Maqsood

Segregations are tough to make today, regarding who dons a fabricated facade and who remains truthfully unchanged. In a few cases such as this, however, no such scrutiny is required because the genuineness of it all lies in the open for all to view freely. Yet it remains dejectedly unseen.

The scenario can be conveniently likened to a tragedy of sorts, wherein the leading subject reaches the pinnacle of fame and glory, and as soon as the awareness of its magnanimity strikes his consciousness, it all comes crashing down on him, with only the broken shards of a past long gone scattered around, in which he revels and reminisces, offering him a little consolation.

But the case in point here offers us a protagonist who has become an indifferent man during the latter laps of his journey. His physical frame has shriveled up just a little, due to age possibly, and a loss of hope definitely. His hair has grayed, grown, and looks unkempt, appearing figuratively as a replica of his career. The face that was once replete with youthfulness now looks old, tired, almost pleading. Pleading to be left alone in silence, away from all the barriers his surroundings have bound him with, away from all the wrongs he has been subjected to. And the eyes- oh, the eyes! They couldn’t have been sadder. The gaze, still light-eyed, always seems to be fixated upon a distant thought, probably yearning for the glory days or yearning to silence the ghostly voices sounding madly in his head of a future which will be as devoid as the past was resplendent. The voice though, has braved the vestiges of time. It hasn’t corroded, like all else has. Thankfully, the voice remains. I find that relying solely on the auditory senses, blinding out the visual and demeaning the semantic proves to be advantageous here. The raw voice serenading those familiar tunes long forgotten in the folds of childhood, spark the fire of nostalgic reminiscence.

His soul is apparently hungry for love and spiritual desire, which transcends society’s understanding of these words. His philosophies about life are better left untranslated. The preference he now places on alternative rural careers such as farming and horse-breeding pointedly gesture towards his simplicity and probable desires to distance himself from the mainstream music scene which can no longer accommodate him. His diminished demand today can be attributed to the fate of the style of his music, which created a furore in the 90s and then slowly receded. However, he doesn’t seem to want to attune his style to the current trends, which is fortunate. It helps him maintain that exclusivity, which his counted remaining devotees hold special to themselves. But does he know that not everyone has blotted him out? That there are still some out there who are washed over by a wistful longing for the past as soon as his rustic voice belts out the first lines of his evergreen songs. That they wouldn’t trade this indescribable emotion for anything, because it is so personal to them. That his songs aren’t made up of notes, but are composed of everlasting memories.

However, now he dwells peacefully in his solitude, seemingly content with his lifestyle, making the occasional public appearance for a gig, post which he recluses back into a state he has come to terms with- his personal nirvana; a peaceful dimension of a man once loved, now largely forgotten: Lucky Ali.

 

 

(Note: This is my interpretation of the facts and may or may not be completely true. Let it remain a creative piece.)

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