“First comes country. Your first love, your first duty, should always be country. There is nothing greater than country.”

“Yes sir.”

When I was a kid, I used to be confused when he said that. Over the years, I began to understand why he said what he said. And now I believe in it. Country is always first.

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“Mashallah. Allah is good. Allah is kind.” The old man with the daughter had tears in his eyes. The daughter remained silent but a shy smile had spread across her face. The man with the son was smiling benevolently. The son was beautiful. The driver was looking through the rear view mirror. The bus was silent other than them. People holding their breath. The moments stopping as if they were about to clap. The bus drove on empty roads. The forest came nearer.

A man stood up suddenly. One of the bearded ones. One of the religious looking ones. “I am a maulvi. I will marry them. Now more people said “Mashallah.” Not just the two old men. What a coincidence. The two could be married now. The women had knowing smiles on their faces. The men were happy through their gestures, clapping one another on the back, and through their words, giving encouragement to the old men and saying thanks to Allah.

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The bus held forty eight people. He had counted. He looked in the rear view mirror. They were seated calmly. The girls in the front row, who had been talking so much and giggling endlessly were now silent. Maybe they were tired. It had been a long journey. It was half over though. At the same time, there was half to go. The bus still smelled. The other drivers had told him it would smell like home. But he had only been driving for six months. He didn’t hate it as much as he didn’t have a choice. There was no employment in the city. He had mouths to feed. Money was money, right? His mba didn’t help. All he could get was the job of a bus driver.

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The smile was forced. Soon it would not be. This was his automatic go to whenever he was afraid of showing the ‘appropriate’ response. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. There had been that one incident where his girlfriend at the time had been telling him about how one of her friend’s had to go get an abortion and he had started nervously laughing. Laughter is subtle. Everything is. She had berated him for laughing. He was embarrassed then. He was embarrassed now. Didn’t mean he would stop laughing.

The smile was forced. Soon it would not be. This was his go to response when he was afraid of showing the ‘appropriate’ one. In this case, that would be unadulterated - okay, maybe a little adulterated - fear. It was smooth. It was pretty flawless. He had expected some bumps.

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Cackling fire. Starlit sky. Quiet commotion. Lines of stolid subtle tents. The taste of the succulent meat of the barbecue still on his tongue. Warmth sleeping in through his nostrils. Fingers scratched by dust.

He stood staring into the fire, transfixed. It was alive. Red tongue slapped the thick logs. Their cracks glowed a bright orange. A groan and a huge trunk cracked into two.

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There is a rather popular saying that goes a little bit like this, “If you think you can do something or you think you can’t, you are usually right.” Belief is powerful. And in that same vein, belief is powerful. Let me take from the wisdom of that saying and give you another one. Ahem. Attention please. Here we go. “If you think you’re going to heaven, or if you think you’re going to hell, you’re usually right.” Radical, right? Especially for the radicals. I can almost see them with their orange, reddish tinged beards, I don’t know why they do that - is it some religious mandate? - I can almost see them cracking their knuckles and getting out their torches and sticks. If I must die for expressing my opinions, so be it. My address is ## #, street ##, phase #, dha. Psych. Even if I were to mention it here, I doubt they’d read. It would require an interest in fiction. And they barely read more than titles. Rushdie’s book was fatwa-d by the majority because of the title, ‘Satanic Verses’. How dare he? Must mean the rest of the book is like that. We can’t even be bothered to sparknotes it. If I live in this country long enough, I will get lynched. Anyways.

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The sight of garbage. The sounds of cackling. Loud. Rowdy. Smell of fish and rotting. Smoke wafting out of open windows. Clouds hanging low. Light peering in through cracks in the thick cloud carpet. The taste of biryani in that smoke. You could touch the filth and feel the area throbbing with life. Pure. Unfiltered. Merry. Life.

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In another house in Lahore that night, a boy was trying to sleep. He was a little nervous. He had had an altercation with someone else that day. Usually he didn’t care. None of them mattered. Well - most of them did not matter. But this person was also a huge landowner. And as a zameendaar, he had the same resources and guards and security that this boy did. So the boy was having trouble falling asleep. What if the other one sent some guards to his house to create problems. He had told the guards at home to watch out. They were gundaas, through and through. Big mustaches. Fat stomachs. The men themselves came in all shapes and size. The only things that remained consistent were the mustaches and that all of them had bulging stomachs. And. And the eyes lined with dark kohl, like mud beneath the eyes of soldiers in camouflage.

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They had been going to a party. Were supposed to hang out, all of them. It was late at night. They were on their way back. Loud, raucous. All in one car. The streets were busy - expected. It was after all, the Islamic republic of Pakistan. People were repressed, people were not allowed by the braying of the loudest and most dangerous, were not allowed to do certain things. So they pushed the envelope in the most minuscule of ways. They were out late and the streets were busy. Horns were honking, the sound was of life and activity. The seven of them were jam packed into one car. This was the way they preferred it.

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Why didn’t I save her? Why didn’t you save her? They would ask later.

The taller of the two was in a darkened room, empty now but for a few others. Most of the former inhabitants were outside, they would come in when the bell rang. For now, it was the smart, weird, quiet girl. She would help him win. He had no doubt. Around her were people that clung closely to her. She was shy, she was quiet, but she radiated power. This power was what gave him the certainty that it would be his. He thought of the man who was clearly the best, Aslam. He would beat him. Without a doubt, there was only a firm, silent certainty in his mind.

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On. He breathed.

Off. His heart thumped.

On. He gasped for air. Sucking it in like he wouldn’t get it when he flicked the lights off in his room.

Off. He couldn’t breathe. The air was constricting. Too tight. It would not come in. He felt sick in his stomach. He didn’t know where the switch was. How would he turn it off. He began to panic. He found it and-

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The rain was heavy. The clouds hung low and were pregnant with monsoon water. They were giving birth to it. The winds were spray and light. The water splashing everywhere. Cars trudged along, water sloshing in their wake and around them. They were half submerged. Water around the engines, the steam forming around the hood. Sprays and splashes on the windshields. Wipers working overtime. Up, down. Up, down. Clearing away the congestion of water on the glass eyes of the car, only to have more. More than they could do. But enough to be able to squint and make it through. The deluge was loud. Obnoxious almost. But nature can never be. It was soothing, lilting. Exciting. Blood rushing through the skin, eyes glancing with wonder. Except they weren’t. For some. In a car sat two boys. One on his gameboy, the other looking out the window without seeing. A father sat driving amidst the horns behind and in front and to either side. A mother stated out forlornly. Complete and utter silence.

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Acqlimia rushed through the trees. Her once pristine white gown was now covered with scratches. It was torn. Her face was streaked with dried salty tears and mud. Her once silky smooth hair was now scratchy. Her eyes were red. Rimmed with tears. The forest was dark. Her vision was blurred. Her heart heavy. Above, she could hear the elements fighting over the world. She knew it was coming. She had failed. She was losing her sanity.

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He sat sobbing in the bathroom stall. It smelled, he could hear the water in the urinals next to him, he could hear the water sputtering through the pipes. The floor beneath his feet was sticky. Mucus was building up in his nose, his cheeks were sticky from the tears. His face was heavy, his heart was in his shoes, he felt lightheaded.

The door slammed open. He stopped crying. He sniffed the mucus in. He could hear the piss, could imagine the drops falling on the floor. Did not hear the man washing his hands. The door slammed once more, squelching sounds as the shoes of the newcomer left the bathroom.

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The Fates twirl a ball of yarn. The yarn is the story of existence. They know what they hold in their hands. They do not care. They are moody, they are jealous. They are angry. They have no lives, no existence but for this yarn. Weaving it into tales. And they see the stories they watch over being played out in others’ lives. It makes them green with envy. They smell of rot and they smell of ambrosia. Their skin looks brittle and their skin looks smooth. They are at once old and young. Aged liked the centuries have ravaged them. Young as a baby just born from the womb. Their hair long and sparkling. Their hair old and rough. The Fates twirl a ball of yarn. Each strand a life, each strand a story, a universe unto itself. Their weaving goes on. They have no life, no purpose but this. Or so the story goes. Written on pots of clay, written by the first of the civilizations with foresight. They got the gist of right. They got the specifics wrong. The fates do not twirl a ball of yarn. There is none. There are three. They are not fates. Though I suppose

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He glanced down at the phone lying in the small cubby in front of the gear. The voice said calmly, loudly, ‘in two hundred meters, take a left.’ He looked up, he had come here enough that he knew exactly where he was supposed to go, yet he kept the directions on his phone on. Out of habit, maybe? He turned left, left hand on the gear, tapping the rubber handle. It felt smooth and cold. The rest of him was warm. His hands were cold. The air conditioner was blasting out warm air. He turned it off. His ears felt red. He looked out the window, bored. Stopped for a rickshaw that stumbled out of an impossibly small side road and sputtered as it trudged on ahead of him. The sounds of rickshaw and horns behind him, impatient drivers that tried to overtake them by driving in the lane going in the opposite direction. His tongue was patched. His lips felt flaky. It was cold outside, of course they did. The rickshaw turned into another road. He pressed a little harder on the accelerator and the car jumped forwards. One right turn and he would be on the road where he had to stop.

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Floods running amok on what had once been magnificent solemn gravel roads. Roads that had run like veins through the city that was considered the greatest in the world. Veins transporting blood to the greatest city in the greatest civilization in the history of the planet. Now it was a husk, a shadow of its former self. It was empty. Hollow. The sky was dark. Clouds hanging loud. Lightning flashed above the clouds. Sewage and rotted rodents. That was not new. Greasy oil pizzas. This city has been abandoned recently. Those who came here. Those who lived here. Not those who thrived here. They were of a hardy sort. A little flood never hurt nobody. Until it did. Carts abandoned. Overturned. Even after those who lived in single rooms with three other immigrants and sent back most of their earnings to their families in third world countries, dreaming of the day they could bring their wives and their daughters and their sons, how old were their children now. Their eyes welling with tears. Even after that resilient sort had left, there had remained another. Scavengers. Those who took what they could from the carts. Veering on the precipice between life and death. Some made it out. Others toppled into the chasm.

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Wind whipping around them. Reaching, but not touching. Whipping, raging. Angrily. Furiously. They say playing. The shadow rajah was not present. He was off to survey the land that would become his domain for the second and last time. No more would it be ruled be light. He would rule. The shadows were his. These people were his. Once they had been given a chance. They had now fully fallen into the pits of animal desire. They had fallen prey to their temptations, his temptations and no more would the Creator tolerate or amuse their little antics. It was done and dusted. He would rule. This would be his new dominion. Some shadows sat watching, slithering like kids with adhd. Unable to sit still, they slithered, smothering the ground beneath them. The board glowed with a manic light. It throbbed with an ancient power. It seemed more alive than the husks of men sitting on each side, long bony arms,

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The jungle was thick, canopies covering the sky above. Thick branches blocking routes, poking out into the forest, the hair of the trees hanging eerily down, thick, brown, strong. The mud was damp and sticky. The smell was earthy, with tones of green. The flow of water could be heard in the distance. They trudged along. Four women, three men. One guide.

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The sun was setting on a long day. Red, orange, yellow, all shades in between tinged a tired sky. Clouds were hanging low, but they were thin and wispy. The air was moist, and speckled with flecks of humidity. Lighting rumbled a little, but it would not reach its full potential. Not tonight. Tonight would be the kind of night that puts blinders on the hues of human activity, and hides them even from the sight of god above. Birds began to whistle frantic songs as they made their way towards their nests to where their babies would be waiting. The ground felt soft and numb, as if already asleep. The mud was deep and dark. Hiding secrets that would stay with it till the end of time.

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