The Afternoon Nap

I had slept like a king in the afternoon.

Three glorious hours.

At the time it felt like a reward. A gift from the universe. A well-earned luxury.

Now, in the middle of the night, I was paying interest on that loan.

The room was dark. Darker than usual. My phone battery had given up hours ago. The AC hummed softly, cooling the room while the wind outside whistled through the trees.

The night and I appeared equally lonely.

Being each other’s only companion, we simply stared at one another.

I tried turning left.

Then right.

Then left again.

Sleep remained unimpressed.

Finally, feeling thirsty, I got up to drink some water.

As I returned to my room, I heard a familiar notification sound coming from my laptop.

A group video call.

Curious, I opened it.

There they were.

Bashir Badr.

Ahmad Faraz.

Wasim Barelvi.

A few others had yet to join.

The realization struck me immediately.

Everyone on this call had committed the same crime.

An afternoon nap.

And now we were all wandering through the consequences of our decisions.

The call connected.

Greetings were exchanged.

Pleasantries completed.

I wasted no time.

“I slept in the afternoon. And now I am begging for sleep.”

The complaint was received with great seriousness.

For exactly two seconds.

Then everyone decided to entertain themselves.

Faraz Begins

Faraz leaned forward and recited:

“Suna hai log use aankh bhar ke dekhte hain,

So uske shehar mein kuch din thehar ke dekhte hain.”

A man willing to travel across cities just to stand a little closer to a memory.

I sighed.

Of course.

The man could not go five minutes without introducing separation into a conversation.

Immediately I was reminded that the cities in question were now continents apart.

“Why does bro always begin with distance and heartbreak?”

Everyone laughed.

Wasim Tries to Comfort the Night

Wasim Barelvi smiled. Like always, he arrived with compassion.

“Usne socha bhi nahin hoga ki itna sochenge,

Haal uska bhi wahi hoga jo apna hoga.”

Perhaps somewhere in the darkness, the other person is losing sleep too.

For some reason, that brought comfort.

Before I could sit with the feeling, Bashir Badr interrupted.

He never allowed comfort to settle for too long.

“Parakhna mat, parakhne mein koi apna nahin rehta,

Kisi bhi aaine mein der tak chehra nahin rehta.”

The moment we start measuring people, we slowly begin losing them.

Silence followed.

Everyone disappeared into their own thoughts.

Gulzar Joins the Call

I was still trying to unpack the depth of what had been said when another notification appeared.

Gulzar Sahab had joined.

Everyone greeted him warmly.

As it turned out, he too had slept during the afternoon.

Without wasting any time, he began:

“Din kuch aise guzaarta hai koi,

Jaise ehsaan utaarta hai koi.”

“Aaina dekh ke tasalli hui,

Humko is ghar mein jaanta hai koi.”

Some days feel less like living and more like fulfilling an obligation. And on such days, even a mirror feels like an old friend.

The room grew quiet again.

Outside, the night seemed deeper now.

The kind of night that makes memories easier to hear.

Then Bashir Badr jumped back in.

As if he had suddenly remembered something important.

“Agar talaash karun koi mil hi jayega,

Magar tumhari tarah kaun mujhko chahega.”

Finding people is easy. Finding someone irreplaceable is not.

Nobody responded.

Perhaps everyone was remembering someone.

Or perhaps everyone was pretending not to.

Then Wasim spoke again.

Softly.

“Main usko aansuon se likh raha hoon,

Ki mere baad koi padh na paaye.”

Some feelings are meant to disappear with the person carrying them.

A strange silence settled over the call.

Rain Arrives

Outside, the winds became stronger.

The curtains began to sway.

A few drops of rain struck the window.

Then a few more.

And soon enough, the entire sky had opened.

Rain filled the night.

The sound competed with the voices coming through my speakers.

Everyone paused.

The weather had changed.

And whenever the weather changes, Bashir Badr inevitably has something to say.

He smiled while looking out of his own window.

“Is shehar ka baadal teri zulfon ki tarah hai,

Ye aag lagaate hain, bujhane nahin aate.”

“Wah wah.”

The approval echoed through the call.

Trust Bashir Badr to look at a rain cloud and still remember someone.

The rain continued.

The conversation drifted.

Jaun Arrives Late

Then another notification appeared.

Jaun Elia had finally joined.

Late.

As always.

He greeted everyone casually.

Before he could settle in, I interrupted.

Perhaps the rain had made me poetic.

Perhaps the lack of sleep had.

“Hone the jitne khel muqaddar ke ho gaye,

Hum tooti nao lekar samandar ke ho gaye.”

“Khushboo mere haath ko chhukar guzar gayi,

Hum phool sabko baant ke patthar ke ho gaye.”

Life gave away everything soft until only endurance remained.

Nobody spoke immediately.

Then Gulzar smiled.

The kind of smile that carried both affection and warning.

And he said:

“Zaaya na karo apne alfaaz har kisi ke liye,

Thoda khaamosh rehkar bhi dekho ki tumhe samajhta kaun hai.”

Silence is often the fastest way to discover who truly listens.

Then Jaun finally decided it was his turn.

He cleared his throat dramatically.

“Husn khuda ne diya, fida hum ho gaye,

Naseeb kisi aur ka tha, barbaad hum ho gaye.”

The entire call burst into laughter.

Somewhere in the middle of that laughter, someone began playing Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

His voice entered the room like an old memory.

“Log darte hain qatil ki parchhai se,

Humne qatil ke dil mein bhi ghar kar liya.”

“Baat to ek raat ki thi magar,

Intezaar humne zindagi bhar kar liya.”

What begins as a moment sometimes becomes a lifetime.

Nobody interrupted.

Nobody needed to.

The song spoke for everyone.

When the Rain Stops

Eventually the rain slowed.

Then stopped.

The clouds moved on.

The earth remained behind.

The distance between them somehow felt greater than before.

Faraz noticed.

Of course he noticed.

And so he spoke.

“Ab ke hum bichhde to shayad kabhi khwaabon mein milein,

Jis tarah sookhe hue phool kitaabon mein milein.”

A love preserved not in life, but between forgotten pages of memory.

I couldn’t resist.

“Fitoor hota hai har umar mein juda,

Khilona, mashooka, rutba, khuda.”

The call erupted with appreciation.

The night had become lighter now.

Not because sleep had arrived.

But because loneliness had left.

I looked at the faces on the screen and smiled.

Then I delivered my closing statement.

“Aaj ki ye raat mashooka ke naam hogi,

Phir kabhi din mein sone ki bhool nahin hogi.”

“Dopahar ki neend mehngi bahut padi yaaron,

Ab Faraz-o-Bashir se agli mulaqat kal shaam hogi.”

Everyone laughed.

Even Jaun.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled.

Then he offered the final words of the night.

“Kyun na befikar hokar soya jaaye,

Ab bacha hi kya hai jise khoya jaaye.”

Nobody had an answer.

Nobody needed one.

One by one, cameras disappeared.

Microphones muted.

Goodbyes were exchanged.

The call ended.

The room became silent again.

The rain was gone.

The wind had settled.

The night and I stared at each other once more.

Only this time, neither of us felt lonely.

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