Dr Mushtaque B Barq
Failure has never materialized as a ghost to me. It has rather pulled down the curtains of arrogance from my windows wherefrom the vast blue never opened its wings. The glass panes, like me, had but a myopic blur, leaving everything either in its shabby form or at times ruining the essence of completion. With every curtain buried on the lifeless floor, a verve in me, maybe an inner call or just an urgency to rectify the wrong turn, would spunk me with extraordinary eagerness to feel chirpy. Unlike others, the fallen curtain never irritated my eyes, never tangled my soles, and not at all bothered my interiors. I would say, “My backing will follow once you make a move, and offer justification for my support.” The deadly bundled curtain would never react like my ignorance. Like it, my own fall would never pierce through my lenses to encourage premonitions. My failures and the fallen curtain were two half-dead companions nestled in my 10 by 10 room. Most probably not as unwelcome guests, but fallen wings of an angel heading towards an unexplored world. My grandfather lifted the fallen curtain and, with a deliberate jerk, shut the west-facing window. The little light that once spilled in disappeared, and the room turned dim, almost airless. It no longer felt like a place to live, but like a confining cell. In that dimness, only three things remained: his guttural voice, his authority, and my failures — now confronting me together in the same closed chamber. Success never kissed my windowpane, for a rainbow needs a screen to lure the human eye. God knows what was in the mind of that carpenter who, instead of facing the sun, had fixed my window on the setting sun side. Owing to this reason, the sunset and my failures now shared gelid moments, like a cool breeze after a blazing day. A typical self-exiled state, just like one held in asylum not by force but by his own choice. Yet the musty smell of curtains and hanging paintings was too harsh, forcing my nostrils to open their windows. But the crimson at the horizon and my success were inseparable companions. In my 10 by 10 world, failures had occupied much space, leaving only a corner to let the dusk change the hues and shades of my different shades of failures. Nothing on the plate, an empty room, echoes of errors, and broken chair propped on pillows meant for the occasional guests.
The vibrant echo, like my grandfather’s guttural voice, was a common vibration to set my books in order. Ignoring an old man is as difficult as bringing the moon down at noon. His presence would multiply my penitence. To avoid his lectures and never-ending success stories of his youthful days, I would make him sit on the chair which by no means was ready to resist his bulged belly and huge body frame. To keep him busy, my hands would go around his calf muscles to roll them softly, which he was fond of. God knows why he hesitated to sit on the chair which had never comforted his back. The first thing he did was to lift the fallen curtain, followed by pulling the chair from its three-and-a-half-legged state. He called out loudly, which brought my brother into the room, and directed him to remove the chair. His authority cemented me behind the bed. The fallen curtain was raised, the window from the west side closed. The room could no longer be called a living space — it was a confine. With that dim room, with the only window already closed, the echo had long faded away, now that guttural voice, the authority, and my failures were face to face in a closed chamber.
“Your commitment to doing your best is something worthy which I respect,” he announced.
The word respect echoed in the room, vibrated my frozen senses, and moved my eyeballs to celebrate the much congealed flow. Tears eased my unrest and I wept with all my might, brought out the malice of my half attempts and partially planned policies. This was for the first time he allowed me to cry; otherwise, my little sob would melt him, but this time he stood like a stone, lifeless, merciless, and ignorant. His hands reached out to my closed book, he adjusted his glasses on the tip of his big and broad nose. The title wrinkled his forehead more than my wrenched heart. I thought either he had already read it or he had no idea of it. Old men are wise, they hide their nervousness and manipulate the surprises well. After all experience is the eldest son they rely on.
“Siddhartha, a nice choice. Who recommended it?” he asked.
I didn’t utter even a whisper. These rolling tears had equated me with Siddhartha, his journey in the novel just ended for me in the room with Buddha in front of Siddhartha in my feeble frame.
The sage pushed at the walls of my 10 by 10 room by encouraging my tears and silent sobs. Suddenly, I was a citizen of my own country, its north and south waving to my east and west. He smiled. His eyes through those thick glasses appeared like two globes, rolling and rotating freely to let me travel through them.
My room was changed; so was my mood. The sunrise now pulled at my cheeks so early. Siddhartha and my grandfather were two extremes of my newly found room which was earlier occupied by the old man. The submission shattered my failures into bits. Scars and bruises remained, but healing had begun. The only regret I was nursing was the novel he had taken for his own studies. I was waiting for the day he would finish it and share a hard stare with me. The reason was obvious: he would discover how Siddhartha seeks knowledge not only from spiritual teachers but also through direct human experiences. When he meets Kamala, the courtesan, she teaches him about physical love, desire, and sensuality.
Then one night I found the novel back in the room with a few notes on the back page reading:
“My son, sensuality is not shame if it teaches you a lesson of love.” In that moment I, too, like Siddhartha, understood — wisdom is not the absence of desire or error, but the grace we find within them.
Dr.Mushtaque B.Barq is a Columnist, Poet and Fiction Writer. He is the author of “Feeble prisoner, “ Wings of Love” and many translation works are credited to the author like “ Verses Of Wahab
