ACT I
In the midst of all this quagmire, from the graves of the versions I’ve buried of myself, rises the still fresh and eager hope for love. I don’t know what to call this anymore, Romance? Lunacy? Unrequited love? Or desire? For a writer to run out of words to describe his agony is a special kind of trechery cursed upon him. I am fortunate or unfortunate to have this curse. I say fortunate and mean the comfort where we find ourselves — the familiarity of pain and loneliness — that we so quietly claim. I say unfortunate and mean the uncomfortable restlessness — the way the heart refuses to sync with anything other than the heart of the one it craves — And how we are helpless to the cure, or the cure is something we don’t want to reach.
It’s hard for me to believe that I’m the best at anything. And technically, I’m not. And probably never will be. Each time someone reminds me of how great I am, or how my work has moved them, molded them, convinced them into making some wild decision in a time when they could not afford a wild decision, just to give love another chance, it’s hard to believe that because I would never place my bets on myself. It’s complex, and very hard to detangle this lack of trust I have in myself and these words I’m writing. But love feels a little less worthy when I’m the one talking, considering all the times I failed at it.
I’ve failed in the face of love alot. I’ve failed in the faces of all the past versions of myself — those stupid romantics who would skip heartbeats over kisses. What it must be like for them to die loving someone who didn’t love them back. What it must be like for them to die being loved by no one. Fuck. This is depressing.
(this is the part where, as tradition, I ask you to play a song, so, play “Cuffin by Lonr.”)
ACT II
There’s a tragedy in realizing what you’ve been through and realizing that what you’re going through isn’t much better. In the winter of 2017, I wrote a letter to my future self about a girl and a heartbreak that was so tragic that I wished myself dead more than I wished myself loved by someone else. In the letter, I talk about a girl who is obsessed with literature, she reads a book in three days and writes fantasy like you’ve lived in a tree house somewhere in a forest at some point of your life, where pizza’s grow out of the earth. The letter declares my love for her, and how her hands are the prettiest jewels I’ve ever seen. In the end the letter says, “if you survived this, you can survive anything. Love you Ammaar.”
In the winter of 2018, a similar letter was written about a girl with curly hair and a weird obsession with samosas and rickshaws. This letter speaks of the crush that is eating me up, how I wish I could fly her to the moon, only to show her that everything is less beautiful than her smile. The letter does realize how foolish that is, but reassures that I will die trying. The letter says that I told her how I felt about her tonight, and she hasn’t replied eversince. It’s been three hours. As I wrote that letter, she did reply, saying, “I appreciate how you feel, but I think we should just be friends.” This letter ends on a similar note, “if you survived this, you can survive anything.”
I stopped writing letters after this perhaps. Perhaps it was pointless. I’m in the winter of 2021, with a wound I cannot show and cannot speak of. I read these letters and wonder how long does Allah intend on keeping me here. How much more can my heart take until it can’t take anything at all.
I hear my past selves screaming my name from their graves asking me to join them, but I also hear Allah telling me to hang tight, something good is coming.
And I then wonder, what if all the lovers of my past reached for me again, after all they did. I realize that if they did so, I would always reach back. I would always, go back.
ACT III
I had a flimsy relationship with Allah for the past few years, a fake relationship, dare I say. I never trusted him, never relied on him, never found comfort in his rememberence. Religion felt like a quixotic concept that’s blatantly assertive and requires too much of sacrifice. I felt distant from people who were religious, they seemed like some fantasy story tellers that had willingly forgotten reality.
I soon realized how religion and right are two different things, and how God is above it all. Has nothing to do with any of this. The assertive commandments soon seemed like advice, the fantasy soon became reward. And the distance between me and God slowly began shrinking.
They say that if you walk into a mosque at the right time, with the right amount of yearning and with the right amount of desperacy, anything your heart speaks is granted. And that’s what happened. Last year, I went to him and asked him for peace. I asked him to remove that which is keeping me restless and it was gone. One prayer, and the struggle of a decade of my life vanished. He made me realize how I got to where I am.
What I thought was freedom, turned out to be a عنکبوت (spider’s web) Allah describes this in the Qur’an, he says a spider’s web seems weak and flimsy, but for a prey to be stuck inside of it, it’s a matter of life and death. Only a miracle can save that prey. And a miracle was what I received. I was saved, gently placed back into my body with love and care. I fell in love with him that night, not only because he saved me, but because he saved me when no one else wanted me to be saved. Not even me.
The following months consisted of crying and weeping, confessing my love for Allah. This one time as I read the Qur’an, I came across an ayat:
إِلَّا مَن تَابَ وَءَامَنَ وَعَمِلَ عَمَلًۭا صَـٰلِحًۭا فَأُو۟لَـٰٓئِكَ يُبَدِّلُ ٱللَّهُ سَيِّـَٔاتِهِمْ حَسَنَـٰتٍۢ ۗ وَكَانَ ٱللَّهُ غَفُورًۭا رَّحِيمًۭا
The ayah translated: “As for those who repent, believe, and do good deeds, they are the ones whose evil deeds Allah will change into good deeds. For Allah is All-Forgiving, Most Merciful.”
This ayah made me realize that for the first time, someone is eager for my return, someone is glad that I have come to them. I wept for an hour telling Allah that I’m here, and I’m not going back, I told him that I love him, no matter what.
Now, sujood is a place where I’m most at peace. Namaaz is my meeting with my lover, and my heart belongs only to him. I understood the true meaning of submission. It isn’t the reluctant bending of the back, it is love. To sacrifice everything for someone who gave us everything, in the name of love.
It’s winter, the cold and unbearable yawn of fall blows into the empty spaces next to us. My birthday is around the corner and god forbid if I wish for anything this year. Birthdays have always served as reminders of what I don’t have anymore. Each year a new group of people gather around to watch me smoothly pierce through a cake I never get to eat. They wish me a happy birthday and happy new year, not knowing that the next year they will no longer be with me. It’s tragic if you think of it, how sad a birthday is for me, just thinking of the people who were here last year, and who decided to not be this year. Not celebrating my birthday is a blessing and is something I look forward to this year.
And yeah, it may be sad not celebrating your birthday, but like, who cares? Really, who does? I will say this now with the utmost honesty and sincerity that I do not give a flying fuck about what people think anymore. I do not give a flying fuck about what people say or gossip about. I’ve freed myself from that this year and I’m not falling back in. I’ll wear a hoodie over shorts and go out in the merciless winter of Lahore just because I feel fly and I’ll love it. Man’s got new priorities, my G. And he only cares about himself. Anything that jeopardizes my mental stability is not worth being here. And yes, you may say that it’s selfish, but I’ve cared and not been cared of enough to know that it’s a reckless bet to make. To give everything to someone and not get anything in return. Call it brown entitlement if you will, but I’m only dealing in mutual courtesies from now on. My unconditional love will forever remain with my God. And is shared with no one else.
Epilogue
I know what you’re wondering, reader. What’s the point of living if all living can offer is pain. But there is, feeling. Each heartache, wretched uncoupling and agonizing submission is an experience that you and I are fortunate to have. Merely one slip up of a plan would’ve meant none of us being here. These experiences mold us. They make us the most beautifully grotesque versions of ourselves. They make us dream. And that’s where I’d always place my bet. I’d always place my heart where there is no safe bet, that’s where I’ll feel my blood move.
In the end, I’ll tell you what I told myself:
“if you survive this, you can survive anything. Love you.”
