Kehar Quotes

The jokes we tell or laugh at subsume our deepest vulnerabilities. We often struggle to comprehend the sheer intensity of some experiences. Our mind – that cruel beast – tries to soften the blow by teaching us to laugh at things that trouble us the most. Dark humor intrigues me because it originates from pain, irrespective of whether it's conscious or unrealized.

In an earlier note, you mentioned I was your superior when it comes to grief. I find it difficult to accept that a hierarchy exists in these matters. All of us are mourning some loss. How can anyone claim ownership over grief when it is a collective burden to bear?

Grief is something I live with everyday. It has its own language and I’ve learnt to speak it. Memories of my mother are no longer “sacred territory”. I can now answer questions about her without any emotion. I suppose we grow accustomed to the aches we must carry for life.

I told a friend about these letters, about how you and I don’t discuss mundane concerns in these notes, but instead explore our creative and intellectual interests. He seemed intrigued and mentioned that it was a good strategy to escape our routine. Rest assured, I don’t see these letters as an ‘escape’. (A rather poor choice of words, don’t you think?) They give me a chance to express myself. If that’s a form of escapism, I suppose we’re living in a strange world.

I don’t think people are capable of understanding the people they love. This may come across as somewhat cynical because we’re frequently told about the healing power of empathy. But we often forget that empathy is a rare commodity. People are innately self-serving, especially when it comes to love. It is impossible for them to love every facet of our being; they only love those elements that serve their own narrow interests. The parts they neglect are invariably what they choose not to understand. Unfortunately, they develop a myopic view of our identity based on their own perceptions of us. Ideally, love isn’t about extracting what we can from others. Instead, it requires people to give each other the space to blossom into full-fledged individuals. In a South Asian context, we allow love to become where people are stripped of their individualities.

Your views on writing as an all-consuming beast have struck a chord with me. I also believe writing is a solitary pursuit. As an introvert, I find contentment in being my own companion. My solitude helps me conquer this predatory beast by confronting the blank page. I wonder if my partners felt threatened by my ability to make a voyage into my inner self. Did they see this as a dereliction of sorts?

Why is boredom viewed as a non-serious, almost child-like, trait? Why do we view ‘boredom’ as the inability to enjoy oneself when it can easily be perceived as the inability to find emotional and intellectual stimulation? All of us are entitled to be with people who give us the space to evolve into better versions of ourselves. I wouldn’t be able to live with someone who I find dull and uninspiring.

We can’t possibly forget that writers are people; they aren’t immune to biases, emotional outbursts and the occasional spell of cruelty. I don’t understand why we’re taught to view writers as superior entities. Maybe it has something to do with their ability to concoct make-believe worlds and bring them to life on the page. Do non-writers envy their ability to imitate a higher power and create worlds out of the straws of their imaginations? If they do, they need to be reminded that writers merely possess an arsenal of words. A flair for language is of no use to anyone if it isn’t complemented by a maturity of perspective. After a series of bad experiences, I’ve learnt to accept writers as flawed beings. It’s easier to be realistic and spare oneself from future disappointment.

Any sea – be it a literal or metaphorical entity – is unnatural, dangerous and, therefore, sacred. If we impatiently swim through its choppy waters, we’ll find ourselves swept into the depths of the ocean.

It’s been over two years since we were in Quetta for a literary festival. Yet, I vividly recall having a lively conversation in the dining area. Memory is a fiend, an untamed beast. I don’t remember any specific details about what the room looked like or what we spoke about, but I remember that awkward pause – a momentary rupture, followed by an effortless flow of conversation.