The Sick Rose

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.


I should do it at a place where everyone can see me and is aware of my act. A busy road is the best place I have thought of so far. But the question of procedural details is a still little foggy.  I will use my father’s car. Its faster and better and newer too. But what about the gun? I know my father has a revolver but I don’t like it. It will not damage to a great extent. I will think about that later. I will do it next week. What’s the busiest road? I.I.Chundrigarh? No, no! There must be many people and the place must not be congested. And there must be a fly-over. I want to do maximum damage. Ideally, I would want to blast that whole structure down. But I cannot get hold of explosives or anything. If I had more resources I would have done many other things.I must do it when migraine is most severe. I will write the whole plan down tonight. There is only bee buzzing in my head now. How will everyone take it? They will think I am insane. But I am not, I am in my senses. I must write a note about why I did what I am about to do. I will clearly explain that nothing caused me to do anything. Only I did it. Just for my sake. Migraine is not the cause. By the way how will I ensure that migraine is very intense at the moment. Hmm. Yes! That’s it. Very loud music.

So I made the plan.

It will be a Tuesday, not because I was born on Tuesday but just because it cannot be any other day. Monday is my mother’s birthday and we are all going to eat out. I will do it in the evening just before sunset. It would be the Shahrahe Faisal. I will leave home at 5 0’clock. Go straight to Abdullah Salman and return him his book. Then I will take the shortest route which joins The Road. Abdullah lives in Bahadurabad, so I can easily reach The Road in less than 10 minutes if the traffic is  light. 15 minutes tops. I will tell Abdullah Salman to give my apologies to Mustafa Khalid for not attending his wedding. He will smile his usual happy smile and will tell me to piss off and not to worry. That will be the  last communication. I will swiftly run to get in the car parked in the next street. I will adjust myself and look in my eyes in rear view mirror and find that missing self-pity. It won’t be there. I will check everything, the gun (it will be my father’s revolver), the music disc ( it will be Junoon’s  Maza Zindagi Ka), the wallet, which will have my father’s contact number only. I will take a sip of water from the disposable water bottle. I will then break rear view mirror with a hammer and throw it out of the car. I must not look at myself after that.  I will switch the ignition on and press the gas three times, the last time for a little longer. I will drive a kilometre and then throw my mobile phone away at the nearest beggar, if any, if not, I will throw it at a tree.  The weather will be cloudy next week I am quite sure. There is a possibility of rain and I wish it rains on Tuesday.

Once I reach The Road, I will drive slowly on left. After the Nursery bus-stop I will speed up and the sound of the engine will fill my ears and the song on CD will fill my heart and and the rain will wet my soul and I will be ecstatic. I will remember for 5 seconds the day I was at the Grand Prix. Then I will shift the gear and the roaring engine will refresh my mechanical being. I will be driving recklessly now just to get way and reach the destination of my revenge against myself and all other innocent people whose crime will be to share my innocence and whose luck it will be to be there at the moment of my last race against time and every other lamentable thing which since the day of my birth, the day I had lost my mind, has played with my life in most detestable ways. I will assure myself in those seconds, of my sanity and righteousness by not thinking about my father and my mother and my God. I will continue to be heedless even in those labyrinthic moments of existence. When in full motion and highest speed, I will take the gun in my left and put it on my temple and migraine will be like roaring fire. and just before pushing the trigger, i will wish for a mirror too look at my eyes but I wont find it and I will move my finger in that state of frustration. The car will move like a violent spirit. Like mine.

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28 thoughts on “The Sick Rose

  1. what is this about bro? overdose of melancholic novels or still not able to find the pair of eyes that can look beyond your apparently ordinary existence? (good piece of literature but bad piece of thinking) sorry for being honest

  2. I am glad its not a personal plot against yourself. Its not a bad piece. I would say it is missing an element of genuine angst though. Something sort of solemnly tragic in the characters being that would draw us either against or for him.

  3. Haww! Well, relieved the plot was not you! And, there is a slight echo of a Camus level of writing – a similar feeling when I read his notorious ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’, somehow, your piece resonates his work. Hope you do not take offence if you’re not a Camus admirer, I particularly relished the element of being truly human in your piece – something raw and yet gentle. You must continue to pen – you surely have superb ink, unlike the ‘blood ink’ of my supply! Lol.
    Cheers.

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