Hum Jiye Jaa Rahey Hain

Every passing minute seals its own existence. Never again shall that little piece of time breathe again. It hides in itself hundred stories. When a minute completes, it holds in itself a word, a sentence, a paragraph of millions of stories. It stores them in a very organized manner because time is a very good administrator. If you could go to the library of records of minutes, you find shelves there marked with names of places. Every book of a place will have chapter for each habitant. You could go to a shelf named Karachi. A minute has a unique way to label the shelves. It gives a colour to a place and every place within a place a sub-colour. The sub-colours merge and form the colour of the place. The minutes’ library has been designed in a way that the colours of a place depend on people’s heart. You’d say that this means all places are coded red! No the colour depends on the condition of people’s hearts. There are ranges of colours for range of conditions. Good people have red hearts and bad have black. So there are as  many colours as adjectives in local language of the place. Anyway, if you could go to shelf named Karachi (observe what colour it has), you’ll find many books. You’ll read strange stories in those books. In one book you will find that a woman is surrounded by men in a car in a dark spot at farthest corner of the beach, in another you’ll find a son kissing her mother’s hands. In one you’ll find a thief jumping over the wall of a mansion, in another you’ll see a little girl smiling. In one you’ll see an ill man moaning and in another you’ll see a baby being born. In one you’ll find many people with moist eyes, grieved faces mourning over a dead body, in another you’ll see a man tying a stone to his belly, you might even listen to his belly grumble, if you are a good observer. In one you’ll see a sparkle in the eyes of beautiful bride, in another you’ll see a tear in the eye of a victim of a man’s lust. In one you’ll see a little girl praying for rain, in another you’ll see a poor woman in a tent praying with utmost sincerity and strongest belief to Almighty to hold the rain and save her house, to hold His blessing. These stories could be in the form of still images or few sentences depending on which library you went to. You keep on looking at the books, take out some, have look at some, shed a tear at some, and smile for a while at others. This is the library of a minute. You can go to any shelf and find similar stories on dissimilar places. Human misery is same everywhere, there is only one difference, that of intensity. A country where all these libraries have been built is called history. You cannot find it on any map.

So every passing minute seals its own existence. I’ve thought of carrying out an experience one day. Is it possible somehow that for fifteen minutes, the whole city remains utterly silent? The winds stop whispering, the waters stop flowing, the people stop talking, stop blinking? There would be dead silence. It is middle of the day, the sun up at its best and it is dead silence. There is a big wall in the centre of the city , on this wall are hanging a million clocks and in the dead silence there is only one sound, sound of million clocks ticking in unison. I’m sure you have listened to the clock in your room tick on a dark winter night. Amplify that single tick and millions of those in the middle of the day in a mute city where the concept of sound has ceased to exist except for the ticking clocks. Everyday if we face such a situation we might be able to remember that there is something which we are gradually losing. We seem to have forgot about it. The clock hangs there on the wall, the time sleeps there in our cell phones and sits there on our wrists, we seem to have forgot. Sometimes I feel it is like a big big ship going on its maiden voyage. People on the harbour and people on the ship wave to each other.

Perhaps it is like that, a big big ship leaving the harbour on its maiden voyage!

 

 

 

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