A Day In The Life Of Killer

Behind the demeanour of a Killer, a loony hue should lurk. An intense wink, or at least, a piercing, probing look.

Perhaps, Arbab's Killer's graceful anatomy betrayed a snooty behavioural pattern suited for a murderous instinct.

No shades of dark existed in Killer, at least among his laconic circle of camaraderie. And no one knew why the Killer tag stuck to him.

Not even Killer.

That wintry day, Killer traversed through the depths of the mundane life he has wallowed to figure out where the tag latched on to his otherwise calm and aloof aura.

He stumbled upon more questions than answers that after an hour or so he felt he should have better things to pursue.

But Killer himself knew he didn't have much to deviate out of his curriculum of spartan joys of life.

Not that the tag was a nagging worry, but Killer felt uncomfortable somewhere.

Realisation struck that he always was ill at ease with a chilly ambience. A deep melancholy seeps through Killer during winter.

It struck him that resolution, at least for the time being, was in sight.

The monk in the bottle was waiting to be grabbed. Killer decided to put up some sort of a resistance to this easy option, but succumbed to his cravings earlier than he himself expected.

One ... three and Killer suddenly immersed himself into the cocoon of a delightful warmth.

He felt pepped up and forgot the wintry pangs that so dragged him.

He gradually realised in the depth of a drowsy plunge that the day has just been buried for good.

That was his first tete-e-tete with the vocation his Killer tag proclaimed.

In the wee hours of the first day of the week, Killer embraced a sleepy burial, leaving behind a flickering tag of uneasiness to fend for itself, an act its perpetrators would come to know only few hours after daybreak.

Only that Killer’s assassins wouldn’t have  thought his next incarnation would bore the  scorching melancholy of sand dunes.

The fertile sand dunes of My Arbab

That night, Arbab seeped in again through the remnant veins of Killer’s nightmares, the voluminous fragrance of countless sweet spots and the bizarre trajectory of illusions. My Arbab.

Arbab, whose creator, for the sake of the irresistible urge of having one for all creations, let us presume, should be faceless.  The Unknown. At least, that was Killer’s choice. “And the Unknown created Arbab,” Killer made himself believe.

In hindsight, Killer should have sought His consent.  He should have known unwritten protocols that point to such niceties when you deal with the whims of Arbab. My Arbab. 

After tormenting his soul for some time, Killer waded into his beloved theory of procrastination. That inevitable task was postponed to a future date.

Thereafter, conviction descended on Killer – the world's first Arbab could have been created only by the Unknown. 

Killer, though, was certain Arbabs existed from the beginning of the universe, or rather of mankind.

Perhaps, the first glimmer of life was that of an Arbab? Didn't we always have a master for all circumstances? We always needed a guardian angel to guide every moment to its logical course. Wasn't the onus of every perceived misdeed tagged on some soul – poor, evil or kind? You may disagree, but Killer thought so.

Look at Raza – Killer’s only human contact in the arid swathes enveloping his constricted existence. His tormentor is also Arbab.  His Arbab.

Arbab's medieval curriculum of torment, which Killer slowly imbibes and embraces, actually made him think he was more blessed than many other pawns in the desert. He had no clue they even existed.

If Raza can reconcile with his fate, intertwined with Arbab's whiplashes, that is something the poor soul in Killer also should encounter. Without choice.

If Killer were to examine the trajectory of his perceived struggles with that of the hapless Najeeb's servile existence in his Arbab's 'Masara'... 

Ideally then, Killer thought he would lord over the Sun.

The same Sun whose piercing radiance ripped through the fragile coating of Raza’s countenance, loading mountains of misery into his daunting, bland chores.

Killer figured out that the narrative of my loony conscience pricks was deeply flawed.

Welcome, the Arbab of my future playbook, the master of my elusive desert and the connoisseur who unravelled the infinite mysteries of sand dunes laced with sweat and blood of zillions and Raza. Embrace this uninitiated moron my Lord.