Demon of Delay & Burden of Slowness - Regrets

I have been grappling with the daunting task of putting pen to paper lately. Each attempt feels like an uphill battle against the invisible force of writer's block. But amidst the frustration and the constant struggle, I stumbled upon a timeless poem that etched itself into the very fabric of my being a long time ago: "Hamesha Der Kar Deta Hun." And now, as it gains traction on social media platforms, appearing before me time and again (oh, the algorithmic magic on writer's block! ), my mind is inundated with memories, emotions, and reflections.

The essence of these words—the essence of delay and slowness—resonates with a familiarity that is both comforting and unsettling. It's as though they cradle my life's journey in a nutshell, each syllable a marker of the moments I've hesitated, the opportunities I've let slip by, and the regrets that linger in the shadows of my mind, clinging to the very skin of my being.

The demon of delay has been a faithful companion on this journey, whispering its seductive lies in the quiet corners of my consciousness. It urges me to wait for the "perfect" moment, the "ideal" circumstances, keeping me handcuffed to the woolgathering illusions of tomorrow. With each instance of delay, I've unwittingly shouldered the burden of slowness, the weight of missed chances, and unfulfilled dreams. Each moment of hesitation has compounded into the offspring of regrets, casting a long and ominous shadow over my aspirations and desires.

But as I've come to realise, perfection is but a mirage, and time, relentless in its march forward, waits for no one. It just slips. And slips. The more I grasp at it, the more it eludes my fingertips, leaving behind only the residue of missed opportunities and unspoken words. The allure of the waiting room has kept me ensnared in a web of hesitation and doubt. Each delay, each moment of indecision, has only served to prolong the inevitable confrontation with my own fears and insecurities.

The weight of delay presses upon my shoulders like a heavy burden, each moment of hesitation adding another layer of doubt and regret. It's suffocating—this constant feeling of being trapped in a cycle of indecision, unable to break free from the chains of my own making. The demon of delay whispers its love potion, weaving a tangled web of excuses and rationalisations to justify my inaction. It's easier to wait and hope for the perfect moment to present itself than to face the uncertainty of taking a leap into the unknown. But with each passing day, the sense of urgency grows stronger, and the realisation dawns that time is slipping away, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. And yet, I find myself rooted to the spot, paralysed by the fear of making the wrong choice or taking the wrong step. The burden of slowness weighs heavily on me, a constant reminder of the opportunities missed and the dreams deferred. It's a heavy load to bear, this weight of regret and self-doubt, dragging me down into the depths of despair. Just incomplete shelves poorly nailed to a weak, old wall. And so, I find myself caught in a vicious cycle of delay and regret, unable to break free from the grip of my own insecurities. Each day blends into the next, a blur of missed chances and unfulfilled promises, until it feels as though I am drowning in a sea of my own (un-)making.

"Hamesha Der Kar Deta Hoon Main"

Hamesha der kar deta hoon main,
Zaroori baat kahni ho, koi waada nibhaana ho,
Use awaaz deni ho, use wapas bulaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(I always delay,
In saying something important, in keeping a promise,
In calling out to someone, in bringing them back,
I always delay.)

Madad karni ho uski, ya koi gham baantna ho,
Badalna ho kisi raah ko, yaaron ko manaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In helping someone, or sharing someone's sorrow,
In changing a path, in making up with friends,
I always delay.)

Kisi ko maut se bachna ho, jaan deni ho kisi ko,
Bahut derina raahon par kisi se milne jaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In saving someone from death, in giving my life for someone,
In meeting someone on long-forgotten paths,
I always delay.)

Haqiqat aur thi kuch, usko jaake yeh batana tha,
Magar is daur mein jeene ka sirf bahana tha,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(The reality was different, I had to go and tell them,
But in this age, it was just an excuse to live,
I always delay.)

- Munir Ahmed Niazi. (Translation by me.)

Extension of the poem by me:

Uski khushi mein shaamil hona, khud ko bhul jaane dena,
Par har dafa yeh sochna, aur phir se door jaane dena,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(To be part of their happiness, to let myself forget,
But always thinking this, and then letting them go far away again,
I always delay.)

Pyar bhare lafzon ko chup chaap hi rehne dena,
Uski aankhon mein khud ko, kabhi na dekh paana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(To keep loving words unspoken,
Never seeing myself in their eyes,
I always delay.)

Nayi raahon ko apnaana, naye sapne sajaana,
Par har mod par ruk jaana, aur pichhe hi reh jaana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(To embrace new paths, to decorate new dreams,
But to stop at every turn, and remain behind,
I always delay.)

Maafi maangni ho kabhi, apne galat ko maan lena,
Par har baar der se pachtaana, aur dil ko udaas karna,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In asking for forgiveness, in admitting my mistakes,
But always regretting late, and making the heart sad,
I always delay.)

Apne liye waqt nikalna, sehat ka khayal rakhna,
Har baar yeh soch kar talna, aur bimaar ho jaana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In taking time for myself, in taking care of my health,
Always postponing with this thought, and falling ill,
I always delay.)

Dar ko saamna karna, himmat se kadam badhaana,
Par har baar dar ke samne, bas jhuk kar reh jaana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In facing fears, in taking steps with courage,
But always bowing down in front of fear,
I always delay.)

- Oizys. (Translation by me.)

P.S.: Forgive me for my abysmal translation skills.

April 30, 2023 to May 17, 2024: Stream of Regurgitation

An update? How long has it been? Do I remember what to write? Do I even remember writing anymore? From where should I start? I cannot think of words or phrases. I am fighting the urge to scratch my keyboard in order to just write something, just something. Oh, how I long for words to just flow. Let's see.

April 30, 2023. I abandoned my friends after going shopping with them the day before farewell and shut myself down for a long time. I tried NaPoWriMo and started well but could not finish. I did not get into university. Got a meagre job. I miserably started it. I tried my best. Failed. Perfomed poorly. I cried while working and thanked the universe; it is a work-from-home job, and nobody can see me. I did not attend graduation. I left all group chats and deleted everyone's number. Cried more. I stayed in the room. I rotted on my bed. I watched people pass by, move on, and succeed. Shamefully went back to college to get degrees. Ran back home. My sister came. I stepped out after many months with her. I came back and stayed in my room. I rotted some more. Sister left. I got my probation period extended. I did not eat. I did not drink water. I did not bathe. I did not brush. I just woke up, logged on, worked, logged out, and lied in bed. Got hospitalized.  I got three enemas, and then my excreta was manually removed on a Sunday night in the second hospital. Logged on next morning because no leaves on probation period. Kept rotting. I got off probation. I thought of starting fresh on a random day in March. But I just stayed in my room. Decided to rejoin social media. Rotted while scrolling. I thought of applying for more jobs but didn't get anywhere. Stopped. I tried NaPoWriMo again. Failed miserably. I waited for an increment. The sister came back. I went out again after a long time. I got poked for not stepping out more. I made it through with closed fists and pretention. I tried eating something, but they put eggs in it. The drink was nice. Minty Melon. I tried clicking pictures. It came out ugly. Deleted. I just posted a photo of my shoes on Instagram. Never going out again. I thought of starting to read again. Read nine pages of White Oleander, posted on Instagram. Couldn't continue. Stopped. Weighed myself. 62 kgs. The father called me fat. I thought of writing research papers again. I tried starting, but I don't know whether I will go along. I got promoted and a meagre, blurry increment, but my team lead asked for me to fill in for her. I got triggered while opening the curtains, lost myself, and screamed again after a super long time. Cried. I thought of applying for entrance tests again. Memories of incompetence and mediocrity rushed back. I cried my rot out. But it still feels the same. I ordered a pizza. I ate for two days. Belly feels heavy with burden and melted regret. May 17, 2024. A friend reached out to me on Instagram. Asking about where I work. How can she get in? I fought every single fibre of my remaining rot. Responded with some kind words and helped. I saw the Instagram story of another collegemate. She chose not to join the job she got in college. For which I was waitlisted. Rather, passed entrance exams. Studied further. I might lose myself again. Tried screaming. Nothing came out. I finally sat down to write.

Still in my room. Randomly breaking down. In my corner. There is no one to hold onto. There was no one to hug. There is no one to rely on. There is no one to sit silently with. Just rotting while rotating different balls of gathered wool. Trying to break free but keep falling into quicksand of delusions, sinking deeper and farther away from reality with every slap from it. Trying to sit straight and drink enough water while there is a constant tug-of-war between chasing a chimaera and the harsh reality bringing me back to my rock-bottom worth. This is getting too pathetic. Maybe I should just stop. What have I become? Just a pot of jealousy and misery. For what? Why? Was it because of the lack of love in my mother's eyes or the lack of recognition in my father's? Or is it because my mother's words turned out to be true that I will forever be a burden to my sister? Or is it my father's belief that furthered my incompetence and I just smalled myself? Or, is it because I have a second father now? I try to concoct all these reasons, thinking this might change things. But I know for a fact they won't. I will fall and try to get up while fantasising again about starting over again just to forget how much it hurt to fall than the last time. Even though I know I will remain in this endless cycle, I will never be able to make peace with it. I think I will forever remain here and try to start reading again, but I am actually building castles in Spain while people watch my second mother. I should stop writing now, or should I call it a stream of regurgitation?

- Oizys.