something about being friends

 

hoping you would understand the relevance of me
carrying a slight dash of your tears in my eyes
for a grief given to you to yet I cried…hoping that weeping for you
adjusted that atlas weight you carried…

chaptering on some faraway wishes, I thought we were “we”
did not mean to be just a “we” as a classical number pair
imagining that all this affection would not affect what I called “you”

maybe, you style in a way that means you are “hearty” with some distance
you congruent some distance to build an appetite, for maybe, you feel words
need to be stored to be used like harvests of  autumnal spring

but I don’t think we are always reading the same page with same accents
scuffing in my tongue becomes quicker, you bend your more sylph anatomy
you know the rush of adrenalines , madnesses and clean hearted work
maybe on maybe I am just too much of a child, for me friend is like skylines, an everyday…▬

Abbu, my Father, passing away.▬

Yes.  That is the reality I am made to  accept.  Yes. The reality is my father passed away. Abbu/Abba — the words in my language for “Father” — has passed away on the 24th  of February, 2015. Then a  friend in way of conversation had brought up something I forgot; I finished my education, gave my thesis presentation on the 24th of December, 2014. My Abbu was so happy he said “I will buy you what you want.” because I did well and I got a new desktop. I couldn’t even use it for a month.  My Abbu died before even a month happened I was able to use. He died exactly two months after I finished my thesis.

The word “Father” means a lot of things. We have our denotations, our connotations, our narratives — the word “Abbu” also entails the same concepts only “Abbu/Abba” allows formality of the title and the casualty of expression to coexist. Father does not entirely. Father has an absence and a presence demonstrating a distance either out of respect, fear, handling of authority, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera (My Abbu loved The King and I and he loved the actor’s acting of the king).  “Abbu/Abba” allows that Patriarch’s respective dues but allows an open narrative kind of like open source fonts. It is a fusion terminology that elevates the stature already pre established. The word equivalent to “Father” in Bangla is “Pita” but this is more of the vernacular’s written script and not a spoken concept. “Baba” can assuage its capacities and I hardly ever called Abbu Baba unless it was in a jokingly tone of endearment.

Like the mixed languages and syntaxes of how I spoke my  Abbu and I had this weird netting of a relationship. At times I became his counsel, other points (mostly, most of the times) he became mine. We became each other confidants. Assuring each other. Of trivialities, of seriousness, of chances of comedies and ironies that would iron out the banalities of life.  My Abbu had a bypass surgery 9.2 years  ago; this November would have marked his  10th year. Post-surgery and even pre-surgery my Abbu lived a healthy and active life — more healthier and active than his sedentary, daydreaming daughter. He exercised and ate well enough but also  gave more restrictions on himself than his doctors did. He was not happy that he had a bypass. He had diabetes before but did all that could be done humanly possible to exercise and eat with reason and combat his disease. He wanted to keep some of his life in his control knowing that all life is dictated and ended by Allah Almighty he also understood that Allah Almighty rewarded patience and perseverance. That Allah Almighty allowed some chances of our life in our hands as Allah Almighty is kind like that. At age 40 he also  developed pressure problems, before his bypass, and this additionally made him sad. Truth is both his mother and father side of the family has an umbrella of cardiac diseases and weight related diseases. My Abbu was the youngest in his  family.  I am too the youngest of my family (concerning cousins and even my only sibling). My Abbu had a younger sister but she died after 40 days due to my Dida (paternal Grandmother)  having developed high diabetes and unfortunately she inherited it via birth. All these genetical issues are a metaphorical cancer that kills you from the inside, gradually. My Abbu was at times heavily depressed that he had diabetes and said he wouldn’t wish it and this lifestyle on his worst enemy.

That is how beautiful, kindhearted, generous, open minded, benevolent, creative, intellectual, cerebral  and honest my Abbu was and is.  I am proud to know a soul, a man, of such caliber, who supported people, who wasn’t chauvinistic in the slightest, who had feminist but also masculinist ideals, who  cared for people socially and hated injustices and bigotry. My father was a great Muslim. He hated extremism, he  hated hegemony and useless hierarchies.He was also a just and great businessman. Who payed for some families entirely so they could support their households. Gave Zakat (religious mandatory charity for the well-off) and more than the prescribed amount. Helped orphanages and madrasas by not only feeding those children but also  buying them clothes. He never stole from anyone. He liked small businesses and hated the internalised duplicity of corporations. When I think of my father I think warm as honey and sun; not stern  but encapsulating stars of a million different nebulas. My Abbu is a diverse spectrum of light that could make envy many cosmos. Now  he is with Allah Almighty and surely all the angels think he is a large chunk of cosmic integrity, sagacity and warmth with the cool zephyrs of an universe in dance.

When I think of Abbu I think warm. Like the  blue you feel when you see a slice of sky half-asleep or after a well-rested sleep, where your consciousness feels complete. That warmth. My Abbu loved blue. I do too.  I also love green which is said to be Prophet Muhammad’s (P.B.U.H.) favourite colour. It is also  the colour of prosperity, verdian landscapes and all things in abundance. I hope my Abbu is  experiencing blues that our eyes can never see in this plane  of existence; that his immortal life of the Hereafter is so beautiful that no want is ever left incomplete or no desire is left only full but goes beyond completion, to an apotheosis that cannot be understood by us who still talk with mortal tongues and stand on mortal spines. I hope my Abbu is experiencing the Zenith of his Being and that he is enjoying time with Allah Almighty and many others.

Abbu is comfort to me. So all my nostalgia of him is comfort. He bought me things. He knew what I wanted to buy; no, it isn’t always  expensive things. Last vacation he insisted before I could say it, “Why don’t you buy those Hello Kitty plushies.” (not verbatim but what he said) That is an honest,  clean rib-caged hearted thing. He bought me the set because it was cute and something fathers like for their daughters.

You know what I will miss. The twilight-glowing late afternoons sitting with Abbu and us enjoying tea. Abbu and me. Juxtaposed like some alphabets in proper or messy tangible order. Perfectly written and spoken that no handwriting or font or vocal capacity can ever hope to fully replicate. Either he was awake or napping after the tea. Me on the  laptop.  Loving that day can be both bright and subtle. That is how Abbu was too.  And that is how  we are, together. It is just too intense at the same time so faint like  a sunspot that lands and flutters on a butterfly’s symmetry.

I was sitting on my Abbu’s chair a day or two ago. Reminiscing, in pain, palpitating, and this scene from one of my favourite movies and my Abbu’s  came… it is from The Yearling by  Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings:

somewhere beyond the sink-hole…
…past the magnolia, under the live oaks…
…a boy and his yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever. (https://prezi.com/ibu8eniu621c/the-yearling/)

That somewhat describes my feelings. It is  both sad but beautiful. I felt that come, and go and come back. The feeling of pure love transposed and transcendented time.

I actually had a experience in real life like that with my Abbu. Past 8pm in my neighbourhood when it was still non-cosmopolitan and more residential. Abbu coming out. Young and fit. I am but just a small fawn of around 6-8  years. Abbu asking me he is going to Filmfair: do I want anything? I say Beauty andthe Beast — he got it for me in VHS.

But as he was leaving to go. I saw his back walking.  Receding but also strolling. Into a darkness not dangerous. Canopied and veined by trees,  whose shadows chase each other as lambs in an open field. I was cycling in my bike  away.  Yet, I saw him disappear. Waiting for him to  come home.  With the tape but the tape is also his love personified. When he came back  we entered the house together.  Or a bit within some minutes.

That is a powerful memory Allah Almighty gave me. It is a beautiful thing that a language cannot fully explain so you must open all your heart, mind, soul and spirit to understand it.

May Allah Almighty Give My Abbu Jannat ‘ul Firdous (Highest Heaven,  the 8th Heaven). AMIN.

Abbu, one day soon, hopefully, under Allah Almighty’s Mercy, we will walk those silhouetted trees together again…▬

fighting and fight

tiddles of my expectations; ruptured like glass within glass, an imploding babushka-vortex
teeming is my rhythm of depression, like a knife that knows butter, knows the meat
sabotages the flesh, the artery, the blinking electrical impulses of a thing it corners as refuse
— it’s  my heart you bloody, selfish cancerous tumour that looks like an organic part of me
who refuses to shelter and instead makes bridges by my splintered bones; you capsized me
tore me from limb to node yet you refuse my simple, basic right to speak…you will now taste
my armageddon you tattered porcelain who preaches facetious causes I will cause you writhe
and rattle as the serpent you are — your apocalypse is not only salvation; I will know my sanctum
pure when you are purged from the altars of my consciousnesses;  my soul’s cathedral will know chimes.▬

Sometimes, suddenly…ceased…

You know somethings are bound to be finite, temporal and it looks at clockwise and anti-clockwise as intrinsically as a phoenix’s life cycle.  It is still hard to imagine why you were so invested in something when the investment, maybe not fiscal or economically measured as in with better libra scales on feelings, but pain is somethings not reductionist or reducible. A reduction of pain and hurt may mean something adverse but it may also mean that you are not knowing how to feel.

Nobody really coaches us on life’s relationship progress; it can go either way, have forks, have no forks, be a forked tongue  that swallows you whole or poisons you with preferences not your own. Even if someone tells you societal expectations and ideals the idyllic may say that it is a cheap whore at times and that it cannot be used over and over.

I am gaining unnecessary frustration due to unavoidable circumstances: I gaining fatigue.  My sleep is now more on an attenuated contract and my waking hours  has some episodic, fails that act like a dick. This has much to do with exploitative behaviourisms of people and also my inability to cut and cauterize parasitic leeches or even vampiric fangs. I am a bit confused at how to abandon someone/something without much blood-loss on both ends. It is like a war but not really; it is more like an impasse that reaches a rock and other rocks to me, and I am thinking am I wrong or rather do I love wrongly?

I love with an insatibale honesty. That is me. I love a bit more  freely than freedom in social etiquette usually allows; this is anything forcefully annoying but it is intense and desires a healthy proximity.  It knows when it is not wanted. It does not make pursuing stalking. It allows a chance of dialogue and if that dialogue is rejected it retracts and attempts to dissolve into fumes. It does not force and does not want to be forced.  I love and try to love with respect and allowances in eccentricities, introversions, extroversions, excesses or even strictness in personalities. My courtesy or voluminable honesty is not appreciated or returned. It is target of ostracization and suspect of “bad taste” or even “overeagerness” that is soon mellowed down by whatever attitude or straight-up hostile  badgering or ignorance/being ignored.

I have felt teary, genuinely upset when I felt slighted/ been slighted for no reason other than communicating an authentic interest in being friends or even by my flaws/mistakes which I earnestly apologised for. Truth is that people want all matters of understanding and appropriation from me but wish to castrate my identity, personhood and existence as a human being. No I am nobody’s saint nor do I have sainthood or masquerade piety on a golden plate with a silver spoon sticking out of  my tongue and mouth. I just notice that the amount of effort I put in even basic comments/conversations is not even met halfway by many people be this acquaintance or most people who claim to be my friends.

They will cajole me and claim that as I am their friend  or even communicating with them I am under some unspoken but legal obligation to give them the time of day, understanding, looking at things from their perspective, etcetera, etceteras, et all of the bullshit committee. Yet when it comes to me they can think they are entitled to bare their fangs, reach out and bite me with accusations or assumptions of my behaviour. If I acted out of their terms of polite homicide I am in for witnessing them spin shit on a fan.

I am genuinely emotionally, mentally and psychologically fatigued by this bullshit, self-absorbed attitude by many I see and interact with nowadays.

Truthfully, I am becoming inept or even devoid of feeling secure or even  comfortable of my own emotions/feelings because of those kinds of people. Decidedly I have conceded to be a bit nonplussed but this is not defeat or acknowledgement to their crapola yellow spined endeavours. This is just me breathing a sigh as a sign that game is on.

If you do not like someone or think you are better think again. Also ignoring someone shows fully that you are incapable of saying what you really think thus it is a coward’s vitamin pack. If you are constantly abusive and selfish it shows that your dictionary or vernacular is only filled with rust and germs out of some neanderthal skull-plate.

Me being sad is not a sign of you gaining self-importance. Me being sad is me being human. Me thinking of you as human and myself as human. It is me finally calling you out on your high pedestal bullshit and  liberating my human right to be appreciated and respected.

Of hypocrisies

Have you  ever stared down the barrel of hypocrisy?

I supposed I have on many occasions. It is not an easy thing to digest let alone stand but tolerance and patience can also be abused. I mean think of the mother/father, abusive, but easily retorts  to false claims of ownership, grandiloquent as they are,  on a child even an adult-child just because of biological or fostering equipments without much effort to be civil or even equivalence in the relationship.

Think about the mouth of a friend when she/he accuses you of unfriendly  conduct when for years you helped them carry their own weight as well as yours. Think how this friend easily counters  that the love you give them if you protest that their capacity for “friendship” is based on abuse and also unfair conducts aka exploitation of your feelings and efforts to retain a close bond.

Hypocrisy is  the elimination of questioning questionable conduct. It is the ethos sans pathos; the pinnacle of gluttonous lust over emotion-analytic and it is the systemic abuse of all sacred foundations or dynamics that you have held dear in a belief that the act of responses will have a shared mutuality. Hypocrisy eliminates even basic expectation but allows the over-expectation of “needs” and wants but only on a one path street. It manufactures a cul-de-sac for you but a freeway for the oppressor. Hypocrisy makes sacrilege sacred and sacrilege the sacred thus it is a crime. Yet it can be subtle and indirect, and its narcissism can also be camouflaged under guises of “benefits”, “rights” and also “duty” — it makes indiscriminate allowances to offenses but calls into the stand the  opportunity  to  discriminate its indiscretions or carte blanche. Basically hypocrisy is the sinner’s ouroboros and the saint’s  coercive chastity belt.

All these metonymies and metaphors  of hypocrisy are meant to not beautify it but obviously show that it eventually drowns in its own excesses. No one can be made a fool for long and even the classical play’s fool shows signs of enlightenment. The truth is that hypocrisy weighs itself on the scales of sympathy and constructed traditions of respect where respect is due out of necessitated obligation without knowledge, wisdom or even any egalitarian values as in hegemonized ranks. It wears a monarch’s crown as birthright so it does not espouse meritocracy and renounces absolution for it believes itself absolute and requires no reason expect impulse/instinct to proceed into action.

Roland Barthes talks about  myth as language, as a second semiological system that obliterates meaning from language and moves serpentinely by using language or even symbols as powerplayed images to  elevate, relegate  or even remonstrate that which may have originally or even contextually mean something else.  Myth as language engenders new artificial meanings into things for Barthes so in this regard his definitions of modern myth, as he puts it, comes also from the overproduction of cliched rhetorics and amalgamates that into everyday interactions to hegemonize language/gestures as a means to incapacitate the masses or non-elitist echelons that are not in power.

Hypocrisy uses this technique to its full capacity. Hypocrisy has modern day myth as its babe, its bitch, its bastard progeny. It is not ashamed of this incestuous union rather like a misogynized Lilith it embraces its role as fucker, fucked and will fuck/be fucked in the long run by the power-hunger fetish. Hypocrisy blooms in the emotional blackmail and manipulation of others and takes into its chaotic/nihilistic gonads a structural, ejaculative display of labels. Meaning it will use the excuse of “friendship”. “parenthood”, “freedom” even “intelligence” and “emotions” to silence any debacle related to it.  It will wear capitalist clothes but have a self-serving agenda and parade as a totalitarian but also subscribe consumer/industrial dogma.  It eschews from self-analyses and critiques because it wants to be able to say that it its rights that are violated or  being viable but will not turn the other cheek or even espouse the same/similar rights for others. This also extends to how the right might be the basic humanitarian understanding of respecting boundaries of a person or even just allowing a person their own free space.

It is sad that hypocrisy is so undeniably a freer agent than justice for in a world where  excess materialism and consumerism are the heads that do not roll you can be sure the hypocrisy has a nice seat. In a world where individual selfish and false sense of entitlements reign we can see hypocrisy flirtatiously flamboyant keeping egalitarian empathies locked away in some festering ivory tower.

So when we do look at the barrel of hypocrisy most likely we won’t be shot immediately or ever but we will be coerced to gaze  in its abyss and have a hazy outline of the arsenal; it will arrest our personhood but will become a symbolic identity in its own position.

Do I have things to talk about?

Contrary to how the world perceives content I think everyone, human or nonhuman, have a story to tell. I know that that story will be translated into a human scope in mind or human politics but still it’s a story to tell or write or something. A great point in case is the fantastic but not non-realistic novel called Black Beauty by Annie Sewell. Now though Black Beauty is the first novel I read I can say heartily that Black Beauty can beat Harry Potter and challenge Lord of The Rings easily. Though I love the latter two as well it’s just Black Beauty as a horse protagonist exhibits so many feelings that we don’t always see Harry or Frodo nor Bilbo exhibit.

 Frodo comes close to it but as his life in the books is shaped so much by the rings we do not always see him as anything other than the ringbearer (though I give props to Tolkien for making the generic “ringbearer” of legends who is akin to “best-man” in weddings have a heroic and versatile dimension). In contrast Harry is actually very generic at times; he doesn’t do much without an impetus and like a lamb accepts too much than he should. No, this isn’t about Harry in his Uncle and Aunt’s house it’s about Harry as a person in general. Harry is well pretty complacent about too much (fanfiction Harry is more well subversive in a harmonic or disharmonic sense mutually so). I mean he never understands Voldemort. I mean Rowling speaks of Voldemort as a villain but I do not see Harry understanding (not to say he should accept which he shouldn’t) why Voldemort hates Muggles so much. One may easily say its the difference or opposition but that is too simplistic.

You know a show that tackles this problem maturely albeit being a “children” sort of show is ironically My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Despite some of its obvious childish stuff it shows four species of horses who can harmoniously live together if not sanctimoniously. The earth horses are well without wings or magic but they are so crucial to the world of Equestria this is so distinctively shown in Pinkie Pie’s character. Pinkie Pie stands out because in battle or even in normal scenes she actually never trots normally (rarely she does). She hops as in playfully jumps and like some metronomic dance but also “chaos” she keeps it very poised and balanced. It is something actually difficult to do but she does it with class. Thus even the so-called non-flight or non-magic ponies as in pegasi and unicorns are still very important.

This was discussed in a Youtube channel once (I forgot which) but Muggles are valuable. They can do stuff that wizards cannot and can at times triumph over them. I know Voldemort as a child feared muggles much more than he let on. This fear was shown but Harry never ruminated on it. It felt kind of sad that he didn’t. I wished he did. In contrast Black Beauty thought a lot about things. He always thought about many things: both the horse world and the human world. He understood why humans and horses needed coexistence but also thought humans had no right treated horses as slaves. Also he never discriminated much against humans or horses at times he envied the so-called weak. When he and Ginger are not able to follow their families because they are too bigs and Merry Legs can, being a dwarvish pony, he does show that each size has its importance and place.

The reason I put up so many examples is to percolate the fact that boredom may also be in the eyes of the beholder. It is true that my life is not interesting as Aussa’s nor John’s nor Sarah’s but I think it has something to tell which in telling may become important. I know that the world prefers traveling or the spectacular but I can only give what I can give.

My honesty is my arsenal. I hope you readers prefer it too.

hoarding boredom

walked on crosshairs of boredom for too long
my ennui, my identity lapsed into one
like some landslide caricatured into thin lines
of a fleshy personality; yet I smile in tides
now I know why prisons wore straight lines.▬