Half blood

 Half Blood

It is irony that I am living. I am thirsty and the blood in my veins has got thicker; it can hardly crawl to all of me. I am losing the control over my body; it is playing dead here and there. Perhaps, my soul is angry at my physical being; my body, and it wishes to leave forthwith. Alas! I must have done pretty badly to gods that they had me sent here; in the family of consciously fear-breathing peasants. They breath little and brisk; for they have forgotten the very idea of abundance. They are afraid that the air might just deplete away. Oh I reckon! Their souls have been enslaved; chained to self-inflicted humiliation and convinced of being a low cast reptile. Oh God, why have you sent me here; my soul is nobler. I surpass their peasantry, Oh God, you have sent me wrongly!

Qasim was cursing everything that he had inherited; the list was not long though. He was a bright young boy, who was smarter than other children of his age. It was 12 years ago, when Qasim was pinned down in this damp hut of poor slum. He had always thought that he had descended into this mire from much nobler heavens. May be had done some wrong that displeased gods, at least it was what Qasim believed.

The slum included hundreds of poorly built huts and tents erected with rags and sticks. The fireplaces and stoves put in open near their lowly abodes. It seemed as if the world was inhabited by the people of different times; all at once in manifestation. Each age preserved by eternity for the purpose of record and realization. Though, the slum was notorious in one way, for in it lived the nomads of mountainous terrains. The slum was a century old and it was a legend, that they had their souls were in charge; they would break their bodies but would never bear to be belittled. They were ill known for their arrogance and stubbornness.

But the times passed, the newer generations grew fond of the ideas of comfort, luxury and leisure. Sooner, the body manipulated and distracted to the vey artifacts that its souls had warned about. The bodily form grew stronger and the arrogance receded. They had become aware of the soft silk, a full stomach and sweet fragrance. So, they sold in the bits of their soul for chunks of luxury. Their souls seem now rather enchained.

The slum was now inflated by the half blood opportunists; half blood was from their ancestors. By evening, they will gather and celebrate the holy feast of awakening. They would be baptized by the holy wine, to sedate their moaning souls. This was the epidemic that had struck the entire slum; save one. The one hut that remained was of Mukhtar Khan’s own; the father of Qasim.

Mukhtar Khan was a hardworking man who would toil hard to get some bread with butter. He was a strong headed man who would prefer to pet his soul rather than his body. But he had troubles at home; he could not bear to look at the hungry faces that he was responsible to feed. He carried it along while he went to work and more often had returned with the same burden; with added interest.

Qasim, on the other hand, was still wondering about why his father was such an arrogant man. He either does not find a job or looses it in a week or two; what a looser he had made of himself. Qasim could notice his neighborhood prospering and that the other children would buy clothes every summer, how lucky of them he would think. Qasim was upset and he would pity his fate and curse those who brought him into this mess. He always believed that his parents deserved it.

One day, Mukhtar Khan returned home with the burden of unanswered responsibilities. He had not found any labour for wages, since past three days. The family had been waiting for some food since past night. He looked at the stove, which was desolated and seemed waiting to be lit since ages. Mukhtar Khan entered the hut and sat down in one corner and started weeping.

Ghazala, Qasim’s mother, knew what had happened. She went over to her husband and comforted him. She would need to do it often with her empty stomach. She was indeed a strong lady who never complained. No one knew what dreams she had but the look in her eyes could possibly observe the very glare that could be seen over the sea, when the sun is shining bright.

Qasim, who was watching all this, angrily ran out of the hut. He was sobbing miserably and cursing everything that he knew existed. Back in the hut, Mukhtar Khan had started crying loudly. He complained to gods in between the sobs and said; “How god, how must I stand tall if you drag the very land that I step upon. Forgive me, for I can bear it no more. I am thirsty and my blood is getting thicker, it hardly crawls to all of me. Oh God, help me for I can not resist selling my honor for a loaf of bread and some wine to keep my blood running.”

Ghazala was comforting him while a tear or two dropped down his cheeks which she immediately wiped off. She did not wish to add on to the poor man’s plight. Mukhtar Khan after a while of sobbing and crying said; “perhaps, I must sell my soul, I must enchain it.” He wiped his tears and stood up with the determination to set things straight, once and for all. He briskly walked out of the hut never to return the same. He headed to the half blood’s feast.

Mukhtar khan had the blood line of the tribal leaders that once headed the tribe. The half bloods were surprised to see Mukhtar Khan coming. They offered him the seat and then chieftain of opportunists inquired what the matter was. Mukhtar Khan was embarrassed more for undressing his ancestral customs than the shame of giving up. He kept his head down and said; “oh my brothers, forgive me for I was led astray. I had paid enough already for the stubbornness that I wore around. Forgive me and accept me as your own.”

The chief jumped with joy and merrily announced; “Behold, we are now complete. All our tribe now stands here. The world has changed and so must we. Welcome your brother!” The crowd cheered Mukhtar Khan and congratulated him for his wise decision. A glass of wine was thence brought up stage and the chief presented it to him as a ritual. The crowd offered the toast to the success, and the wine had Mukhtar Khan for the first time. He was now a half blood; just like every other.

At the late hour of the feast, the food was served. Mukhtar Khan managed to hide few chapattis with some pickle and had filled his pockets with rice. Everyone was drunk and Mukhtar Khan hurriedly acted with an overdose of shame.

That night, Mukhtar Khan returned home happily. Qasim had slept after relentless complains of hunger pain while Ghazala lay folded in her blanket, still awake. Mukhtar khan kissed his wife and gave her food that he had stolen, or taken, he was not himself clear (so how could the writer be). Ghazala started crying hysterically and hugged her husband; it was the only time that Mukhtar Khan had seen her cry. She woke up her son and gave him the food. Qasim’s slumber was instantly repealed by the smell of food. He gulped every bit of it, while her mother continued to cry and eat. They had not eaten this much since very long...

Mukhtar Khan was so happy; the guilt and shame had been overshadowed by the delight of abundance. He had never been contented or proud of himself like this before. It was a strange feeling; prosperous inside the thick walls of his bodily fortress while he could witness a war being waged by the ancestral soul from outside.

The next morning, he was given work and paid enough to make both ends meet. He had satiated himself and the family while shutting out the voices that had led him all along in the past. God was looking at all this, he sometimes feared. He had lost the last man standing, he regretted awkwardly. His subject had now made a world of his own, and yet He did nothing for it, not until now to say the least, he wondered.

Time passed and Qasim had grown to become a strong and wise man. He had started teaching at the only primary school of the slum. People of the slum would often visit him and seek advice. However, there was a strange aura around Qasim, it was different and strange. He had two siblings; his father had wanted to have few kids after the family prospered.

One evening night, when his father was watching TV while he ate his dinner, Qasim asked; “father, we once lived poorly but now we have all. We buy clothes every summer and winter. I was just wondering that why you did not choose before what you did later.”

Mukhtar khan was suddenly caught with awe, and after a little pause, this emotion slowly turned into anger and then it was replaced with the bitter memory of shame and betrayal. Mukhtar Khan remained silent for a while, not knowing what to say to the boy who had become a grown man. So, he decided to tell the tale straight and said; “Son! You have grown good. Let me tell you the story that I did not dare tell before. But promise me, you won’t judge me by it.”

Qasim nodded in positive and his father continued; “Son, when you are at your own, you are resilient like a rock embedded in a mountain. But then you grow your family, and with it grows the craving for chasing your wild dreams as you desire; in the name of survival or honour. You know that your dreams are not yours own, it included what your family and beloved had dreamt last night. Dreams haunt you, and I submitted before them and could not conquer it. These days, I am at peace for I attend to the high toned celebrations to suppress the ancestral voices knocking at my door.”

Qasim interrupted; “could you not find some balance in both?” Mukhtar Khan was already ashamed and wished to end the discussion. He said; “My boy, the balance was not possible, for the tip is too smaller and sharper. You either could slide to one side of the mountain or the other. I had to sell my soul to get to the other side.”

Qasim knew that his father had become alcoholic and sometimes, would say things that did not make any sense at all. So, he took the dinner plates to the kitchen which had become greasy by the oily stains of curry. His father had bought these plates from that store of slum which sold used-utensils. Qasim did not know that the plates he was about to wash were previously served at the dinner table of devil. The god knew it but he had let it all happen. He did not do anything, if that is the least to say, he thought.

Many nights later, Qasim had a strange dream. He heard the voices from across the bodily fortress. A frame or two after, he saw himself standing amongst the shadows and hysterically knocking at the door of his own. And then it happened that this dream haunted him every night and other, wherein he was himself standing outside the safety of his bodily fortress. Many weeks passed, the light in his heart rekindled and he had started disintegrating the very shreds of crystals and metal armour that had ornamented his body. One after the other, the worldly prisms fell apart and he could see things as his ancestors had. Day by day, Qasim was losing interest in the luxuries of abundance, comfort and leisure. He had conceived a perspective that was as old as his tribal’s infancy.

Not months after, however, his teaching skills at school were questioned and people had stopped visiting him anymore. In those days, he was called by the names of arrogant and stubborn. Finally, he lost his job.

Mukhtar Khan was very upset that day. He scolded his son harshly and called him a looser. Qasim stood silent with his head down. It was then his mother intervened and comforted Mukhtar Khan by saying; “Oh my mighty man, don’t be so upset. Qasim is a young blood, do you forget your own time when you were his age?” Mukhtar khan calmed down and tuned the TV to a louder volume.

At evening, while Ghazala was making dinner at the stove beside their hut. Mukhtar khan went over to her and said; “I am just worried, where this young man is heading? He is just not responsible enough.” She replied; “Oh dear, all is going to be fine. I say, find a good bride for him and he will find some meaning of responsibility.” Mukhtar Khan suddenly wore a strange smile over his face and was instantly relieved. He kissed her and said; “yes, that might do the trick.”

From there on, the historians claim that the outsiders never succeeded to claim, what was previously their own. The voices shrunk to seldom whispers while the fortress had been built stronger, taller and well guarded. They now conclude the legend by saying;”the last kid and now a man has surrendered and now in these modern times of machines, what blood runs in veins, runs in vain.” While a few philosophers argue that it was not the hunger that killed the pure breed but the sadness that grew with it!