The Sins Of Originality

It starts even before when one is in the crib. The incumbent is expected to give a knee jerk to the human incubator when someone from the outside cajoles it. And if it doesn’t do so, out of it’s own sweet nonchalant will, the incubator is thought to be imperfect. Such patterns chase us all through our life.

A wayward child is made to sit silent and behave like a grown up. To be seated properly is a sign of a civilized upbringing and congrats to the parents for bringing up such a well-behaved child. Is a child supposed to act like a child? Or a grown up? Is it not denying the child the right to be true to his impish impulsive childish cravings?? And what is being proved by succumbing a child’s will to the “right & proper” will of his parents? A thumbs up celebration for the grownups for doing the job right, who have no other accolades under their belts except the conquering of the child’s mannerisms?

It is nothing except our fear of originality.

There is no greater tolerance, then to accept and embrace originality of the other without trying to tame it or mould it or conform it or amend it or correct it or alter it in any other form then it actually is. Because that is the denial of that person’s being. But that desired level of tolerance comes from the ability to accept, which in turn is derived by the strength of mind and character and hence rarely found?

Why is it so hard for us to accept the eccentricities of any person? Why do we have to evaluate a person’s originality? Why do we have to question the sanity of any man who tries to question the set patterns of beliefs? Isn’t this originality, the very essence of that person’s being, something that defines that person and makes him stand apart from others?

Isn’t the diversity of life forms the very beauty of mankind?

From the very tender ages we tame our little ones to become conformists. We cage their thoughts and provide limits to their minds. We teach them to walk; but not to run. We teach them to talk; but not to listen. We teach them to think, but never to imagine.

This adamant adherence to the status quo has become maddeningly suffocating for some selected few, those who have risen above the surface of conventionality, broken the boundaries and defied the limits. They are the ones who have chosen to think and imagine outside the box. They have dared to step outside the boundary, and looked inwards and thought, “What if”? They are the ones who have conceived the notion of, “Why Not”?

And what are the rewards for them, for those who have dared.
Social ostracism.
Character assassination.
Evaluations of moral standards.
Consistent “sincere” advices to return to the voice and reason of orthodoxy, insane though it might seem to the “Original” being.

ye kahaan ki dostee hai ke bane hain dost naaseh
koee chaarasaaz hota, koee ghamgusaar hota

[What kind of friendship is this, that friends are now advisers
Someone should ease my pain, someone sympathize with me]

And what is that original thinker forced to bear in a society full of traditionalists? He has to live a life analogous to the struggle and pain of a mountain climber. He is forced to appease the outer world and deny his own inner self the right to exhibit itself in its truest form. He is reduced to a pretension of respect for the bylaws and standards that he neither understands nor does he agree with.


He has to fight, and convince, and argue, and debate, and justify himself for being the way he is.
He has to ultimately apologize for acting the only way he knows how.
He ends up being sorry for not being anything other than what he truly is; an Original.

Such individuals live a life of continuous confrontation, starting from their personal lives at home, from their parents, to siblings, extending eventually to their spouse and kids (if they ever have one).

Socially, people either indulge them for the sake of little amusement and entertainment at the cost of their time and energy. Or people simply find them a social nuisance, they snub them and try and tame them.

People find it their moral obligation to probe into the individual’s life style and mind and question it and judge its propriety according to their own standards which by virtue of being widely accepted automatically are sanctioned as standard and approved as the higher, better and the correct way to act and speak and think.

The originals remain misinterpreted and misunderstood and ultimately live in an insulated isolation within themselves. Even those who claim to love the originals, are not much happy deep down so much so that they are actually ashamed of being associated with a social outcast. They fall in love with an illusion, an image, an ideal. To them the eccentricities are part of the charm that allures them to the Original. They temporarily become a pseudo-original whilst in valence of the Original. For them the Original is what they had always aspired to be (the rule-breaker), but could never be materialized. Secretly, they themselves yearn to be an Original, and it is this fascination that pulls them to the Original. That some way, somehow, some of the originality streak may brush off on to them. They long to draw some of the Original’s charismatic energy into their own worn out hearts and win some battles of their own.

But of course, it is all that they only think there is to it. Their mysticism of the Original is misconstrued for love. A vastly misplaced emotion which remains unreturned and unrewarded because the Original is too busy sorting out his own messed up life and priorities! Invariably, this high wave of so-called-Love quells down soon enough when confronted with the harsh realities of life and society which is in perpetual ailment of the incurable conformist mediocrity!

The Lover who was once enchanted by the lengthy diatribes of idealistic utopian thoughts is disappointed by the Original’s fall from grace, from the high pedestal where he had once placed his Demi-god. The irony strikes when the lover starts to mould the Original and tries to customize the Original according to his own wishes. In his own way, he is trying to “raise” the object of his affections in the worldly view; naïve as love is. Alas, the Original, doesn’t require the satisfaction of acceptance and certification of sanity from society. He is long past the need for that security! He holds a world within himself where he issues all warrants & licenses. The Original is therefore, nature bound to repeal the corrective, preventive, submissive, oppressive and regulatory advances of the good-intentioned lover.

The Original necessitates only to be heard and to be accepted as he is, not-impure; and to be loved and understood as an Original.

There is no guessing what the end to this Love-Triangle is!

The Original is forced to pay by bearing the pain of being a stranger to the one person whom he wanted to rely on without the fear of being rejected for being original. The price is to live with the loneliness while being in the arms of love which is doubly painful, as he is never understood or respected for what he actually is. He is punished to hide away his true self not only from the world, but from his own self as well. A sheer disrespect of life’s diversity!

 It’s a gross denial of existence. . ah, the sins originality. . .

--Scarlett

Eid Without Henna

Its Eid, the day of joys and celebrations. A day kids eagerly look forward to after the noisy and boisterous Shab-e-Barat. It’s a day of reward after the month long fasting.

Its especially grand for children. I remember as a child my parents used to get me new clothes and shoes, one for each day. My greatest worry used to be to get a fourth one and somehow convince my parents that a fourth day is a legitimate day as well. Unfortunately, fourth day was one of mourning, as it almost always turned out to be a school day.

But the night before Eid, that was a different story altogether.

Chand Raat, had more festivity than Eid itself. My father would take it upon himself to make the night the most memorable for us. He would take us to the well lit bazaars to get petty trinkets, rings, tops and all the gibberish in the world. Matching purses were a must, no dress is ever complete without a purse to go with it. And my dad would go all out of his way, and keep roaming with us till all the tiniest details for the next three days had been covered.

I distinctly remember one chaand raat, where I could not find the purse to my satisfaction. We went to two or three markets and finally ended up in the first market again. After reaching there, my mom refused to set foot out of the car. Apparently, I was acting all vain, and she was not having any of it. It was my dad who frowned at my mom for being a bad sport, and took me to the shops we had already searched twice! After roaming the market once again, I finally settled for the one purse I liked in some way. It was not perfect, but it was all I could do in the night.

Surprisingly, even my dad wasn’t satisfied. He offered to drop my sisters and mom back home, and take me to some other market and search for another purse of my liking. But I was tired at that time as well. And I quit the futile wish. My dad remained insistent nevertheless!

At 3:30 in the morning he dropped us sisters at some godforsaken parlor to get henna on our baby hands and dutifully picked us up henna and all an hour later.

On Day of Eid, post Eid Prayers, he would take us to a local bazaar full of local rides and we would gleefully shriek in the descents and gasp at their ascends. My father would wave from a distance and insist on taking us to all the rides available, even the camel and the horse ride. The drive back would include ice cream positively.

Finally around noon, my dad would be relieved of his fatherly chores and we kids would heap dead on our respective beds, henna, jewellery, flutes, sunglasses and whistles and all.

Eid is such an occasion for children. They look forward to it the entire year. They insist on fasting, hoping to get rewards at the month’s end.

At the eve of Shab e barat, they go out and get crackers. From that day, they start looking for that ideal dress, and matching shoes and accessories. The hair need to be cut just right to go with the outfit. Eid dresses are tried and tested till they fit just perfect. Colors and styles are discussed with friends.

The night before the Eid, Chand Raat, kids iron their dresses with more zeal than the whole last month. Dresses are laid down, their tags are to be removed in the morning. Shoes are put near the dresses. Shined once again for the invisible dirt specks. They await the mornings heartily.

Oh, but sleep is an evasive thing on such nights. To wake up to the sight of the new things, the gifts your parents have secretly purchased for you, to be given on the day. And to wake up to the gourmet food prepared with all the love and tenderness of your mother. And the joys of receiving Eidi, a cash that is to be spent during the course of the day on more festivities.

After all, Eid is a Joyous Muslim Occasion!

Today, it is yet another Chand Raat, my dad is still taking my 28 year old self and roaming with me from market to market for yet another trivial thing that I have left outstanding deliberately to get on Chand Raat with my dad, as per ritual.

Father is one figure around which the whole Eid event revolves. But as I relive the moments of my glorious past, I am jolted to the bitter present and the quetta blasts.

The news reads thus;

“The suicide bomber detonated his explosives outside the mosque in Quetta's Police Lines area where the funeral procession of station house officer Mohibullah was being held. The bomb went off as senior officers prepared to offer prayers for their colleague. .. SHO Mohibullah was shot dead by unknown gunmen earlier this morning when he was reportedly taking his family for Eid shopping.”

As I type this draft, I see my hands, no henna this time around. It would have washed away anyway while wiping the tears off the faces of the children who will not be going to Chand Raat with their Dads to finish their last of the Eid shopping. My henna would have washed away while consoling the crying child who will not lay out his Eid dress this night, nor will he look for the invisible dirt on his new shoes. He would be sitting near a Coffin Box, listening to the grownups cursing some foreign agents he had never heard before. He is looking for the right graveyard and the right cloth for Kaffan instead of matching shoes. My henna hands would have blemished the white of the untimely widow, who will spend a lifetime looking for the right answer for her child to explain why and for what Daddy missed all his Chand Raats and Eids with his beloved child. My henna would have faded into an ugly color while washing blood stains off the streets, and mosques and the avenues of my country. The color fades so soon, and there is so much of blood to wash away, it is

pointless to put it on in the first place. . . .

Yes, henna this Eid would be unwise. So would bangles. My children are weeping. . . their Eid has been delayed indefinitely and their Chand Raat has been tainted forever!
















Its a Scarlett Afterglow
--Scarlett