A Wrong Choice

 A Wrong Choice

I had taken the wrong turn. I chose the wrong way, and it has brought me nowhere. I might have found myself at a destination had I not taken the detour. The detour provided a good aura and atmosphere, it was quite a pleasant journey, but I find myself lost in the end. Had I not taken the detour, had I not wanted to do something different and be different, I would certainly have found myself near an end today. The road wouldn’t have been easy, I’m sure. I would have faced a lot of problems on the way, but at least I would have reached a definite destination.

Reaching a definite destination was not important for me at that time. The journey seemed to be more important. Priorities changed with time; the importance of the journey didn’t diminish, but the importance of the destination, and the importance of getting there had been highlighted. The journey is certainly fun, traveling has certainly been a big joy, but the traveler isn’t rewarded in any manner unless he gets to the destination.

A lot of things would have happened in my life had I got to the destination by now: my life would have been quite different had I not taken the detour. It wouldn’t have been an easy life, I’m sure, but the challenges would have been quite different. An incomplete comprehension of these challenges appears to me to be what makes the route pleasant. On second thoughts, perhaps these challenges wouldn’t have been as tough. At least I would have found myself near   definite destination. I sometimes wonder if I wasted my time in traveling thought the detour. I did waste quite a bit of my youth this way.

The sight of young couples canoodling in popular fast-food-outlets reminds me of the youth I’ve wasted. They remind me of my incomplete love-stories. They make me think of Zeenat who would have been a reality had I not wasted my time. I hope some of the young couples so see a happy ending to their love-stories. Several silent prayers leave my lips when I come across a young duo chilling out in McDonald’s or Café Coffee Day. But I know only a lucky few manage to walk up to the altar and exchange vows. I salute all the young couples hanging out in parks who manage to see a happy ending, and even those who didn’t. I wish I could be a part of their happy journey.

The journey is in itself a big reward. I’ve been through the experience, and could give up a lot to be a part of the bandwagon of the youth again. Love certainly makes life the most beautiful of all experiences; it makes the world come to life again. The experience purges one of all evils: love leaves you as pure as a new-born-baby.

I feel quite bad when I think of the mistake I made: I made a wrong choice. The detour had brought me to no end, and I’m not sure how much longer I would have to tread on before I reach a destination. It would be a long time before I reach a destination. I don’t even know what the destination would be like. A wrong choice on my part has left me with a lot of unfulfilled wishes. I wish I had never taken the detour. But fate and destiny don’t leave any options of going back and correcting the path. So, I march on.

The Rebels

The Rebels

We had run away from home. Her willingness to elope reflected the magnitude of trust and confidence she placed in me. She had left behind the comforts of her home, and even the love and affection of her parents in the hope of finding the same security and satisfaction in my company. I salute her for this, this is what is called love --- she loved me.

Her love was never professedly declared --- it was implied and understood in whatever she did. Her deeds reflected her thoughts; she was thinking of me, I’m sure, as she sat kneeling on the floor near the window after the morning namaaz. She tried to capture whatever shreds of light and hope she could. The sun gradually gained power over a cold, gloomy and dark night.

Parental dissent and conflict similar to that between the Montagues and Capulets was the driving force behind our decision to rebel. The contention had assumed such enormous proportions that there didn’t seem to be a chance of our union. It was a night without end.

There has to be a way out, I thought. There is always an end to the night. The night can be very long, dark and cold, but it does have an end. But the night would never have ended had we not made a conscious effort to terminate it. So, we ran away from home.

She was a bit skeptical about it in the beginning, she doubted if she could find happiness after causing the displeasure of those who had cared for her since she was born, she had a dissonance for the novelty life would put before her, it would mean the end of the road for some of her dreams, and while many would still tread on, the most important dream of her life would come true. She had dared to see the dream with her eyes open.

Daylight was breaking into the room as she knelt on the floor. The sunlight gradually became so intense that she had to close her eyes. The closed eyelids concealed the eyes, but the dream still loved on in the eyes. I hope I can make the dream behind the eyelids, and many more dreams the eyes would see, come true.

I wanted the eyes to be the lighthouse of my life showing the way through the world. I wanted her hands to be the rudder of the ship of my life guiding me to success. She had left behind her world to be all this and more to me.

I too looked out of the window as she knelt before it. The night had been conquered by the day: the worst was over: things would get better now.

The Shells Of Time

The Shells Of Time

Her thoughts couldn’t be chained anywhere, neither in the present, nor in the past, particularly on a subject like me, for I was right there before her, commanding all her attention. Her heart sank within her even as she looked on. The embarrassment sunk deep in her heart; she could hardly stand before me.

It was evident that she still distinguished me by the same affection she harboured for me a couple of years ago. I didn’t doubt it. Women love with all their heart and soul, and it remains unchanged for a long time. Men are a bit different when it comes to this quarter. The continuance of my preference was uncertain after all these years. She had been elbowed out of my life before she could be my destiny. A lot of equations had changed since we parted.

Time and space change everything, and yet she was unchanged after all these years. In fact, she looked all the more beautiful. There was a hint of the early dawn in her eyes; a momentary blush appeared on her cheeks as she realized my presence. Apparently, she had me in her thoughts; the outlook was a bit altered now. I was not, and would never be the apple of those eyes again.

Her parents’ opposition to our alliance seemed baseless to me at that time, but it makes sense now. An unstable professional career faced me at that time. Fate had brought academic success prostrating at my feet, but I still crave for professional success. Things would have been quite different for both of us had I been professionally employed at that time. She would have been with me as my wife, the past couple of years would have witnessed an intimacy between us, and Zeenat would have been a reality. It would have been a different world.

But all this seems to be a dream today. Time moved on from that point and brought each of us before different realities. Sometimes I feel there are different shells of time, each running parallel to the other. There is a shell of time where Zeenat is a reality, there is a different time zone where I’ve escaped the car-accident without a head injury, and yet another shell of time where Ammi still lives.

The screeching of the door-bell brought me back to the reality. There never were different shells of time, there never would be. Life is to be lived as fate presents it before us, there are very little options. She stands before me affianced to someone else, I remain unemployed, Zeenat remains the dream she has always been, and Ammi awaits the Second Coming. But I thank Allah for all the dreams that could come true, and even for those that couldn’t. Time marches on.

The Second Coming is a poem by Keats dealing with the resurrection of Jesus Christ on The Day of the Judgment.