“IâĶ..Surrender,”
She gasped, barely able to get the words out of her parched lips before the shackles around her ankles broke and she fell to the ground. Her voice, a mere whisper as she begged for mercy in a boundless expanse, a desolate wasteland that seemed to stretch beyond comprehension. A barren canvas that had never witnessed any existence. Yet, she had travelled far and desperate to get to this desolate land.
Her fragile frame was marred by the scars of a prolonged journey, a map of suffering etched across her flesh. Her dishevelled hair was smeared with mud. Filth marred her features, her lips cracked and as blue as a forgotten winter. Her eyes receded into the shadowy hollows beneath her brow. It was as if she had clawed her way out of a grave, only to find herself in a cruel parody of existence.
Time and torment had dulled the once vibrant colours of her tattered clothes which clung to her body like relics of a forgotten tomb. Desperation gnawed at her. She was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and sleepy. But, finally, she was where she was supposed to be.
There was a time when she was an embodiment of nobility and grace with a regal air that demanded admiration. Her silky black hair akin to a silken waterfall, accentuated her wheatish complexion. She stood tall with a poise that graced her broad shoulders, her figure curvaceous, and her gait, as fluid as a deer’s, added to her allure, a testament to her innate grace. Yet, her physical beauty was not the only thing that set her apart; her gift for creativity and intellect endowed her with depth within.
An indefinable aura of mystique surrounded her, leaving people in awe, unable to put into words what drew them to her. She was a rare blend of beauty and brains, an enigma beyond comprehension. What more could she have possibly desired?
Her head remained held high, her gaze distant, seldom gracing those she deemed beneath her. “What lowlifes they are,” she’d muse, not sparing a glance. She strode with an unwavering intrinsic pride that defied all logic and reason. Without any validation, she believed herself to be superior. She had no inclination to market herself for the petty praise of worthless admirers.
She was a paradox, both the blossom and the admirer within her enchanted garden. The artist as well as the enamoured observer within her life’s canvas. In her life’s symphony, she played the roles of the musician, the conductor, and the resonant melody. As the author of her story, she embraced the roles of both writer and reader, an explorer delving into uncharted realms within herself. Within her sanctuary, she oscillated between the roles of the wounded and the healer. She was the culprit, the victim, the prosecutor, the defender, and even the judge of her morality.
She was a law unto herself, making and adhering to her own rules. Unconstrained by ethnicity or culture, she forged traditions unique to her. She harboured no passion for materialistic and nonmaterialistic desires. To her, the world was a collective cage, with the only way out being so deeply consumed within oneself that it transcended all external influences.
And now she stands, her once-regal countenance marred by the soil she now clung to, her forehead pressed against the ground, quivering lips escaping a desperate plea for mercy. “I surrender… I surrender…” she choked out. Dirt mingled with her sobs with each breath, but she repeated the words over and over until they became a mantra, a broken refrain that echoed like a lamenting child.
After enduring what felt like days of relentless weeping, broken by countless intervals, she finally sat in silence. Her vacant gaze seemed to pierce through to another dimension as if she might never return. In a moment stretched to eternity, she finally broke her silence in a hushed voice.
“There was always a scream. A bone-crushing scream that welled from within and shattered me, electrifying every nerve and saturating my existence. But, then it faded as if it never existed,” she confessed.
“I know where it would lead,” she murmured. “But, I chose to be ignorant because I lacked the faith and courage to follow it.”
With a heavy sigh, she continued, “Instead, I followed every other direction but the one that mattered, pretending to be the victim of misfortune, weaving a tapestry of complexity around me, feeding my ego with this charade. I used my intellect and creativity to create a false image, collecting praise that only fed my vanity. I held my head higher, oblivious to the fact that the very skill I was lauded for was none other than hypocrisy. I wasn’t just deceiving others; I was deceiving myself as well.”
“The more I got, the more I craved it,” she admitted. “This never-ending cycle of praise became an addiction, forcing me to create multiple personas to outdo others until these versions became a fortress with thick walls protecting my true self, a self I was too afraid to reveal to anyone.”
“Eventually, the suffocation became unbearable and when I attempted to break free from my self-imposed chains, a part of me, the one guarding those walls tormented and shackled me for ages. One day, I escaped, and I’ve been chasing the scream ever since, reaching this place, its origin.”
“I know whose voice it was. I know who âYouâ are, but now that I’m here, why won’t you talk to me, as you did to Musa?” she whispered with a trembling voice.
“Talk to me!” she screamed with the maximum strength she could muster, until the darkness enveloped her, and she fainted.
When she awoke, she found herself in her bedroom, her mother listening to the Quran Recitation in another room. A distant voice called out, beckoning her from beyond the dream.
âWe already showed them the Way, whether they choose to be grateful or ungrateful.â [76:3]
