Death

January 25, 2021

I was at my funeral. My body was wrapped in a white sheet, some of my friends and relatives were standing there and silently looking at my face, of course, they had tied my mouth around my head with a piece of white cloth.

Still, I could hear what some were saying. Some said they were gonna miss me; another voice came by it said that I had been an idiot who believed in words.

Inside of me, visuals of my past that were coming randomly and hijacked my thoughts, I couldn’t even pick one among those random colourful and melancholic visuals, badly wanted to stick to, ponder on, no matter what it is. Still, I couldn’t come to my senses to pick one.

I thought about everything, my solitary moments, my night outs, my rolled up tobaccos, even thought about you. I was helpless, and nothing was ready to console me with its pleasures memories.

Nobody came to rescue me from that misery. All of them were standing there, cowardly, some pretentiously mourning for my death.

You weren’t even there to mourn for me.
I was all alone…
I was left to clean up my own mess!

One guy came he had been a good friend of mine, he whispered to someone that it wasn’t me laying in front of his eyes, he said I had changed and turned into a shapeless form, he even complained that in my last days I was different from what I used to be, I think he didn’t like me as who I was at that very moment, he expected me to be like my old days.

How can I be who I used to be when my soul had been sucked out? The last word he uttered was It is so disgusting to be seen as who I’m at that very moment, I know nobody could hear my cries, but still, I secretly cried for a soon burial.

I really didn’t want to leave this world and life bcos still I had plenty of things to do, but what can I do? I was helpless. I made up my mind that death liberates the soul from this wretched world! Sadly That excuse wasn’t potent enough to convince me.

Some priest came by, and he recited the Quran, and he said they would bury me after the evening prayers. Still, I wasn’t ready to wait until the prayer ends, because I was so vulnerable, hearing little talks about me from the people whom I loved whole my life broke me into pieces, I wasn’t alive to challenge them and their allegations and complaints, as I did most of my life when I was alive!

My funeral was a very simple one with a small number of people. I heard they served lemon tea; it was so strange, wasn’t it?

I didn’t think about everlasting eternity or anything. All I badly wanted was to escape from my funeral. It was so embarrassing to see urself lying there like a potato without any activities. Everything was there, the soul was also roaming somewhere in that room, but it didn’t have the desire to return to my body.

Suddenly I remembered your almond shape melancholic big eyes. Yes, I thought of you. I knew that there were no chances for you to know that I was dead because nobody knows your existence except God and me!
Would you have mourned for my death if u had known?

I tried very hard to regain my strength to face what I had to face, but every single attempt brought me nothing but failures.

I realised how weak I was in my life, my high sounding rational claims didn’t bring me anything, my conceptual theories couldn’t bring my senses back, I wished to die again, but you can’t die twice, can you? Dying is also a limited one as life; you can die only once.

I was at my funeral, all.
I wished was a soon burial!

Farhan Wahab

Farhan is a Blogger and Human Right Activist. His ambition was to become a filmmaker. After realising the fact that he was a bad storyteller, he writes articles. His articles mostly focus on current affairs related to politics and culture. Farhan is a lover of art and literature, and he admires the works of Milan Kundera, Charles Bukowski, Noam Chomsky and Tariq Ali. In spite of his hedonistic convictions, he politically identifies himself as a lefty.

Don't Miss

Karnan: Generational Awakening, Resistance And Emancipation.

Tribal self-determination is the logical endpoint of colonisation. Decolonisation

Portrait Of The Poet

Her hair Freshly harvested dreadlocks Unedited gospel of love