88.8 MHz – Philosophy United Radio
Your favorite broadcast from the belly of the beast…
> Murphy: January 1st, 2000. Time: 12:33 PM. The road curves like a question mark. And he has no answers.
Ainz-sama: Transmission 2 – "To-Arrive." The miracle is not survival. It is what you choose to do with silence.
Guest Voices
Fyodor Dostoevsky: "Suffering is not punishment. It is permission."
Imam Ghazali: "The tongue is a gate. Better sealed than broken."
Dr. Manhattan: "A child is sitting in a jeep. He is not thinking like a child."
An Empty Mirror: "He said nothing. That is how the world began."
---
The police jeep rattled like it had a soul.
Rust spoke louder than the men inside.
The engine coughed up heat. One headlight was missing. The other was filled with a dead fly, wings up. A box of half-used betel nuts sat in the dashboard, sweating.
Arslan sat in the back. Alone.
He hadn't said a word. Not to the DSP. Not to the constable. Not to the journalist they tried to sneak in.
He sat with his knees drawn to his chest, arms around them, chin on top.
A child.
That's all they saw.
A quiet, dusty, dazed child.
But inside—oceans.
---
He remembered everything.
The banana stall.
The policeman who slapped him once for not having change.
The uncle who offered free food if he'd mop the floor.
His father laughing with his mouth full of someone else's biryani.
The sounds of motorbikes. TikTok songs. Murders on the news.
The future.
And now—mud walls.
A land with no fans. No light bulbs. No cameras.
Only goats, dust, and old men's sweat mixing with hookah smoke.
A reset.
But not a gift.
He didn't trust it yet.
---
The jeep turned off the paved road.
Now dirt. Then gravel.
Uch Sharif disappeared behind them like a memory that refused to scream.
7 kilometers.
He counted them in his head. Like a funeral procession.
He could feel it—something had changed after he passed out.
He didn't remember the blast. He remembered the pain. Then the ceiling. Then… dark.
Had he done it?
He didn't know.
But it didn't matter.
Whatever happened—they were gone.
The family. The noise. The shame.
All turned to mist.
He was free.
---
And no one expected anything from him.
That was the miracle.
No demands.
No questions he had to answer.
No scolding.
No "Why aren't you helping?"
No "Go bring water."
No "Where were you?"
No "Look at your cousin, he's better than you."
He was quiet.
And people thought it was trauma.
Good.
Let them.
---
The jeep arrived at the village gates.
A broken stone marked the entrance:
چک نمبر 17-بی
Paint faded, but the name still meant something to someone.
Fields stretched on both sides. Wheat waving in winter wind.
A brick kiln smoked in the distance. Lazy, eternal.
Donkeys walked like philosophers.
---
The villagers had already heard.
News spread fast when it smelled like God.
A child had survived the wrath.
Naked, untouched.
A crater of death around him.
But he was breathing.
Some called it punishment.
Some called it a miracle.
All agreed: it was a sign.
---
Malik Riyaz stood outside his dera.
Kurta crisp. Beard trimmed.
Left hand on his waist, right hand on his old bicycle.
He looked younger than his age.
Taller than he remembered.
Stronger than they expected.
He didn't speak at first.
Just stared.
And then—"Arslan..."
Silence.
The boy stepped out.
Feet dusty. Shirt two sizes too big.
No hug. No tears.
Just presence.
The grandmother came running.
Cried like the end of a war.
Held him like a prayer she didn't believe in.
Arslan did not move.
He sat on the charpai placed in the courtyard.
The sun was mild.
The birds were tired.
The villagers watched from a distance, whispering.
A few molvies arrived but were told to return later.
Riyaz dismissed the police with a nod.
He said nothing either.
---
And so, for the first time in both of his lives—
Arslan had no task.
No debt.
No role to play.
No one waiting for him to speak.
He was allowed to sit.
To watch.
To think.
That was enough.
---
Fyodor Dostoevsky: "He does not speak because he already knows what the answers are."