Irfan Ullah Khan
It was 5:08 a.m. on a cold winter morning. Shah lay awake despite his illness, unable to sleep or breathe comfortably due to a persistent flu. His coughing disturbed the quiet room, yet everyone else remained undisturbed in their sleep. Weak and yearning for water to soothe his throat, he felt immobilized by the biting cold and his worsening condition.
Unbeknownst to him, his mother, aware of his suffering, had prepared red tea for him. Spotting the thermos she had left nearby brought him a moment of relief. “God bless you, Mom,” he whispered as he poured himself a cup. The warmth of the tea eased his coughing, offering him a brief respite from his discomfort.
However, Shah’s struggles extended far beyond his physical ailments. He wrestled with insomnia, anxiety, and an existential crisis—burdens he felt unable to share with anyone. Living in a deeply religious and spiritual rural community, he found his concerns dismissed with simplistic advice: “Pray more; you are not praying enough.” To Shah, such responses felt like illusions. His logical and philosophical nature clashed with the prevailing beliefs of those around him, fueling his relentless questions: What is the purpose of life? How did we come into existence? Does life have any inherent meaning?
Determined to find answers, Shah turned to books and self-reflection. He did not merely ask questions—he actively sought solutions. The questions tormented him, yet he struggled to salvage himself from despair.
In his village, Shah had few friends, but he deeply valued those he did have. Among them, one stood out—a friend he regarded as a brother. Though they lived far apart, their bond remained unshaken. Loyal and supportive, this friend helped Shah emotionally, mentally, and even financially. They had met during college, and though their academic years had ended, their friendship endured. Their connection was so strong that even the friend’s family considered Shah one of their own.
Shah found solace in his group of six friends, all free thinkers like himself. They shared meals, books, conversations, and cigarettes, forming a camaraderie that brought him fleeting moments of peace. His philosophical musings often inspired their discussions, earning him the title of “leader”—or “Masher” in Pashto—within the group.
Despite these connections, Shah often felt isolated and estranged. He preferred solitude or the company of his benevolent friends. His favorite retreat was a quiet field near his village, where he would spend hours reading, writing, smoking, and reflecting. Yet, the judgment of society left him feeling alienated.
One evening, overwhelmed by life’s labyrinth of uncertainties, he called his brother. Though he did not explicitly express his profound despair, he broke down during their conversation. “Why does everything go wrong for me?” he asked tearfully. “I always wish well for others, yet misfortune keeps following me.” His brother reassured him with comforting words: “I’m with you, brother. Don’t be sad; everything will be fine.”
Shah’s outlook on life was bleak. To him, everything was temporary, and nothing held true meaning. He believed the universe remained indifferent to human existence, and all meanings were mere fleeting illusions. Yet, despite this perspective, he sought to live a good life—not by dwelling on the past or fearing the future, but by focusing on the present.
In his isolated room, surrounded by books, Shah endeavored to reconstruct his values. He had rejected old traditions and beliefs, but the task of creating new ones proved daunting. Like Kafka, who once wrote, “I have no strength to rebuild myself, and I am afraid to do it,” Shah feared the process of self-reconstruction. He had dismantled his old self but now struggled with how to rebuild.
However, just as he grappled with piecing himself back together, fate intervened in the most unexpected way, cutting his journey short before he could find the answers he sought.
One fateful day, as Shah was returning home from college, a tragic accident with a heavy truck claimed his life. He departed, carrying his unanswered questions and unfulfilled dreams with him. His friends and brother, heartbroken, gathered to mourn him. Shah had left one final wish: for his body parts to be donated to those in need. “Once I’m gone, my body will be of no use to me,” he had said. “But it could save someone else’s life.”
Even in death, Shah’s selflessness shone through. His legacy became a bittersweet memory—a fleeting light extinguished too soon.
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