Depth of Voids -MSF Sadib

Majed suddenly opened his eyes with a jolt. He was in the quiet office room, and the lizard on the plastered wall hid behind the clock. Did someone lower the AC? A thin trail of sweat was trickling down near his ear. In front of him, several desks were empty; neither Plato nor Aristotle were there. Had lunch break already passed?
Majed took a deep breath through his nose. A lump of phlegm had gathered, and he felt very irritated. It seemed he would have to meet now. With a small stretch, he got his stiff limbs moving again and started walking towards the desired room.
The room was quite large. Not just large—lavish, and in fancy language, what one might call “warm and welcoming.” The room was neatly arranged, with tasteful carpeting.The carefully arranged office atmosphere seemed to disappear in an instant. Each corner of the room was adorned with meticulously placed indoor plants. Majed recognized the plants—they were striped snake plants. He wasn’t a plant expert, but thanks to his wife Monika’s love for plants, he had gained some knowledge about a few indoor plants. Just to the left of the plants was a small bookshelf, with a row of long books and a few photo frames placed on top. These weren’t the typical corporate photos of executives standing proudly or receiving awards; instead, they were some gentle, family pictures. One frame caught Majed’s eye.
In the photo, a man stood with his wife, and between them, a little girl. All of them were smiling. It must have been a special day for the man—perhaps a bright, sunny day or maybe a beautiful full-moon night. The little girl, likely being fussy, might have been difficult to calm down, perhaps even scolded for moving too much. Maybe she even demanded ice cream after the photo was taken. So many “maybes” were captured in that single frame, showing how even the smallest things in a person’s calm thoughts can become so different and strange.
“Are you Majed?” a deep yet simple voice asked, causing Majed to turn around. A man in his sixties stood next to the desk. He must have entered the room while Majed was lost in his thoughts.
“My little daughter,” the man said, looking at the frame. After standing there for a moment, he leaned back in the revolving chair. His neatly ironed checkered shirt now had a few creases, resembling gentle, still waves, revealing small patches of white hair on his chest and stomach through the gaps. He wore thick-framed glasses, with a noticeable scratch on the lens, though Majed couldn’t tell if it was from wear. This was likely Mr. Aslam.
Mr. Aslam gestured for Majed to sit down. On the organized desk, there was a small pen holder, a row of files, and a copy of Milton’s “Paradise Lost.” So, the man had a love for poetry. Majed, on the other hand, was not fond of poetry. Since childhood, poetry had always seemed incomprehensible to him. When he was in first grade, he had once recited “Hattimatim Tim” at the school’s annual cultural event, under his mother’s insistence. The concept of “Hattimatim Tim” didn’t make sense to him. The idea of imagining something that hasn’t been seen is a perplexing concept for a child’s mind. Even after asking his mother, Majed didn’t get a satisfactory answer, so he decided to ask his wise uncle, Kader.
“Uncle… Kader Uncle!”
“Oh, Majed! Why are you shouting like that? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
At that moment, Kader Uncle was deeply engrossed in the important task of plucking his nose hairs. This delicate craft required full concentration, so Majed’s repeated calls were quite an annoyance to his Michelangelo-like artistry.
“Uncle, have you seen Hattimatim?”
“Hmm.”
“Are those eggs like chicken eggs, Uncle?”
“Hmm.”
“Uncle! I want to see it too. Will you show me?”
Kader Uncle didn’t reply. He had just found a big target, and all that was left was to pluck it out with one swift tug. Unfortunately, just before he could do so, the target slipped away.
“Majed! Talk less. When you’re working, too much talking isn’t good. Focus on the task, or your work will slip away just like that.”
Majed remembered those words. He didn’t have his uncle for long. Two years later, his uncle ended up in jail.
“I’ve kept you waiting for a long time, please don’t mind,” Mr. Aslam said, gently spinning the paperweight on his desk.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?”
“No, sir, I don’t have tea or coffee before lunch. I’m quite strict about a few things, and that’s one of them.”
“Well, then have lunch. It’s already late. I’ve been in such a rush that I haven’t even gathered my thoughts yet.”
“Sir, there’s no need for that. Let’s get straight to business. In our line of work, wasting time is a luxury neither of us can afford.”
Mr. Aslam leaned in slightly. The sunlight pouring through the window was bright enough to warm one’s head, but in the cool air-conditioned room, the intensity of the sunlight felt more like the gentle warmth of a clear winter morning. He slightly drew the curtains, letting the light in while the room gradually took on a colder, more shadowy atmosphere.
“This task needs to be done urgently,” he said, pausing to gather his thoughts before swallowing lightly. “I’ve already discussed everything with you. I hope there’s no misunderstanding on your part.” He leaned back in his chair, as if a heavy weight had just been lifted off his chest.
“I understand that. I’m just curious to know if you have any regrets about it,” Majed said as he gulped down the water from the glass in front of him, the bitterness lingering on his tongue.
“Does my regret have anything to do with your job?”
“No, not really. But I’m still curious. And whether you regret it or not, I don’t think it would make you change your mind. If you were going to waver, I wouldn’t be here in front of you.”
“You’re not wrong,” Mr. Aslam said, running his hand through his hair. “Not all our decisions are ours alone. People say we make conscious choices, but that’s not entirely true. We sometimes make conscious decisions unconsciously because that’s what we truly want. The distinction between conscious and unconscious is often meaningless.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment. Mr. Aslam picked up *Paradise Lost* and read a few lines:

“Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”
“Do you understand?” Mr. Aslam asked, looking at Majed.
“The Devil, meaning Iblis, is saying that even though Hell isn’t a great place, he would rather rule there in peace. Mr. Majed, we are in a system where, for the smallest bit of comfort, we don’t care about our position. Iblis never wanted to go to heaven, Mr. Majed,” Aslam Sahib continued. “He didn’t want to because every act of defiance against the Creator brought him the joy of power. In heaven, he would have been just another servant, like the other angels, enjoying all the pleasures in return for his obedience. But where there is the joy of power, the thrill of testing oneself, who cares about what we want or don’t want?” He finished speaking and snapped his fingers lightly.
“I want the job done cleanly—neat and polished. May I have your word on that?”
Majed remained silent. He sniffed as if trying to clear a stuffy nose, then stood up and headed straight for the door. He felt no need to say anything to Aslam Sahib before leaving the room. The office was still enveloped in a silent, suffocating atmosphere. By the wall clock, a gecko clutched a small moth in its mouth, seemingly watching Majed with its dark, beady eyes.
“Life is beautiful,” Majed murmured to himself. “But perhaps this beautiful moment comes at the most inconvenient time.”
He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the wall clock clean. Then he took out his phone and dialed a number.
“If you receive my call at 1 PM tomorrow, you’ll know the job is done. I hope we never meet again.”
The gecko watched the two-legged creature slowly leave. It then swallowed the moth whole and retreated behind the clock, waiting for its next opportunity in the shadows. n