The Musafir

The harsh wind of the desert summoned whirlwinds of sand up in the air. In the distance, the sun glowered mercilessly upon the earth, its brilliant rays breaking the horizon. Dunes after dunes adorned the bare land like waves on a sea of sand. There seemed to be no soul roaming on this desert—only the sun, sky and golden sand.

A lone tree stood in the middle of this empty land, being the only beacon amongst an endless field of nothingness. It arched elegantly on its side, casting a wide and cool shadow underneath it. For Musafirs of the desert, this beacon was a sanctuary. It provided them a temporary home and shelter from the sweltering Arabian sun. Small lizards and animals create themselves a dwelling at the roots of this tree, leaving only in search of food which appears scarcely in the middle of the desert.

Beneath this beacon, a man rests with his horse. He was a Musafir—a traveler of the desert. His face was carved with wrinkles and creases, etched with lines of wisdom. The Musafir’s eyes were of a dull grey colour, their whites turning a slight shade of yellow. The man, though aged, was strong. He was powerful and prevailing—facing the dangers of the desert bravely, confident nothing can shatter his old figure.

And he was about to have the world in his hands.

It was actually a dark dream he kept concealed in his mind since he was young. To be a small nomad, who would someday achieve the highest throne in the world. He would sail all the oceans and the seven seas; climb all the mountains there were to mount and shape the world to his desire. There would be no more wars, nor crimes. The hungry would be well-fed and sought after. All will follow his will, and his wishes will be granted.

But, alas, the traveler knew it wasn’t possible. Perhaps if he was to rule the world, he himself would soil his own heart. He might become too selfish and greedy, and throw aside all of the good deeds he would have done. He would become the monster he once feared to be. He shook his head, dejected. It was a dark dream indeed.

The Musafir waited in silence as he watched the sun set lower below the horizon. The sky was forming an awe-inspiring ribbon of colours from yellow to pink to violet. He could rule the world if he wanted to, but now he won’t. The world, he believed, should be left as it is. No matter how many wars or hardships there are right now, he somehow knew that, maybe, this was how it was meant to be.

He heaved himself up with a grunt and mounted his horse. With a last look at the sunset, he took off with his horse, dashing forwards to nowhere, and let the dust and sand bury the footprints of the Musafir.

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An entry I did for the World Book Day writing House competition. It was 498 words, I think. I know winning isn't everything, but if I do win then alhamdulillah for me and Oasis. :] Forgive if you think it's crappy, but I did try to slip in this thought I've been pondering about for quite a few days about having a chance to 'take over the world'.

I hope you enjoyed it! :D