and water, a mixture of two different things forming a one perfect being bringing the fragrance of a known body. I think the rain was rejoicing knowing that I’ve finally realized what I’ve been looking for everywhere. And I woke up. There is a smile on my lips, and it isn’t my own. I am still lying on my bed, on the left side of it, just like always, holding a deep conversation with my heart. Let’s see what surfaces from the depths of this sea, let’s see what color the blue-sky changes into, the heart said. I guess everyone close to me understands my dream. I touch the empty place beside me on the bed and it was still warm- a familiar warmness. My tears are banging on the door of my eyes. It is daybreak, and the world of nature is becoming more beautiful with my own tears. I still know nothing about her, not even her whereabouts. But now I know the biggest thing about her with which I could recognize her anywhere, because now I know my lover’s lips. I wouldn’t be anxious anymore, nor helpless because I have a great responsibility on my shoulder, someone not that far away waits for my lips too. Now you are a Lover, not the one who laments but the one who carries both worlds in his hands. The valley of love is a long way away, and yet, at times, the journey of a hundred years is covered in a sigh. It’s the same day, but a new morning, the heart whispered. I look out of the window and new life is born. Winter is over and songs of life have come out among the branches again. That night will come again, washed clean with the moonlight and we shall whisper again with the gestures of our eyes. In the ambiguous dark shade of her hair once again her beauty will adorn the night. I inhaled my room deeply which smelled of my dream and reality, and whispered, “I am coming…”
On December 13th, 1965, a student filled with storm inside him was sitting in the Main Block-Basement number three of the Government College Lahore. The Gothic lady struck 12 o’clock. The lecture was being given on Pakistan Studies subject. Amongst fifty top students of this subject from all over Pakistan, the teacher asked the students to write an essay on the struggle of formation of Pakistan from 1867 to 1947. The students were allotted forty minutes to write a brief essay touching all the aspects of chains of events that followed after the war of independence, it’s after effects, and then the struggle of Muslim leaders and founding fathers of Pakistan and conspiracy and narrow mindedness of Congress and Hindus against Muslims of subcontinent.
Amidst those highly intellect students, there was but one student different from all the other students. He was different from every aspect. Even a mere glance was enough to see the difference. It wasn’t because of how he dressed, sits, talks, behaves but rather his eyes, his mind which didn’t belong to that room, his ears not directed towards the professors’ words of wisdom. He never took active part in the class debates, even after being told by the professor. Every question professor asked, he slowly looks up, wearing his hoodie and replied only three words, not a word less or more; I don’t know. He was physical present in the classroom but his soul was somewhere else, somewhere far, roaming, looking, always searching for something.
He just silently sat, head down, in the class and was always writing something on some crumpled pieces of paper. He used to sit on the last bench of the class, alone. He has that cold attitude in the class but whenever someone tries to talk with him, after class, he talks very naturally and normally, but he wasn’t a normal human being. Nobody knew what he wrote on those rusted papers, except for an essay he wrote, which will be read, heard, and praised for all the generations to come.
“Respected Sir, first of all I’m going apologize for whatever I’ll write in this assessment because I have no sense of respect for someone who doesn’t deserve it. Second, I have no idea what I’m going to write but let me assure you that, writing about all the aspects you asked us to write regarding the formation of Pakistan with a complete biased approach, as could be seen in your teaching, your body language, your words filled with hatred for the non-Muslims nation, it would be the last thing I’ll write. Holding an empty sheet of paper reminds me how difficult it is to be a God.
I may write irrelevant contexts but somehow, I’ll reach to some conclusion[s], whatever it would be, on whoever favor or side it would be, I believe that with all my heart, I have faith in my writing. Please try to bear it with me.
I’d like to start it with the books that are taught in Pakistan. They’re so biased and showed how innocent the Indian Muslims and how tyrant and cold-British and Hindus were in their behavior with Muslims of the subcontinent before the partition. They filled the hearts of students with hatred for those two nations who subsided in the subcontinent. I’ve browsed the whole of the sections of Pakistan Studies in the libraries but I could find nothing different, no truth. They are written by Muslim scholars. I’ve searched the Internet but I believe in the “factual” information as much as I believe in this course folder or library books.
Indians writers are lenient towards Hindus conditions and Muslims towards themselves. And about the British writers, they have no idea whats the truth. In the confusion of whats right and whats factual, the history or the reality is lost in between. We want to know the truth, in fact I want to know the truth, however sweet or bitter it is. It would be better than the back-stabbing knives of comforting lies. I guess nobody knows whats truth anymore. Everyone is content with these filthy hatred lies, it all lies, it all stank of lies. It’s all an illusion. It’s all a torture.
Every student, sitting in this classroom, would be writing whole heartedly of how we broke the shackles and worked hard, and after consistent struggle, and losing innumerable lives-martyrs, won this piece of land, that is as they called, Pakistan-Land of pure. The feelings and emotions of the Muslims could be found in different memoirs. Library is filled with them, believe me. I don’t believe that we won Pakistan, I believe it was being given to us as a blessing from the God-if only you believe in one. As every blessing ignored becomes a curse. That’s what really happened after the birth of Pakistan on 14th August, 1947. Pakistan: the only country in this entire world who was born on the basis of an Ideology-Islam.
The Muslims main reason to acquire a piece of land was, so that they could practice the rituals of Islam in their daily lives freely. That was the sole reason of the existence of Pakistan, to ensure Islamization. To build a country on the pillars of Islam.
We question our leaders and blame them for every mishap in this country. This reminds me of a famous proverb, “Rulers are infested based on the people nature.” I guess it’s true. We so need someone to blame and it’s so easy to do that. We celebrate with such passion-Independence Day, but we forget what was the purpose of creation of Pakistan. Do we follow the teachings of Islam, on which this nation’s ideology was based? Do we act on the advice given by the founding fathers of Pakistan? I mean how can one think to change the world without changing himself. How beautiful Pakistan was. Ah! I wish I could’ve seen it with my own eyes. I wish I could’ve seen how Pakistan started crawling after it was born. The sweet smile, the first word, the first step. I wish. I just wish all that. But there’s no use wishing something that is already dead. That is already buried so long ago.
The beautiful Pakistan died a heroic tragic death, a tragedy does not need to have blood and death; it’s enough that it all be filled with that majestic sadness, on 11 September 1948, just after turning one, due to tuberculosis and advanced lung cancer. Millions attended the funeral prayer. As for the question that where we live if Pakistan had long been deceased, I’ll say we neither live in Pakistan nor India, we live in a place called “Prison.” We were born free but everywhere we’re enchained. Time to time the caged bird may sing of freedom, but it will still live in prison.
As for me, I don’t belong to that cage. You ask, Who I am or where I am, well just leave me to myself. Think of me just as a boy who was so focused with the beauty of the rose that it forgot about its thorns. The boy who was so impressed by the rainbow that it forgot about the storm. The boy who was so afraid of the night that it forgot about the beauty of the darkness. My real self-wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly. Just leave me to myself because I am the hero of my own story, and I don’t need to be saved.”