The Outsiders -
January 9, 2014. Midnight, clock out-of-reach.
It isn’t really that late, but almost everyone here is asleep. Covered under tonight’s blanket, they’re all searching inside their dreams. And I’m sitting here, scribbling outside.. my dreams.
A few cars still rush by, but the traffic isn’t noisy. The night is calm, and serene. It’s winter, so yes, very cold. But I like it. They all like it! Why, it was yesterday only that those four to five men sat by a fire on the roadside, the sky being their only roof, chatting happily. Happily, well, I hope. Maybe they were discussing life’s cruelties, or generally how busy they were during the day’s work, anything at all. I don’t know, I could only see them afar and wish they’d get themselves some hot cups of tea to feel better. Outsiders they were. Outsiders they’re.
Ammi‘s pink, pashmina shawl is what I’ve got wrapped around, to warm myself with. It gives me a cozy feeling, but the wind somehow still manages to seep through. And I like how they play- those chills- it makes me want to write, it makes me want to live.
Some crazy man shouted something down there. I don’t know what, or to whom, he just went away after that. A rickshaw honks somewhere, that too disturbing the night’s calm. Outsiders, how they leave momentary impacts.
Karachi is the city of lights, so it never really sleeps. But it’s probably too late now, because those lights that shone since hours on that tall building opposite from where I sit, have now been turned off. They were some tiny, colorful bulbs that decorated the entire building’s face, they do this every RabiUlAwwal.
Life is nothing without colors, colors are what bring life to life. But how we associate them for particular definitions! White is for enmity, but it also denotes peace. Such amazing antonyms they’ve grouped together…
He had once said, “Mout zindagi ki sab se barri muhafiz hy.” I didn’t know then what it meant, but it really puzzled me. Death is what ends life, how could it be a savior or protector, or anything that kind? He’s an old teacher, a strange mentor, Allah-walah. Outsider.
The sky is starless, the road’s almost empty. I must quit.
~ Previous night’s journal entry, because today’s prompt said so.