Unwritten

Jahrul felt tired.

He’d been trying to write something for the last four hours, but all he managed to acomplish was writing a few lines before throwing the papers away. Now he found himself staring at another blank sheet of paper, which seemed to jeer at his helplessness.

Jahrul Hoque, winner of the Bangla Academy awards for the last three years, felt helpless. It’s all over, he thought. Maybe now he’ll finally receive the long awaited punishment he’s due for.

He looked at the bookshelf across the room. Unlike most other famous writers, Jahrul kept his own books at the top shelf, where they were visible from all over the room. Their sight used to make him proud. Now all he felt was guilt.

But surely he had been responsible for their success. He had went from publisher to publisher, to have them look at the scripts, to have them publish that great piece of literature. It had been the greatest thing he had ever read in his life, and he wanted to share it the world. Otherwise it would have been left unread in a corner of that dusty old trunk foe eternity.

Jahrul loved the man who used to own it. He had been a friend to him; he had been a brother. He guided Jahrul through the concrete jungle known as Dhaka, and he had been an inexhaustible source of ambition to him. Right until Jahrul had stabbed him through the heart.

He was selfish. He was naive. Jahrul couldn’t handle it anymore. He loved the man a lot, but someone so selfish shouldn’t deserve to live. So he took the task upon himself.

But that was the past. Jahrul has moved on. He even named his greatest book after the man who actually wrote it. That way no one will forget his name either. Win-win for everybody.

Jahrul’s eyes darted towards the clock. The hands seemed stuck, unmoving. He’d need to change the batteries soon. But why was it so cold?

“Salam walaikum, Johaib.”

The writer froze. He hadn’t heard that voice in years. Nor did he expect to in his wildest dreams.

Has he returned?

“You surely haven’t forgotten me, have you?”

Slowly Jahrul turned his head and saw the faceless figure sitting on the floor in the dark. “Wh-who a-a-are..”

“I’ve come for you now. It took me a while, but at least I’m here. Look at the shelf, Johrul. How many awards do you see? I count three. Each for the three complete scripts you found in the trunk. But there were four other that were unfinished. Couldn’t you even complete them? Hah! You illiterate imbecile. How does it feel to claim credit for being awarded for something you didn’t do? Don’t you have any bit of shame left in you?”

Johrul sat frozen in fear. He could hear the unmistakable growls of anger in it’s voice. “What do you want from me? A public apology? My name will be stripped from it’s honor. I will be shamed forever!”

“Don’t you dare! You’ve shamed yourself ever since you put my name in the cover of your first book! Now it’s time you get what you deserve.”

“I made you into sommething!”, Johrul screamed at the figure. “You were nothing before! I’ve taken your work and given it the credit it deserves. You should thank me!”

“My work? Who do you think I am?”

As the figure approached him, it’s face appeared out of the dark. It was his own face.

“I am the real Jahrul Hoque. I’m not a fraud, or a liar. I am everything you once had hoped to be. Look at my face. Every word you stole from his work has left a scar on my skin. LOOK AT ME!”

The scars glinted red as the face distorted into a sneer, bleeding badly.

“He gave you a roof to stay under, he gave you food and clothes. And this is how you repay him?”

Johrul decided to escape. This is his only chance. He cannot afford to die now. As he tried to get up from his chair, a ragged black shape shot out of the darkness and pushed him down. His head slammed on the table.

“Tonight you’ll pay”, the scarred man said, “Tonight you’ll be punished for destroying ME!” At the last word, the dark figure drove a knife through the pinned man’s heart, the same knife Johrul himself had used once before in his life.

Blood painted the walls and the furniture. Yet the white page remained blank.

It remained unwritten.

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The Conservation of Happiness

You know how your mind tends to wander off on it’s own when you’re studying? Mine does too. Specially when I’m studying Physics.

There is that one set of laws that define our actions in this universe. The conservation laws.

Everything in this physical universe is a constant. So maybe everything in the other worlds work the same way? The worlds where words are the most desrructive weapons, and emotions run wild like a pack of wolves in the forest. The worlds where our minds rule, and happiness is wealth.

Maybe every psychological association with our physical counterparts  are also subject to such laws.

Maybe happiness is constant.

You hear about how the talented kid next door achieved brilliant results in his exams every week. And then you also hear about how sick your aunt has become, or the news of a funeral to attend. You wonder how one couple is happy and together, and another is on the brink of falling apart. And it all makes you wonder. Maybe for every smile there’s a tear shed. Maybe every pang of joy you feel brings sorrow to someone else. Because in nature, nothing is fair. Because in nature, everything has a balance.

Or maybe that’s not the case at all. Maybe the theory of conservation of happiness is as vague as the concept of happiness itself. Maybe I should research on it more. When I find some, that is.

Will you help me?

The Martyr

He knew he had won. The fight was over. He had succeeded in defeating the most powerful being known to man. All that was left to do was to finish it off for good.

He glided down to where it’s body lied. It was still breathing, struggling to cause more havoc in this world. It’s recklessness has taken away so many innocent lives. Lives he cared about.

As he attached the hook to its legs, Bruce remembered about Jack. Jack had been one of his most trusted employees ever since he took over Wayne Enterprises. He had been obedient and trustworthy. He had such a strong sense of responsibility that even in the face of destruction he had waited for Bruce’s orders on what to do.

But Jack died. Along with dozens of employees inside the Wayne Tower. Hundreds more on the streets of the city. And it has caused this. Jack’s blood was on its hand. And Bruce will make it pay.

The Bat pulled the body in blue by the wire attached to its leg. Bruce said to the half-conscious alien, “I bet your parents taught you that you mean something. That you’re here for a reason. My parents taught me a different lesson, dying in the gutter, for no reason at ALL!”

At the last word, the Bat swung the Kryptonian across the hall, making it so that it hit each of the stone pillars in the vicinity. The struggling body dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

The site of its helplessness reminded Bruce of his parents on that night. Their pleading eyes staring at the void above, as young Wayne screamed at the top of his lungs. It had felt like the sky cracked open, jeering at his emptiness. The rage wasn’t in him then.

But it was here now. The Bat’s eyes darted towards the Green spear that he had placed on the ground before. He pulled it out of the ground. The strange green glow reminded Bruce of his mother. Martha Wayne.

Young Bruce Wayne used to fear the dark. So his parents bought him a green aquarium that glowed in the dark, illuminating his room at night. His mother’s seemed unearthly in the strange glow; something not quite human, but angelic. One night Bruce had screamed when he found an ant inside his blanket. His mother hurried into his room to find the scared boy looking fearfully at the insect.

“Why are you afraid of it Bruce?”, his mother had asked.

“It reminds me of the scary Alien from the movies, mom! I hate it!”

“But Bruce, ants are gentle creatures. They’re stronger than they look, they help each other, and they’re very hard-working. In fact, ants may even be better than us in most ways.”

The boy had stared back at her in disbelief. But his mother had explained to him about all the doubts he had. And slowly Bruce understood. He respected the bugs, and everything they stood for. His mother had been the pillar holding Bruce up. Until the light had gone out of her eyes in front of him.

Bruce started walking towards its body. No more funerals to attend after this. No more aliens to bow to. No more lives lost. It’ll be over now. He had won.

The Bat stood before it. He looked at its face contorted in pain, and the sight pleased him. It deserved it. No, it deserved MORE.

He lifted the spear. It was mumbling about something. The Bat didn’t stop. He will put an end to this now. Once and for all.

“You were never a God. You weren’t even a man.”

It struggled a bit more.

“You’re not brave. Men are brave.”

The moment has come. The Bat is going to finish it once and for all. All these months of preparation and hard work finally paying off. He has won.

It mumbled, “Save….

The Bat prepared his hands to give the final thrust.

“.. Martha.”

Bruce Wayne stopped. The whole world started spinning around him. How did it know?

“What does that mean?”, asked the bewildered voice of Bruce Wayne. “Why did you say that name?”

“-find him. Save Martha.”

Bruce’s mind went back to the memories of that evening. Find him? But Joe Chill was dead. Bruce never got a chance at getting revenge for his parents. For which he pledged to fight against criminals with all he had. He didn’t want another child to feel what he felt. He wanted to make sure there were no orphans.

But the thought of death had always scared him. He knew what if felt like to lose people to it, to never get them back. That was something Bruce never wanted to be responsible for.

But then what was he doing holding a spear to the Man of Steel’s chest?

The Bat screamed, “Why did you say that name?”

“It’s his mother’s name.” said a voice beside the fallen god. The famous reporter from TV was kneeling beside it, holding it’s head in her lap. The exhausted voice said again, “It’s his mother’s name.”

Martha. A mother. It’s mother.

His mother.

“Save Martha”, it had said.

But Bruce couldn’t save Martha, she was dead. And he had knelt beside his fallen father, holding her head on his lap.

Suddenly everything span around him, except the vision of the two beings in front of him. Her face reminded him every bit of the grief he had once felt. Her eyes asked him the question he himself had asked the disappearing back of Joe Chill all those years ago-

Why?

But there was hope in her eyes too. He can still stop this. He’s the one killing people, not it. He’s the executioner, the final judge.

But he won’t be anymore.

Slowly the spear fell from his grasp, as Bruce Wayne stared at the body of the Superman, who was still breathing.

He couldn’t save Martha then, but he will now.

The figure sprawled before him reminded Bruce of the ant his mother had talked to him about. “There’s nothing to fear about them, Bruce. Despite looking like an alien outside, ants share almost all the characteristics that make us human.” To Bruce, the Superman had always been an alien who sought after destruction. Only now does he realize even the Man Of Steel had someone who cared about him. And the Batman will not be the person to take that away from Lois. Because he knows what it feels like. All these months of blinding rage had disappeared, and now he felt empty. As empty as he had once been on a dark evening many years ago.

They explained to him about the situation, and slowly understanding dawned on his eyes. He had a goal now. For the first time in twenty years, the Batman felt something as alien as the red caped figure before him – Hope.

He’ll save Martha. Whatever the cost. He won’t let her be taken away again.

A man on a mission.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(The Aftermath of the battle)

Lois held his body in his arms, sobbing hard. The world had gone dark around her, everything she cared for were gone. The other two felt the same. Even for the Dark Knight, the darkness surrounding them was unnerving.

He looked at the body of the man before him, and he felt despair. He felt shameful, angry at himself for not looking at things differently. The Superman had been an ally after all, as Alfred predicted months ago. In twenty years he had lost two allies, both because of psychotic maniacs with different goals in their minds. No. This was his OWN fault. His arrogance had led them to this tragedy. And he is the onely one who’s responsible for this. And he has to make things right again.

The Amazonian wondered what went through the Bat’s mind. She just had fought one of the toughest battles of her life, but all she felt now was a sense of despair. Looking at the standing figure, she understood something. He felt responsible for this. She could see it in his eyes. Maybe that’s what drives him to fight against gods and monsters. The feeling of guilt, however wrongly felt. That’s what makes him so focused. Despite her weariness, she felt admiration for the Dark Knight. And despair, because the god is dead.

Bruce suddenly realized he will have to attend his funeral. He had caused this after all. In the first funeral he had attended in his life, he had run from the yard, only to fall into a hole in the ground.

And after all those years, Bruce felt like he was still falling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(The Funeral)

“Help me find the others like you. They’ll have to fight”, Bruce said to her.

“Maybe they don’t want to be found”, she replied. They were standing away from the grave, looking at the broken figure of Lois Lane, kneeling on the ground. They were feeling it too, yet they didn’t know how to express it.

“Why do you think they’ll have to fight?”

“Just a feeling”, replied Bruce. He knew what had to be done. He had a feeling that Darkness was approaching fast. And that he’ll need all the help he’ll get. He felt motivation surging through his mind, created by what Superman was cherished for the most. Even in death, he radiated Hope.

Bruce Wayne strode off of the graveyard, looking more determined than ever in the past twenty years.

A man on a mission.

Rudder

My life is sad.

Before you click away thinking that this is another melodramatic confession of a lovesick emo 12-year old, don’t. My condition is worse than that. What am I suffering from? Nothing. Yes, that is my problem. I feel NOTHING. Nothing motivates me, indulges me, horrifies me. I don’t feel affection, or hatred. But what I lack most is my sense of direction. I can’t find the way that’ll lead me to my goals. Because I have none. I’m just a parasite, living off of my parents’ legacy, showing them false dreams of my future success. I’m sure I won’t have any. How can one be successful if one doesn’t know what he wants? If my life was a movie, some divine deity might show me a path through a 3D hologram or a letter in a bottle. But it’s not. How I wish it was! So yes, my life is sad. It’s sadder than the ones people lead in poorer conditions. Because even they have an urge to do something with their lives- whether it be work to earn enough to buy their dinner for the night or putting their children to school. I envy them. Yes, me, lying on my expensive bed and dark blue bedsheets, envy them. Because I want to be alive. I want to feel.

I want to succeed.

Will you show me the way?

 

The One you feed

The following extract has been taken from the pages of Mohammad Amir’s personal diary, as proof that the suspect was mentally unwell at the time of the assault.

~~~~

February 5, 2016. 01:00 am

Darkness. Fear. Pleasure. Death. Immortality. Pain. I stroke the tip of the knife, hard enough for it to pierce through. Blood flows down drop by drop as I stare at it. Then finally, something snaps inside of me. Smiling, I start clawing at my face. The skin peels off, pink, under the fluorescent light. The rage grips me tighter, as I start slitting my ankles. Ecstasy takes over my senses. I plunge the knife into the ins of my legs and keep sawing until they detach. They’ll grow back, I tell myself. They always do. Then I stick the knife inside my eye sockets. The world becomes dark. But I can still see. I see a shape. A face. How can I still see? Desperate, I plunge the knife deep into my head until it penetrates through my bald spot at the back. The shape is approaching me. The smile on his face grows larger by each step.  No, it’s face. I want to end it all. I plunge the knife through the centre of my chest. I fumble inside it to find my heart. But there is none. I threw it away a long time ago. The face is hovering directly over me now. Why does it have no eyes? Why is it so featureless? Featureless, except that smile. That smile I myself am so familiar with. The smug smile of a man who has just done the improbable, perhaps winning a case where the client was certainly guilty and making him free. It was my smile. I ask, “Who are you?” It says,

“I’m the one you feed.”

~~~~

HUSBAND KILLS WIFE AND CHILDREN, HANGS HIMSELF AFTERWARDS

Staff Correspondent, The Daily Mail, February 7

Mohammad Amir, a resident of an apartment house in Gulshan-2, is being suspected of homicide of his wife and children. The famous lawyer is suspected to have been mentally deranged at the time of the assault, despite attending an international law conference at Toronto a few weeks back, where the attendees claim that he seemed perfectly stable. The in charge of Gulshan Thana Police suspects that this may have been the work of a terrorist organizati….

“….seeing that the suspect has filmed himself and his acts on the victims, and the lack of evidence to support the involvement  of any person and other organization, I am bound to concur that Mohammad Amir is solely responsible for the incident that claimed the lives of Mrs Zahra Khatun, and their children,  Mohammad Sajid and Mohammad Farhan. The court hearing of 23rd March is adjourned.”

A figure rises up from the last bench inside the courtroom. Nobody really pays attention to the unknown figure, as everyone is discussing among themselves about how the promising lawyer had committed such a crime without any logical reason whatsoever. The figure steps out of the room, a hat covering its face. The face was smiling.

Transition

There are three kinds of people in this world. One kind believes that the arrival of a new year carries with it new hopes and possibilities. That it will open the closed doors of fortune to those who seek it, and bring joy and happiness to those who need it. They are usually very excited about the event and can be seen celebrating the occasion in various creative ways. Then there’s the group of people who really don’t care about such trivial matters. They believe that a new year is marked only by a presence of a new calendar on their walls. They like to think that fate and luck don’t depend on the arrival of a new year, or the passing of one. And then there’s the group of people who can relate to both ends of the sphere. Although the matter concerning whether a new year can bring luck and fortune is debatable, but it sure does bring new books and class copies for the students, a new year bonus for the workers, and another thing to look forward to for the hopeful. And as this year ends, let us welcome 2016 with hope, love, and sarcasm. Cause you never know what life will throw at you. * winks*

 

Adios, 2015!

Decay

Is the only proof you have the photos you two had together? How has everything you once lived for disintegrated into tiny shards of hatred? And at once you realize that everything has changed. The things that used to make your day are now the ones that ruin it. And as the feelings rot away, you’re left with two choices. Either to be hopeful that the sun will rise again, or to find another sun. A sun that will shine through the dark rooms of your past, a sun that will heal all the scars the monsters left behind. The past seems more inviting, as it is familiar ground to you. You made it work once, why not do it again? But you also know that things never remain the same.

On the other hand, the future holds new possibilities, new adventures. However many’if(s)’and ‘why not(s)’ it may hold.The choice is yours –

Hope or a new beginning?

You choose.

Broken

Alone.
It’s like waking up from a deep sleep. Wondering what had happened,what had caused all of this. It wasn’t meant to end this way. You were supposed to grow old together. Hand in your hand,as you watch the waves crash on the shore. You were meant to be,right? Everything was going your way. You couldn’t stop talking to each other,couldn’t stop staring at those eyes. You couldn’t stop dreaming. So why did it end this way? Now you look around and see the couples you used to make fun of happy and hopeful. You go through your news feed and their photos infuriate you,make you want to bash their heads in. They don’t deserve this happiness,you did. Right? And all of these thoughts make you forget your own faults. Slowly you realize it was all your fault. Everything that went wrong were the butterfly effects of mistakes you did in the past. And then comes the hate. You begin to hate your own essence,your own decisions. You begin to question your actions,everything you do in every day of your life as you ask yourself,”Is it worth it?” And as your conscience fades away,you become nothing more than a mask in the darkness. People say they know hate. But you know they don’t.

Because no one knows what hate truly is until they hate themselves.

Weakness

It’s addicting. It’s as fun as being chauffeured around. It’s just as sickly satisfying as watching a train wreck. No,it’s actually better. Because you get to experience it firsthand. You get to see all your hopes shatter, your dreams crumble to dust. You get to see the expectations everyone had from you turn into disappointment. And when it’s all over, as you’re lying on the asphalt with nothing to live for, you begin to think it wasn’t your fault. You begin to think that it was all part of a grand scheme, and that you’re just a pawn. It wants you to feel that way. It wants you to fail, and then say that it’s alright. You tried, you failed and that it’s okay. Then it makes you want to end it all. It wants you to jump the gun. Because it feeds on your very essence, you see. Your hopes, your dreams. And when you have nothing left,when you’re empty inside, it would put a noose around your neck and throw you off a bridge. Then, you’ll be nothing more than a tick mark on its To-Do list. Then, it will win.

Don’t let it win.