88.8 MHz – Philosophy United Radio
Your favorite broadcast from the belly of the beast...
> Murphy: January 2nd, 2000. Time: 6:47 AM. The sky didn't ask to be watched. And yet he does.
Ainz-sama: Transmission 3 – "To-Witness." Nothing changes. But everything is new.
Guest Voices
Plato: "The cave is not a prison. It is a mirror."
Rabia Basri: "Whoever seeks Him for relief will not see Him in the fire."
Zarathustra: "When the child opens his eyes, the sun forgets to move."
A Melting Candle: "He did not blink. That is why time passed."
---
The rooster screamed.
No one answered.
Dawn came like a servant: barefoot, quiet, unwelcome.
Arslan sat in the courtyard.
Back straight. Legs folded.
Eyes open.
The world stretched before him—mud walls, dirt floors, rusted water pump, a sleepy goat tied with plastic rope, and the rising sun burning its way across the frost-stained bricks.
He didn't blink.
Not because he was awed.
But because he remembered blinking through smog, through blood, through sweat that mixed with cheap banana skins and the spit of tired customers.
---
This new world wasn't clean.
It was simply empty.
A vast, uncracked canvas.
He didn't move.
Didn't think.
Didn't plan.
There was no urge to.
No rage.
No hunger.
No fear.
Even the concept of "next" felt artificial.
The air smelled of cold mud and the faint tobacco smoke from his grandfather's hookah indoors.
---
What would a man do if he'd never been free before?
He wouldn't run.
He'd breathe.
He'd sit.
He'd watch.
He'd wait for the world to move without him.
And that's exactly what Arslan did.
---
The villagers tried.
A few boys came near the dera, kicking dust and pretending to play.
Some women passed twice, baskets empty the second time.
A molvi walked slowly by, pretending to adjust his turban, looking too long at the child who did not blink.
Riyaz said nothing.
He smoked his hookah like it was an oath.
Grandmother stood in the kitchen, fingers kneading dough like old secrets.
She kept looking through the little wooden window.
Arslan stayed still.
The sun climbed.
And he remained a shadow that did not follow time.
---
By noon, the whispers had changed tone.
"Masoom hai."
"Shaheedon ka nasl lagta hai."
"Bachay ke andar noor hai."
"Chup hai, lekin samajhdaar."
He became legend by silence alone.
No miracles.
No speeches.
No smiles.
Just the stillness of someone who has already died once.
---
Dinner was late.
One daal. Some roti. Pickled mango.
He sat on the charpai between his grandparents.
They didn't ask what he wanted.
They didn't expect him to talk.
And that, more than anything, felt holy.
Not their faith. Not their tears.
But their restraint.
They let him be.
He chewed slowly.
Swallowed.
Looked down.
His grandmother wiped the corner of his mouth with the edge of her dupatta.
His grandfather poured water for him.
He didn't resist.
Didn't smile.
Didn't thank them.
He simply allowed it.
As if he, too, was trying to believe this wasn't a trick.
---
The day ended.
No epiphanies.
No declarations.
No new plans.
Just one soul, on one charpai, with two people who didn't ask him to be anyone.
And for now, in this strange, fragile hour between past and present,
that was enough.
---
Rabia Basri: "When he doesn't speak, it is not because he cannot. It is because the world has not earned his voice."