I'm not proud. Not acrid. Not lost my wit or manners yet. But some things I have earned with time that makes people say that Aamir is proud or acrid. Or if not these, then a word said by them is "Different". Time has made me a veteran soldier. There is something that I earned over time. This "something" is not one quality. It is a bundled "package". When night falls, and the DUNYA WALAY are asleep, this "something" keeps me awake. And all those bullet wounds the veteran soldier earned gets fresh again. The bullets are gone. But still my wounds are fresh.
There was a war. Fire. Smoke. Blood. Guns. Bullets. I lost alot i loved. They went behind a curtain of death. I could never see those faces again. Even today I'm thirsty for that touch. Aamir is just broken into so many pieces. I don't want to break any more. I can't afford. But even after such wars and bad experiences, I follow some un-written, un-said rules. The list is not long. But I would express only one rule. And that is:
"Not to show anyone the wounds I earned, not to tell the pain i bore, not to laugh and smile in a place full of those who don't listen, who don't understand, who don't trust, who can't apprehend, who can't afford to lose the luxuries of life, who live in bubbles, and Aamir . . . . . Remain silent"
AAJ MOHABBAT KE ZUBAN SAMJHNE WALA KOI NAHIN. JO SAMJH SAKTAY THAY WOH YA MAR GAYE YA KABHIE WAQT PE SUNANE NAHIN AAYE
Aamir Ali Bilal,
January 7th, 2010.
Sitting in a dark room.