The Wayward Simpleton

Storytelling is an important tool because it builds emotional connections, helps people remember information, and fosters empathy. Fiction is defined as any creative literary or narrative work that portrays imaginary characters, settings, and events. The human history is all about people who struggle in their lives and make the very stage of life meaningful and colourful. This write up is a story based upon the few real life happenings.

أَعُوذُ بِاللّٰهِ مِنَ الشَّيْطَانِ الرَّجِيمِ

بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ

In the name of ALLAH, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

The Wayward Simpleton

He is scientifically brilliant, intellectually sharp, and in the eyes of a few envious souls, perhaps shrewd to a fault. Yet I, who shared a hostel room with him, know him merely as a "naive adventurer." His sole purpose in life was to outrun time itself—a trait that eventually became his permanent moniker. He wished to sprint through life at such a furious pace that, at times, even time was left behind, leaving him to trip headlong into some ditch. Creating a space for himself where none existed was his peculiar talent, but he failed to realize that every gathering and every uninvited entry carries a tax—one that he frequently paid in the currency of his own time and peace of mind.

It brings to mind our college days, during a grand campus gala. Our hero, true to form, unfurled the flags of his "brilliance" there as well. Once the ceremony concluded, the crowd of guests, professors, and students began moving toward the cafeteria adjacent to the conference hall. The crush was immense. Driven by his habitual urge to outpace everyone, our friend nudged his way forward, carving a path with his elbows. In his stride, he assumed that the people walking tightly to his left and right were his childhood comrades—us.

Swept up in this assumption, he warmly linked his arm through that of a suited gentleman walking beside him, as if greeting a bosom friend, and asked with ultimate casualness: "Hey, what’s the time?"

There was no reply from the other side. When he raised his head to look at the face, the earth slipped from beneath his feet. This was no hostel lad; it was the chief guest of the event—a high-ranking government official! The officer looked down over his spectacles at this "simple soul" with an expression that mixed pure outrage with absolute bewilderment. Consequently, our friend spent the next several days counting the ticking clock backward, as everyone from the hostel warden to the principal remained thoroughly occupied teaching him the "importance of time" and "decorum." Several professors and well-wishers tried their best to write their own script of reform onto his spirited nature. But one thing must be said: he was stubborn to the core. No one could ever leave a lasting impression on his natural disposition or temperament. He simply did exactly as he pleased.

When we would return to our hostel room after such commotions, he would sit on his bed, burying his face in his hands. Wearing an expression of utter innocence, he would ask me: "Brother, what was my fault in this?"

I would look at his face, suppress my laughter, and reply with deadpan gravity: "Brother, it is not your fault. This is the handiwork of your Hamzaat (the alter-ego/doppelgänger spirit)! We must arrange a spiritual penance for you, otherwise, this Hamzaat will ruin you completely." Hearing this, he would nod solemnly, genuinely convinced that his frantic pace and the sudden calamities falling from the heavens were the work of some unseen mystical entity.

Before the ashes of this incident could even cool, our gentleman found himself entangled in yet another misfortune; it seemed his stars were in a state of perpetual chaos during those days. Mind you, he was quite an astrologer himself—adept at recognizing the "brightest stars" and the most captivating sights in any gathering. A few days after the first mishap, he locked horns over a scholarly point with the college's most senior and short-tempered professor. Now, a professor is a professor, but our friend’s "intellectual pride" had been awoken. He argued with such stubborn sophistry that the venerable professor promptly showed him the door. What followed was weeks of this simpleton hovering around the professor's office, serving cups of tea, and pleading with folded hands for forgiveness. This time too, when he returned to the room and asked, "Brother, what was my fault?", I simply remarked: "O cruel soul! Your Hamzaat is far more active than you are! Recite this incantation morning and evening: 'Burn, O Majesty, burn; turn away the calamity that returns, may the Lord show mercy.'" That very evening, I discovered he had lit incense sticks and was chanting the verse with grand devotion. Shortly thereafter, we graduated and departed toward our next destinations.

Stories about him continued to circulate. In ordinary life, he went on to become a successful man.

A long time passed, and it was just yesterday that news of him reached me. After years, word came that by virtue of his relentless speed and dedication, he had traveled across the seven seas to attend an international conference. I thought to myself that since my friend is a big man now, he must have matured, and surely his troublesome Hamzaat had been left behind in Pakistan. Yet, the moment he stepped out of the airport, caught up in some unknown hurry, his foot twisted, causing a severe sprain. The world had changed, the country had changed, but our friend's innocent misfortune remained unaltered! Instead of commanding the conference, he was bound to be sitting in his hotel room with a bandaged ankle, weeping over his fate.

At this juncture, it is vital to mention that this was our engineering college, where day and night we mastered the intricate mysteries of mechanical engineering and the science of assembling machine parts. Naturally, when you have a pack of mechanical lads living the hostel life, the bond between simplicity and mischief functions with the force of high hydraulic pressure.

As it turned out, the bearer of this distant news was another old comrade of ours—and what else could one call a true Rajput brother but a fiercely loyal friend! This Rajput companion proudly told me over the phone: "The absolute madman! Even in that crippled state, with a plaster cast bound to his foot, he limped right into the hall and read his research paper!"

Astounded, I asked, "How on earth? His foot was swollen from the sprain!"

He burst into a hearty laugh and said, "Oh, my friend! What else did we learn mechanical engineering for? What else is a 'standby third leg' meant for!"

Now, how do I explain this "standby third leg" to a layman? Only a mechanical engineer can truly appreciate such a splendid, technical euphemism given to a pair of crutches in a time of crisis. Upon hearing of yesterday's accident, another sincere friend of ours held his head and offered a piece of profound advice, saying: "Gentlemen! His Hamzaat is no ordinary creature. Before sending him on any future journey, the entire hostel alumni must pool together and offer a heavy, solemn charity on his behalf. Otherwise, next time he will get his other leg caught at some foreign border crossing!"

Now, as nearly four decades are about to pass since our hostel life and these tales of the Hamzaat, I am reminded of the famous English essayist, Charles Lamb. In his timeless essays, Lamb immortalized the innocent follies of old friends and the beautiful memories of the past with such wit and tender pathos. My friend seems like a character stepped right out of that era. The only difference is that Lamb's characters remained confined to the pages of books, while my friend stands somewhere in a corner of the world today, with his leg still caught in a twist.

When I call him next, I will surely recite this couplet to him:

The tides have turned, the storm must now recede,

At this ripe age, my friend, reform is what you need.

Then, laughing, I will tell him: "My friend, just have a little patience. It is a matter of just two or three more years. As soon as this saga hits the forty-year mark, this problem of the Hamzaat will resolve itself. For even the Hamzaat must be old by now, and perhaps it, too, should finally mend its ways!"

Yet, truth be told, unlike Lamb, I harbor a more supernatural dread... What if this is not the doing of a Hamzaat at all, but rather the curse of an stubborn old witch or a banshee? She would only grow more dangerous with old age!

The reality remains that he is not cunning; he is a true and simple soul whose stars are perpetually thrown into orbit by his own unbridled enthusiasm and the antics of his faithful Hamzaat.

Respected readers! I leave it to you to suggest a remedy. What must we do to ensure that our dear, simple-minded friend never accidentally gets his leg caught anywhere in life ever again?