A Dismal Life

By Nasiruddin Hamid

It was a gloomy little apartment, more like a hotel room, with one bed and a small, old-fashioned window near the door. On the inside, the door opened to the balcony on the third floor, and the whole city was visible in the dark, with lights everywhere. However, no one could distinguish objects or humans.

A man, no more than 35, was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. He wasn't looking very dandy; instead, he wore simple clothes: an old-fashioned frock coat, casual pants, and black leather shoes. The man was almost 6 feet tall, well-built, and muscular, but his face was rather pale and thin, marked by worries and weariness. His eyes were sunk into his head, and it was clear that what was once a beautiful face had aged before its time.

Beside his bed, a half-drunk cup of tea and a half-bitten muffin lay, along with a newspaper and a few other sports magazines. The top one was dated February 17th, 1925, which was three days old. The man was not ill or sick in any way, but he still looked awkward in every moment. He was lost in thoughts, consumed by the deep, dismal life he had lived—or was still living.

His heart was pounding like a football in his chest. He was afraid—afraid of everything. Afraid of the future, afraid of getting sick, afraid of natural disasters, afraid of the day, afraid of the night, afraid of everyone—even his own shadow. His unnatural fear cost him everything. His wife left him, taking their kids, because he was too afraid to let them leave the house or eat ice cream for fear they might get sick. Eventually, they did get sick—sick of him—and left him in even more fear. He was alone and afraid of being alone, but he didn’t want the company of others because he was afraid of them too.

He hadn’t always been this way. Once, he was a man of colorful life—a man of joy, amusement, love, and the true happiness. What had gone wrong, and at what point in time that he became miserable and gloomy in mind, like a log consumed by fire, burning away with heat?

His heart twists and turns; in one moment, it feels fear, and in the next, it feels peace. Now, his heart is at peace—yes, from time to time. He got up, walked to the kitchen, took a banana, peeled it, ate it, and then returned to his balcony to watch the sky—watching for some providence from a higher power. He prayed, asking the Supreme Power to deliver him, but suddenly, a thought occurred to him: doubt. The thought that no one would ever listen to him, because he is not alone in this world, living miserably in the pain of fear. There are millions of people suffering, but nobody comes to help them or rescue them. At least, he didn’t know anyone who had been helped or saved from drowning in their own fear. He went inside, sad and weary, wishing to die—but for some reason, he didn’t want to die. Then another thought popped up in his miserable mind: that there is a higher power that can save him. "But what is the need for him to be saved?"

He was dangling between many thoughts—thoughts of his own fears, thoughts of denying God, thoughts of denying God being a sin, thoughts of God’s existence and being more powerful, and the idea that denying Him is the greatest sin. He was confused about whether he believed in God or not. He was sure of one thing: his fears were getting worse.

 He dreamed of gaining superpowers, like the ones he had read about in books and novels when he was a kid. He wanted to fly, become invisible, and have the power to heal anyone, or have the strength to lift a train with his hands. These thoughts amused him for a while, especially when he was trying to sleep, but when he would wake up; these thoughts left him with more remorse and sadness than before. He knew there was no way out of this horror. Sometimes, he felt that only death could put him out of his misery, but then he wanted to fight—fight through the ways of horror, misery, and fear. He got up, took a pencil, and wrote a letter to his wife for help, but he didn’t know where to send it. Then he tore the letter, broke few things in the room, and felt relieved for a while before falling asleep.

By Nasiruddin Hamid