An Obituary of Dreams
As I was sitting in the Maulana Azad Library of Aligarh Muslim University, preparing notes for Urdu, which I study as my generic subject, someone whispered, “Ma Sha Allah” (“What God has willed has come to pass”) into my ear. I turned around to see the boy sitting beside me peeking into my notebook. For a moment, I thought he was complimenting my handwriting, though I am well aware that it deserves no such praise. I asked him, “What happened?” He replied that once he used to write Urdu in a splendid and unmatched hand. “How beautiful those days were!” he added nostalgically. He then requested me to let him write a sentence in my notebook. Complying with his request, I handed him my notebook. As he wrote, I was awestruck and flabbergasted by his scintillating handwriting, which resembled a meticulously crafted piece of calligraphy. Although I did not ask him about his engagements, his study materials suggested that he was a medical aspirant, toiling day and night to satisfy insatiable expectations.
Although this incident seems a dime a dozen, it conceals within itself the harsh reality of this cruel world. It beautifully encapsulates the horror of a life that demands sacrifice after sacrifice without allowing its inhabitants even a sigh of relief. A person gradually lets go of the things for which he once held an unparalleled passion. He is coerced by circumstances into pursuing something unpalatable while forgetting the ardent love he once cherished. Since time immemorial, this world has played ruthlessly with the emotions, depriving people of peace and contentment. Seldom do we find instances where a person continues to adhere to his deepest longings.
What he wrote in my notebook was nothing more than a sentence or two, but what those sentences concealed was a story that cannot be draped in the robe of words. As he wrote in my notebook, perhaps he had a flashback of his life’s journey. Perhaps, he boarded an emotional roller coaster and briefly revisited the ups and downs, the ascents and descents, the heights and hollows of his life. Perhaps, he recalled all those lanes and alleys he had passed through before ultimately finding himself seated in that library. Perhaps, he missed all those beautiful people, dear friends, beloved kindred, defeated dreams, and unfulfilled wishes that he had left behind. What remained with him now was nothing but memories. Alas! He is dead, though death has yet to reach him.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Opinion Desk.