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Shaadaab S. Bakht: It’s good time flies
July 13, 2018
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ON time 
 
 
Time flies. Indeed it does. However, there are occasions when we don’t want it to fly. For instance, a friend threw her watch into a river abroad because she said she wanted to “freeze” the “moment of her life.”

It is another matter that the moment flew away. She subsequently returned to India, the dream went back to from wherever such dreams come and the watch, lost in the waves, had obviously stopped clocking her feelings.

She never went back to the self that once upon a time frequented the bridge that flew over the almost idyllic river and now makes her bread, like all journalists, by discussing others’ lives, deeds and what we perceive as misdeeds.

She has a house where friends are undoubtedly treated like state guests, but somewhere in the dwelling lurks an inexplicable emptiness. Yes, its walls don’t have a clock. She feels why keep track of time when it has become a formality. I agree with her.

Well, I too like her, didn’t on one day want time to fly. I wanted it to stop forever. That was the last day of my school.

The engagement with life during the years was so deep (almost riotous) that it could only be matched by the ones, that the primitive humans must have harboured or relished
I had finished 12 fantastic years within the same brick walls that shone during winter and looked damp during the rains. I had played on the same field for 12 years and jumped into the same sand pit for the same number of years. I was allowed to deliver a speech that had been vetted by my principal. It was about myself, my teachers and my friends. It was very passionate.

Towards the end of my speech I broke down and so did a friend (we had been together for all 12 years). I had cried on the first day of school and came out crying on the last day. Sheer bliss had kept the two tearful occasions apart. 

The boyish years were free and not unnecessarily remedied by man-made rules.

The engagement with life during the years was so deep (almost riotous) that it could only be matched by the ones, that the primitive humans must have harboured or relished.

It was a time when life usually becomes an incurable addiction and not a drill to be executed.

It was a time when the sun wasn’t opposed but bathed in and when the rain wasn’t avoided because it kept frolic, the soul of contented life, flowing. And steadily. 

But I must admit that I thought of discussing the common refrain —time flies — because now I feel that it is good that time flies and nothing can clip its wings. Because time does need to fly when someone is in pain.

Imagine another tsunami and time freezes; imagine storms rampaging through hundreds of houses and lives and time turns static; imagine bombs strafing entire cities and time stops; imagine brothers carrying brothers’ shrouded bodies and clocks don’t move and imagine really ill-fated mums witnessing the lifeless bodies of their children killed by political barbarians, as hundreds of news images underline, and time refuses to budge.    

True, the passing away of good times leaves many of us depressed but let’s think of those whose times are bad.  Let’s also remember that in less than a minute their tears could become our tears.
 
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