THE MAN WITH A GYROSCOPE : Mujtaba Farooq

THE MAN WITH A GYROSCOPE 

Mujtaba Farooq 

 

“Do you have a cigar?” I asked an uncle sitting beside me on a train towards Ajmer. It was the summer of July, and the humidity could be felt in every void around—whether it was the echo of the train, the chatter of people, the screams of children, or even the cry of infants. Sweat had encircled its boundaries around my armpits and back, and I was exhausted in every possible manner. We had been in this for almost 24 hours, and it felt like a concentration camp—where, in the name of conversation, all you could do was discuss politics… politics that were never in your control, to which you were a slave.

There was an old man, almost half asleep, moving with the momentum of the train as if he were a child in a cradle. I didn’t want to bother him, but I had to—that’s what a man with nothing to do does. “Hello, uncle?” Probably he didn’t hear me… I called him again. Nothing changed. I tapped his shoulder, and he suddenly woke from a dream.

 “Hello.” 

“Yes?” 

“Where are you heading?”

 He was a bit confused, but he had more experience than I had, so he chose to be polite. “I am going to Ajmer.” “Why? Do you live there?” “No, I am going to visit the dargah.” “Oh, I’ve heard about it—and all the things done there,” I replied with enthusiasm. 

He smiled and said, “What did you hear?” I began to recite stories of charity, the amount of food cooked there, and the qawwalis echoing in its corners. Alongside, I shared the story of theft that had happened to us when I went there for the first time.

 “Haha…” he laughed. Old people have a mesmerizing smile… I could witness it. Perhaps it comes from their desire to live completely—to do everything with the same respect and energy, simply because they have lived more and realized it that way. 

“You have a great laugh, uncle.” 

“Haha… it’s been long since I heard that compliment,” he replied.

 “Aha, that means you were a heartthrob of your time?” 

“Well, there was no particular time, my dear.

 I always chose to smile in every situation, and therefore I received equal amounts of compliment and criticism.” “Criticism?”

 “They say too much smile reveals too much of you.”

 “Well… how is that bad?”

 “It depends—what too much you are.” 

“Such an interesting thought, uncle.” “Where are you going?” he asked.

 “I am going towards Jaisalmer.” 

“Aha… desert safari?”

 “Yes. Have you been to any desert?”

“I carry it in my chest.”

“Oh, uncle… you are good with words.” 

“Haha… I used to write when I fell in love.”

 “Aha… when was it, uncle? And how was it?”

 “My dear, that is a difficult thing to answer. I barely remember when I was not.” “Who was she, uncle?” “Haha… you people have confined this world to such limitations.” 

“What do you mean?”

 “My dear, love towards a particular person ceases its meaning. It makes one a slave of the delusion that he has loved once… or perhaps lived.” “Lived?” 

“Yes. There is no truer synonym of love than to live itself. That is the salt of your ocean… of your body… and,” after a pause, “of your eyes.” 

I could see his eyes turning teary. 

“What happened, uncle?” 

“That is what love does to you, my dear.”

 “What do you mean?” 

“Some things are better left unrevealed… so that we know they are. We have discovered a lot, and yet we have forgotten it—now or then. But something that remains unrevealed, unfound, undiscovered… it stays alive. More alive than what is revealed.”

 “All this… and that… is nothing but the delusion of the human race. We talk here with no purpose. I know you were bored—but that is how life moves. And sometimes, we simply and kindly surrender to it.” 

I was shocked and ashamed. But more than that, I was interested in hearing more. “You may be right for a short time, uncle—but for now, your statement goes against what I feel. I want to listen more.”

 “You will hear, my dear—not from me, but from everything. From the living and the non-living. From a man and from a woman. All you must have are two things.” “What are they?” 

“The room to hear… and the door to let the unnecessary leave. A room without a door is nothing but a coffin. But remember—nothing you hear or see should alter your morals or what you truly are inside. I believe everyone is a clear crystal. Be a gyroscope. No matter how the surroundings move, you remain stable. Always choose not to react. That is the principle, my dear… that is the equation.” 

“Equation of what?”

He laughed and said, “Not to feel or witness… but to be the love itself.” 

The train stopped, and its engine puffed smoke through the chimney—as if it carried the cigar this man had given me… a cigar of the unrevealed. 

Before he left, I asked, “Uncle, you speak so well—why don’t you write?” 

He smiled and said, “Maybe one day… ‘good’ will make me meet one.”

(The writer can be reached at mujtabajourno@gmail.com)