Wailings of a Terrible Joy - [A Short Story]

 

Wailings of a Terrible Joy

Lasting chimes of lonely McDougall as he awaits the silence eternal, wailing his story in the nothingness of Karachi where his family once nested strong. And it can be heard. Heard by anyone who dares open his heart to listen, but few of that kind remain.

McDougall remembered when this wasn’t the case though, as he came from the Krtkas of Karachi famous for their travels and stories. Their kind residing in the last greens of Karachi predating the city itself. Born to this bustling hub of a place accustomed to the air and the city’s shooing folks, McDougall grew up with dreams of travelling outside the usual confines of his bounded flights. 

And with his daily singing now wails McDougall the epic which was his life. He remembered Karachi, scrupulous turned to thievery, had smelt of money since his childhood. Everyone there always had something to do, and it was the busyness of people that kept them alive. Evil existed but of the business kind, and there was goodness too of the business kind. The city ran stitched by its sharp yet tender populace. This summarized the birds too of the once Kolachi. McDougall had been told by his mother, of the nature of animals of a region resembling its people.   

And spoke McDougall of the ‘wile’. That time in a birds’ life when it is handed to the wind. With his family by his side, youth running wild in his blood, a heart bursting with passion, time had come for him to explore the farther lands. The sky was calling to him, and he responded. 

McDougall set out along the S&K to the North. Food and shelter he had no trouble finding. The Krtkas’ never had no problems with adjusting of course. Basking in the freedom that he had found, McDougall flew. An expanse endless, over regions he had never seen before. He was fascinated by plains and moved by the mountains. Shocked from the new types of fauna he was finding. And types of people that were much different. For his first stop, McDougall settled Quetta.

Quetta he remained for 5-6 days. A city peculiar enough for him to stop and observe. It reminded him of Karachi and he soon figured out why as well. Quetta was a cultural hub too. businesses flourished there as well. Quetta, he found, was a unique integration of cultures but different from what he had seen in Karachi. Good sprang out of the cultural kindness, and so did enmities. 

Throughout his journey the best of McDougall’s munchings came from Quetta. The freshness and purity of that kind McDougall never came across again, and the memories served him as happy remembering. 

Wanderlust engulfed McDougalls heart as he set out further North. Accustomed to the hot summers, the flying was but enjoyment for the birdie’s heart. 

Village by village, town by town, similar folks different in sound, His flight across southern penumbra brought him beyond the southern banks of Punjab. Eenie-meenie-miny moing over the towns, his fa’als had him settle down at some village in between Gujrat & Jhelum.   

And to beheld, McDougall saw. Houses it would be a dream to find and live in Karachi. The most elegant architecture. Lush greens and swimming pools. Luxurious simplicity of the baffling kind. Just what sort of a village was this? What sort of people lived here? And McDougall looked around. Trying to find someone and looked around. And he looked around. He couldn’t see anyone. These houses, who lived in them?

And upon his confusion he heard a laughter which cried of sadness. “Chihir” it gave its name. Another bird who told him of the village “Baahirwaal”, where people once lived but resided no more. They had moved away to other places and what remained was only wishful walls for people to come back to. McDougall asked Chihir if the people that left ever came back. The response was “hardly”.

The life of the little that lived was simple. Self-sustenance and goodwill ran the society. A complete 180* of what he grew up in. Work was done in the morning and people slept early. A lifestyle Karachiites could certainly learn from. A few days of observance were spent in the region and McDougall continued his journey. 

His flight westwards, he started to find life instantly changing. Completely different people some of which he had seen in Quetta, were settled along a place called Badaber. Tenseness in the air, women fully covered, prideful men whose egos knew not compromise. Life so different an hour flight away... McDougall found the landscape to have completely changed and in a joyous disbelief posed the question to himself of whether he was still in the same country. 

Here McDougall witnessed faith he hadn’t seen before & violence he hadn’t seen before. Of his time spent in Badaber where he got to know of the tales of Shevchenko & Zubayr, and developed curious love for a new language he was hearing. “Akhtar” was his new favorite word. It was also in Badaber, he learnt that he had a heart too sensitive for his eyes. 

These people he found continued as he flied further. The people were same but it was the landscape now again changing. The same people with a similar language he found now occupied a heaven which he hadn’t seen before, in this region called Kunar.

His heart opened like it had never before. Such air to fly on and such fellows to hear. Freshness of flowing water and fine grain to eat. He had landed upon beauty. The family back in Karachi would never believe where he was currently. The morning of his landing was the best morning McDougall had had, but that night conversely was one of his worst. 

A realization that his body wasn’t meant for such a harsh freeze and the cold. That despite the beautifulness of the place, He wasn’t where he was supposed to be. That despite his wish to spend the rest of his life in this discovered heaven, his adaptive body maybe could survive, but not thrive. 

And with this change of environment, it dawned upon him that though he could be a roaming krtka for the rest of his life, his body and his spirit could never escape where he came from, for he was a captive of his roots. And he had roamed far enough. It was time to go back.

With a consistent journey of 10 days, McDougall flew back to his native Karachi along the same root he had come, across the same people he had seen. 

McDougall flew lonely with anticipation to see his family again. It felt like the longest journey of his life, carrying aches unimaginable and an eagerness folly. 

And return he did to his land of old, rightful to be called it his home, The Industrial Karachi, where he felt peace like never before. The sort of peace that comes only from familiarity. 

And with the biggest smile on his face, with the most exciting stories to share he came back to the very place where his family had once nested.

Now all ruined. 

The place was no more. 

Where once laid greens were now asunder. Only thing in sight were laboring men and machinery. No trees, no greens, but most importantly, no Krtkas. Had they all migrated? What had happened in the days McDougall was gone? Why had it happened in the days McDougall was gone?

A desperate fly over Karachi with a wail to find his kin. Unanswered. This continued for 3 days. At a spot near his once torn apart home now sat McDougall. And with no more tears to cry, and a heart which now despised flying, The lonesome “krtka” now sits and wails his tale to anyone who’d listen. 

<---------- The End ---------->