Dressed in Nothing, Buried in Everything

Three voices, one Tuesday, and the arithmetic of a shroud.

There is a Mirza Ghalib who lives in my chest at 4 a.m. He is not a poet there. He is just a tired man doing arithmetic.

Be-libās aaye the is duniya mein Ghalib, Ek kafan ke liye itna safar kar gaye.

It's a couplet the internet swears is Ghalib's. You won't find it in his Diwan, but I've decided to believe it anyway. We came naked into this world, he says, and look at us now. We travelled so far, endured so much, crossed deserts of ambition and oceans of grief, all to earn one length of cloth. One kafan. One shroud. That's the whole ledger. That's the final invoice.

Every time I book a flight, negotiate a salary, or refresh a bank balance at midnight like it's a prayer, the Ghalib in me laughs softly. Beta, he says, you are shopping for cloth again.

The Voice That Speaks at Funerals

There is a Jaun Elia who sits in the back row of every gathering I attend. He refuses to wear black. He looks at the mourners, at the flowers, at the men carrying the bier, and he wants to say something inappropriate and true.

Janāza dekh kar mera pareshān na hona, Roz marta tha bas, qabr aaj khodi gayi hai.

This one travels under his name with the same shaky paperwork. It suits him. Don't be distressed watching my funeral. I died every day. Today they merely dug the grave.

This voice terrifies me because it is not sad. It is accurate. Elia isn't asking for pity. He's correcting the record. You think this is a tragedy? No. This is a formality. The tragedy happened quietly, in installments, over years. The funeral is just the receipt.

The Voice That Went to Work Today

And then there is the third voice. The one that actually got up, made tea, answered emails, said "I'm fine, just busy" to three different people, and meant none of it.

This voice lives in the same body as Ghalib and Elia, but it has a different job. Its job is to keep the other two from ruining dinner parties.

Today's reality is the same for all three of them. That's the strange part. They woke up in the same bed. They drank from the same cup. They looked at the same calendar: the one with the dentist appointment, the EMI due date, and the birthday of someone they keep forgetting to call.

Ghalib saw the calendar and thought: more travelling for the shroud.

Elia saw the calendar and thought: another day of dying, scheduled neatly between 9 and 6.

The third voice saw the calendar and thought: okay, I can make this work.

The Argument at Noon

At noon, they argue.

Ghalib (the romantic cynic): Everything you chase is a shroud in disguise. You think you're building a life? You're stitching cloth.

Elia (the cheerful nihilist): At least let it be a good shroud. A well-tailored one. With pockets.

The Third Voice (the tired realist): Can we please just eat lunch?

But lunch is also symbolic. Ghalib notices. Elia makes a joke about it. The third voice eats anyway, because someone has to.

The Voice That Reads the News

There is a version of me that scrolls through the news and finds both poets nodding.

A child born in a camp. Be-libās aaye the.

A young man buried after a journey he never chose. Ek kafan ke liye.

A woman who has been grieving so long that the funeral, when it finally comes, feels like a rest. Roz marta tha bas.

The third voice wants to close the app. The other two want to write something. I let them. This is where they write.

The Voice That Prays (Badly)

Ghalib prays like a lawyer: arguing, quoting precedent, questioning jurisdiction.

Elia prays like a stand-up comedian: "So I died again yesterday, and You'll never guess what happened next."

The third voice prays like a tired employee: "Just get me through today. I'll handle tomorrow tomorrow."

All three of them are in the same room. All three of them are the same person. None of them is lying.

The Voice That Writes This

I am writing this on a Tuesday. Nothing dramatic happened today. No funeral. No shrouds. No graves. Just work, tea, a phone call with my mother, a walk I didn't take, a book I didn't read.

And yet.

Ghalib reminds me that I am still naked under these clothes, and that everything I own is borrowed and will be returned.

Elia reminds me that I have already died a hundred small deaths today. This is not a reason to panic, only a reason to be honest.

The third voice reminds me that honesty doesn't pay rent, and that rent is due on the first.

So here we are. Three versions of one person, living one Tuesday.

The Voice That Signs Off

Be-libās aaye the is duniya mein Ghalib, Ek kafan ke liye itna safar kar gaye.

Janāza dekh kar mera pareshān na hona, Roz marta tha bas, qabr aaj khodi gayi hai.

One says: you came with nothing, you leave with one cloth, and in between you call it a life.

The other says: don't cry at my funeral. I've been dying daily; this is just the paperwork.

And the third says: okay. Both true. Now what?

The answer, I think, and the only answer the third voice ever gives, is:

Now we live anyway.

Not because it's permanent. Not because it's painless. Not because the shroud isn't waiting or the grave isn't dug.

But because between the nakedness and the cloth, between the daily death and the final one, there is tea. There is a phone call. There is someone's laugh. There is a Tuesday.

Ghalib travelled far for a shroud. Elia died daily for a grave. And I, the third voice, the one writing this, am trying to travel somewhere for something better than both.

Some days I succeed.

Today, I wrote this.

That counts.

Written at 4 a.m., noon, and 9 p.m., by three people who share one name and one cup of tea.