Lament of the group chat leaver.

mohabbat karne waale kam na honge

teri mehfil mein lekin ham na honge

-               Hafeez Hoshiarpuri

Translation:

You will never be short of people who love you

However, I will not be there in that gathering anymore

For the past few days, this above couplet from Mehdi Hassan’s smash hit rendition has been stuck somewhere in my heart, and keeps oozing out of my lips and ringing in my ears. Just like an adamant child throwing a tantrum, it does not budge off from there, follows me wherever I go, and I tried hard, but it just does not just go away. I think, this has to do with an old habit, and since old habits die hard, I know this one will not go away without taking a part of me with it, and when it does, I know it will end up hurting me badly.

Many moons ago, in one of my earlier lives, when the world was kinder and I was a just another wise old fakir, whose blabbering went unnoticed, I had, in an extinct language, once said:

“The bruises on my feet tell the story of all those beautiful places that I have visited,

and the bruises in my heart tells the story of all those beautiful people whom I have betrayed”

How true that saying was then, and how true that saying is even today!

How true, though I do not think anyone heard me that time, and maybe that is why no one used to judge me by my utterings. It must have been late in the evening and I was probably walking in a dimly lit deserted street with that quintessential bowl in my hand, singing my heart out, wastefully entertaining people with my muse; people who probably had better things to do, than to listen to my gibberish. Nevertheless, I kept doing that, while humbly accepting, thanking and blessing my almsgiver for not throwing their leftovers into the bin, but into my bowl.

Although that old fakir has died long ago and although his soul has changed bodies, gender and moved on, the core of it has more or less remained the same, albeit with time and along with the depletion of the ozone layer, this soul too is a bit adulterated. I must admit, that in this birth, I may sound suave and look classier, but I am also sillier and crasser than ever before. What I have gained in my appearance, I have lost in my outlook.

Earlier, I used to walk along the streets in my haggard, torn unwashed one-piece cloak, singing soulful couplets to naïve ears, while allowing them to accumulate punya in return to dropping a morsel of their leftover food into my bowl. I used to be stoned, mocked at and forbidden for my dirty cloths, the odor and those dread locks. No one paid heed to the words of wisdom that I poured out.

Nowadays, I strut with stylized swag, my face glows with artificial radiance, shampooed tresses sway in the air, and a fake scent gives credence and acceptance in this worldly place. I entertain my frenemies with my wasteful creative banter, and whatever is remaining of my dying cherub on the various online chat groups. I provide these so-called sensible and mature, friendly enemies with just the right amount of gentle banter to keep them cheerful during the drudgery called workday; load their weekends with juicy supplies of my antics to gossip on my back, all this; all while knowingly getting myself labelled immature, crude and lacking in etiquette.

I was never accepted then, and I still am not.

I guess it is time to take refuge in the first line of my long lost couplet. It is time to move on. Move on to another beautiful place, where again I will entertain people, just to end up ridiculed, punished, stoned, crucified and ultimately be praised and resurrected in absentia.

Yes, it is time to move on, not because I like it, but because my soul says so. My soul asks not for redemption, but for more pain and I ought to give it what it seeks, because only I can suffice my need for pain, no one else.

As I leave and go without any explanations, I know my chat buddies will brand me an absconder and accuse me of being a betrayer. Little do they know that a betrayer goes through more pain than the one who is betrayed.

If you are the betrayed one, the whole world around you, including time comes to your rescue; empathizes with your situation, helps you fight the pain, applies remedies to your bruises and carries you to healing.

At the same time, how harsh life turns out for the betrayer! How harsh, that the world that was once your friend whom you entertained and performed for, this same world now gathers on your back, gossips about you, mocks you in their little private parties and discusses stories of your leaving while you are left fighting your demons all alone, in solitude. It is harsh, because not only those exes, but your own soul, your own conscience, and the passing time, puts you to test; it fills you with guilt, kills you from inside, keeps the scars alive, just to remind you of your betrayal. How harsh. How so very harsh!

Time to leave. Time for more pain.