Writing: Hafiz Naeem Ahmed Sial
“You write very well.” As I was leaving the hall after the ceremony, a strange voice struck my eardrums. I cast a smiling glance at her and immediately lowered my eyes; she was a strange girl.
“I read your stories with great interest.” She was speaking slowly.
“Thank you, Madam.” Two words escaped my mouth. She was about to say something when I quickly moved forward without paying attention. I took out the bike and started it. Sadness spread across her face. Her eyes started following me, and she kept watching me until I disappeared from her sight. I was watching all this in the mirror attached to the bike. Her reflection was clearly visible in the right mirror. A blurry face, with questions in her eyes, she was staring at me. When I took a turn, her reflection disappeared from the mirror. Then I felt that if I hadn't taken the turn, she would have kept watching me.
What were the questions in her eyes? What dreams was she seeing? Why was sadness spread across her face? She probably wanted to say something, but I only listened to her two sentences, said thank you, picked up the bike, and left. "Was I so insensitive?" Suddenly, I had this thought while riding the bike, but I was helpless. I had to go back to work. I had only asked the boss for three hours off. If I had started listening to her, I might have been late, and the boss would have gotten angry. I had just gotten the job; I hadn't even established trust in this company yet, so how could I think about taking a day off?
Today, there was a ceremony in honor of writers organized by a national newspaper, to which I was also invited, and it was very important for me to attend. All the writers who had come from all over the country were busy chatting with each other after the program. The process of meeting and greeting was going on, but I came back without meeting anyone, and I couldn't meet those who wanted to meet me either. I knew that a large number of readers were eager to meet me here. A large number of people who read my writings wanted to meet me, and perhaps they come here for this reason, so that we can meet our favorite writers. That's why I saw some people coming towards me at the end of the program, but I quickly went outside. I had dashed their hopes, frost had fallen on their wishes, and perhaps that lady was one of them. Maybe she wanted to ask me how I write stories. She probably wanted to learn something, but her face was filled with sadness because of my inattention.
A window of the mind opened, and the doors of memories came out. A children's newspaper was in my hand.
Shagaf Adeeb's writing was amazing this time too. With his unique pen, he was not scattering words but pearls. From beginning to end, it felt like a garland of diamonds was strung together, word connected to word, connection with connection, the grip on the pen was such that the words were coming out automatically. A sea of knowledge flowed around him. Every time, he showed everyone the essence of his pen, bringing a new and unique style, and this style soon ruled the hearts of people. All the editors seemed eager to publish his writings, and he was writing wholeheartedly.
"What would Shagaf Adeeb himself be like?" This was the question that echoed in my mind. The desire to see him was stirring in my heart. Fortunately, I met him at a literary event. He met me in a very warm manner. These literary events are the only ones where readers and writers can meet each other. If these events were not there, perhaps no one would meet anyone. In this event, I had met my favorite writer, Shagaf Adeeb. He had read the question rising in my eyes.
"If a person works hard, he achieves everything. Honesty, dedication, the desire to grow, and the determination to spread his art take a person to the sky. Remove diseases like jealousy, dishonesty, and deceit from your heart and start fulfilling your passion, and one day you will become a great writer." These sentences of Shagaf Adeeb really became the guarantee of my success, and today I have also reached his level.
"Sir, sign this file." The peon came and shook me, and the doors of memories closed. I had reached my office. That lady was still on my mind. Maybe if I had said a few sentences like Shagaf Adeeb, she might have learned a lot from those words. Regret was rising in my heart. It felt like I had been dishonest. I had forgotten Shagaf Adeeb's sentences. I had not acted on his advice. Then, leaving without meeting the writers and readers present there had become a cause of embarrassment for me. I was feeling a restlessness in my heart.
This was the state of my heart until I returned home. The award I received from the ceremony felt like an empty piece of plastic, although it was very excellent, but perhaps I was not worthy of this award. I came to my room, put the award aside, and sat down to write a story as usual. I had to write a story every day. I had only written a few sentences when my pen stopped. The words started to get angry with me, and all this was the result of today's situation. Soon I made a decision.
Perhaps this world does not need artists, so the fire of hunger devours the art of poets, writers, and painters, because their stoves cannot be lit by their art, and they put down the pen and brush and pick up the hoe of labor. Art does not accept the imprisonment of compulsions but wants freedom, wants its own will, and I could not give these things to my art. I saw my pen for the last time, kissed it, and said goodbye forever.
“You write very well.” As I was leaving the hall after the ceremony, a strange voice struck my eardrums. I cast a smiling glance at her and immediately lowered my eyes; she was a strange girl.
“I read your stories with great interest.” She was speaking slowly.
“Thank you, Madam.” Two words escaped my mouth. She was about to say something when I quickly moved forward without paying attention. I took out the bike and started it. Sadness spread across her face. Her eyes started following me, and she kept watching me until I disappeared from her sight. I was watching all this in the mirror attached to the bike. Her reflection was clearly visible in the right mirror. A blurry face, with questions in her eyes, she was staring at me. When I took a turn, her reflection disappeared from the mirror. Then I felt that if I hadn't taken the turn, she would have kept watching me.
What were the questions in her eyes? What dreams was she seeing? Why was sadness spread across her face? She probably wanted to say something, but I only listened to her two sentences, said thank you, picked up the bike, and left. "Was I so insensitive?" Suddenly, I had this thought while riding the bike, but I was helpless. I had to go back to work. I had only asked the boss for three hours off. If I had started listening to her, I might have been late, and the boss would have gotten angry. I had just gotten the job; I hadn't even established trust in this company yet, so how could I think about taking a day off?
Today, there was a ceremony in honor of writers organized by a national newspaper, to which I was also invited, and it was very important for me to attend. All the writers who had come from all over the country were busy chatting with each other after the program. The process of meeting and greeting was going on, but I came back without meeting anyone, and I couldn't meet those who wanted to meet me either. I knew that a large number of readers were eager to meet me here. A large number of people who read my writings wanted to meet me, and perhaps they come here for this reason, so that we can meet our favorite writers. That's why I saw some people coming towards me at the end of the program, but I quickly went outside. I had dashed their hopes, frost had fallen on their wishes, and perhaps that lady was one of them. Maybe she wanted to ask me how I write stories. She probably wanted to learn something, but her face was filled with sadness because of my inattention.
A window of the mind opened, and the doors of memories came out. A children's newspaper was in my hand.
Shagaf Adeeb's writing was amazing this time too. With his unique pen, he was not scattering words but pearls. From beginning to end, it felt like a garland of diamonds was strung together, word connected to word, connection with connection, the grip on the pen was such that the words were coming out automatically. A sea of knowledge flowed around him. Every time, he showed everyone the essence of his pen, bringing a new and unique style, and this style soon ruled the hearts of people. All the editors seemed eager to publish his writings, and he was writing wholeheartedly.
"What would Shagaf Adeeb himself be like?" This was the question that echoed in my mind. The desire to see him was stirring in my heart. Fortunately, I met him at a literary event. He met me in a very warm manner. These literary events are the only ones where readers and writers can meet each other. If these events were not there, perhaps no one would meet anyone. In this event, I had met my favorite writer, Shagaf Adeeb. He had read the question rising in my eyes.
"If a person works hard, he achieves everything. Honesty, dedication, the desire to grow, and the determination to spread his art take a person to the sky. Remove diseases like jealousy, dishonesty, and deceit from your heart and start fulfilling your passion, and one day you will become a great writer." These sentences of Shagaf Adeeb really became the guarantee of my success, and today I have also reached his level.
"Sir, sign this file." The peon came and shook me, and the doors of memories closed. I had reached my office. That lady was still on my mind. Maybe if I had said a few sentences like Shagaf Adeeb, she might have learned a lot from those words. Regret was rising in my heart. It felt like I had been dishonest. I had forgotten Shagaf Adeeb's sentences. I had not acted on his advice. Then, leaving without meeting the writers and readers present there had become a cause of embarrassment for me. I was feeling a restlessness in my heart.
This was the state of my heart until I returned home. The award I received from the ceremony felt like an empty piece of plastic, although it was very excellent, but perhaps I was not worthy of this award. I came to my room, put the award aside, and sat down to write a story as usual. I had to write a story every day. I had only written a few sentences when my pen stopped. The words started to get angry with me, and all this was the result of today's situation. Soon I made a decision.
Perhaps this world does not need artists, so the fire of hunger devours the art of poets, writers, and painters, because their stoves cannot be lit by their art, and they put down the pen and brush and pick up the hoe of labor. Art does not accept the imprisonment of compulsions but wants freedom, wants its own will, and I could not give these things to my art. I saw my pen for the last time, kissed it, and said goodbye forever.