The Overrated New Year, Every Year

Another new year, promises to self that will not be kept, resolutions that will not be fulfilled, diet plans that will not be followed, and regimes that will cease with the end of the first week. Year after year, people all across the world unite at some strange level when it comes to New Year. Regardless of which continent, country or religion they might belong to, they take vows to lead better, healthier, more honest, organized, meaningful lives. What's more, they even believe that they will be able to get past the first month continuing on with all the resolutions. At the risk of receiving a boatload of criticism for this particular post, I would like to defy convention this year! I would go against the usual norm and resist making any resolutions; no promises to myself to workout more, be happier, work towards achieving my goals with more vigour this year, be a better mom, better daughter, sister, friend, a better person. No more promises to mark all 101 things off my master checklist, no more silent vows to not let fears and inhibitions hold me back, or to come off as a pillar of strength. 

And you know why? Because I'm just so happy to have been alive and healthy in 2013 and all the years before that. I'm happy to have been able to pull through 2013 and come out as a victor. I'm content with what I have, my children, my family and friends, my absolutely wonderful, challenging, motivating work, and for all the beautiful moments that 2013 was witness to, the smiles, the laughter, the experiences. And hopefully I will wake up tomorrow to see the sunrise of another New Year and all that it will bring with it. Yes, I confess to a few weak moments today which will probably linger on tonight; moments that are laced with an ounce of sadness, a pinch of disappointment, and even a little loneliness that creeps in. But I'll let you in a little secret; all of that is overshadowed by hope, countless blessings and love. After a long, tiring yet satisfying day at work, when I return home and my 12-year old son rushes to get me a glass of water before I have even entered my room, and when he heats the food for me so that I can have dinner right away, I feel surrounded by love that nothing else can measure up to. When my daughter brings me a throw so that I can stay warm while watching a movie with them both, and they both cuddle up with me, I feel all my sorrows wash away. When I am told with tenderness that my tears are precious and the only time I should let them flow is when my daughter gets married and leaves home, I feel cherished. When my mom, my dear mom sends tiny boxes of daal sabzi well aware that I crave it and might not get the time to cook something that I like, instead preparing meals that the children prefer, I pray for her to live a long healthy life for who else would care for me the way she does. The birds outside, the sunshine, the tangy flavourful oranges in the fruit bowl, the white drapes in my room, the sound of the wind, the lush green trees; I'm surrounded with beauty that helps the pain subside. I try not to think of all the hurt and tears and stay thankful for the strength that was bestowed upon me. I don't want to start afresh this New Year. I have already started afresh! The mixed emotions, the sadness, a few occasional complaints are nothing but a mere proof of the fact that I am after all only human. So defying all norms, I conclude by saying that I have absolutely no resolutions this year; I will take each day as it comes as I have been doing for the past year and a half and will bask in the smug satisfaction of the liberating feeling that it brings with it.  

And miles to go before I sleep...

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
                                     
                                          - Robert Frost

I strive to lead a simple life. Could it be time that has transformed me? Fewer belongings, simpler meals and small joys. Yet these are the parts of my life that I can control. What about the endless twists and turns, intricacies, complexities? And the hurdles and disappointments?
It is a long journey, this life. And it is without a doubt ruthless and merciless. I take the time out to smell the flowers, hear the birds chirping, form different shapes of the clouds in my head when I gaze at the sky. I find the time for a few quiet moments every day, and to play with dust motes that seem to continue their steady pace in the light streaming through the window. I manage to pen my thoughts sometimes, but so many more create a havoc in my mind, unable to find an outlet. And they are growing in numbers, multiplying at an unimaginable rate, so many words just trapped inside. So much that the poor heart has endured and continues to quietly absorb. So many dark thoughts, whirling, twirling, so mystical like the derwaishes. A constant tussle between happiness and dissatisfaction. Betrayals, disappointments, shortcomings, now transformed into demons, their giant clutches reaching for me, their snarling faces keeping me awake night after night.
The stubborn streak in me forces me to move forward relentlessly, keeping a brave front; but the tentacles of fate continue to try and slow me down. I paint on a mask, an eerie picture of a smile, and must keep this facade. I want to stop, take a breather, and feel the blissful brush of love and endless moments of happiness. I sometimes find it in unexpected places, tempted to stop for a while, bask in it; but the obligations keep me from doing so. The promises that I made, I must keep them. I must wait for the few moments of joy that might or might not come my way. I must wait. I wish I could have them right now, just the ones I truly want, without any conditions. As much as I feel tired and wish for the end, the fear that the wish might actually come true anytime soon and the end is near, remains. I feel the need to slow down and rest....
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

When Weaknesses become Strengths!

Blocking out sounds, voices and visions; snubbing feelings, desires, fears and inhibitions. Is this truly what makes one strong? But what do you do when everyone expects you to be strong to the extent of almost being heartless? What do you do when you are not allowed to break down or burn out? What do you do when it is you who just would not allow yourself to give in or give up? These are questions that have remained unanswered for a long time; or have I blocked the answers out too?
Life brings with it so many 'ifs' and 'buts' and 'don'ts', making the journey even more precarious than it is supposed to be. It was never supposed to be so difficult. It was never intended so. And if we take a moment out to look around, not necessarily at those less blessed than us as is the saying, "when you begin to feel ungrateful, think of those less fortunate than yourself"; but just at the little joys of life that WE are blessed with, the hurtful questions start to fizzle out.
C'est la vie! That's Life! Or did I start writing this blog because I wanted to say 'That's life for ME'? Good or bad, joyous or depressing, difficult or blissful; yes, that's life for me.
214 words, and I feel better already. What makes me feel blessed you ask? For starters, just the fact that I am alive (and kicking) is more than enough for me. I am able to wake up each morning to witness the sunrise, and to feel the warmth of  a cuddle and a cherubic smile of my son, to start my day with the melodious voice of a girl who was almost like a blob at birth. I wake up to the loud chirping of the parakeets in the house and the cooing of the cuckoo outside. The cool breeze every morning that caresses my skin, the pleasure I get out of making breakfast in a clean, gleaming kitchen, often half an hour of quiet time before the morning rush begins, the soothing silence, the day ahead, the unsaid words, the drive, the determination; what more can one want out of a day? And then friends, my absolutely wonderful friends! The early morning message from one of my best friends everyday, the strong support of my other best friend and her faith in me that I will not let anything hamper my journey, the blind faith that my closest friend and colleague has in me and his belief that nothing can dampen my spirits for long, the fact that I have so many best friends, not close friends but BEST friends, as childish as it may sound.
My mind that was in whirlwind, is still a little blurry, but it is at peace. My life may not be perfect but I have plenty of perfect moments. I might not be able to tackle all the problems in the best possible manner but I have His support and I will always have it no matter what. I don't really remember what my dreams were like but I do know that what I am trying to achieve will fulfill dreams of many others. Right at this moment I feel I have everything - my children, my family, my friends, and a clear path. And I have God!

Maut ka aik din muayyan hai, neend kyon raat bhar nahi aati...

The silent night once again is host to demonic shadows lurking, drawing closer. Numbness, the silence of death prevails. Blurred visions of those who once were, but are now part of dust, prance around. Why come back to haunt if they once loved me? A little hard to decipher the significance of Nana's grey, lifeless eyes staring at me from under the veil of night. Even more the ghosts of the ones who were once part of my life. Sleep is rare, and when it does spread its kind, blissful wings, the calm is abruptly shattered by nightmares; nightmares laced with fears and demons. And then that familiar face again! What good is it now?
Our desires change so rapidly as the journey called life goes on. There might have been so many at one time but now there is just one. Time! All I want is time! Enough of it, just enough of it!
And then tomorrow! If I do wake up, another beautiful morning! What a blessing to be woken up by sunlight streaming through the white drapes. What a melodious sound the little birds outside make, like music to the ears. Out of every single minute that God grants us during the twenty four hours, mornings are the biggest miracle! To be able to wake up, knowing you will be greeted by the cherub-like faces of your children, to be able to enjoy the morning breeze, to know that it's the start of another day, what more can one possibly want? Time! Yes, more time! Muhlut!Some words are just more meaningful in Urdu. Yes that is what would be the real miracle. Exactly as much time as I want. Not more and definitely not less. There is so much to be done, some to take care of, so much to see.
I close my eyes and just three faces appear, the two children and he, who will be, or perhaps not. But there is a name to mark the yet-to-be existence. There will always be that name.
It's strange how quickly the Book of Life approaches its soon-to-be end. So many chapters, many never read carefully while it was still possible. And just a few chapters left. The desire to write what the children will one day read with love and immense pride is the drive. The desire to outlive the fears and demons right behind. And that to make a few lives just a little better, just a little if not more.
The end of another day with the prayer of being able to see another morning, and another and many more such mornings.....

Of Fiction and Gardens

The desire to be able to write fiction lingers on somewhere in a corner of my mind. The fact that I'm more of a non-fiction writer with occasional glib one-liners is something I am not willing to accept just yet. My sorry sporadic attempts to still try my hand at fiction writing is often evident from certain blog posts on C'est la vie where I continue to inflict pain upon my readers as much as I love them. Every time I finish writing any such piece, it turns out to be a dark, depressing one which makes one wonder whether it was just a fragment of the writer's imagination or a reflection of her life. I choose to leave this question unanswered, more out of mischief than to create intrigue. I try to figure out what is it that inspires my posts (read incomplete fiction pieces) and what is it that gives them such a sullen, dark quality. All I can come up with is that it could be an overdose of Stephen King, Clive Barker and Dean R. Koontz during my growing years. A simpler and more realistic answer would be that I'm incapable of writing a decent narrative and my imaginary tales will always be laced with fragments of my nightmares which I do have frequently, bits and pieces of horror/thriller novels that I read at an age when I shouldn't have and my obsession with all psychopath thrillers. I realize that this confession is not coming out very well nor is it a good idea to even confess it on the cyber world where all the predators might be 'lurking in the shadows'. Somehow, like everything else, this fear too has failed to stop me from doing so continually. 

In sharp contrast to what I wrote here, I do want to share one of my favourite things to do, yet another post which has been due for the past week. Sometimes when I leave from work on time and I don't have too many errands to run on my way back, I like to frequent the local nurseries, a term used here for Garden Centres. A very long time back my claim to fame was killing plants, till out of sheer stubbornness, just the sort that I show in everything else, I developed a 'green thumb' one fine day. I write one fine day only because it has a nice ring to it. Truth is it took a lot of time, dedication and hard work, not to forget my friend Pinky's mentoring and my other friend Google's prompt solutions for all problems.   

As a result, today I'm quite the avid gardener, now known for being able to revive dying plants and for creating a green niche in every spot possible. At times, early morning when I'm watering my indoor plants before leaving for work, I look at their growing numbers and foresee children calling me the crazy plant lady one day. Coming back to what the 'crazy plant lady' is often upto in the evenings, not only do I go plant hunting, I also take countless photos while doing so. The guys over there are quite used to my strange antics, so no worries there. Once there, it's like another world - calm, serene and oh so beautiful! One tends to forget the day-to-day problems and just drifts towards this oasis of calm. Scorching heat is what I often face on most of my expeditions, however, the last few days have been pleasant - cloudy, with a gentle breeze giving out full signals of rain to come very soon, which of course deserves another blog post.  

The Ocean Mall peers through the trees and the weather is absolutely gorgeous!

It would be unfair not to share the absolutely amazing experience that I had the two times I went plant shopping last week. And to think the quest started with trying to get a few Dracaena Reflexa or more popularly known as Song of India (although local nursery wallas insist on calling it Song of Thai). I also had been longing to get my hands on a Silversand plant. The fact that I rubbed the leaves too hard in order to smell the fragrant plant and had an allergic reaction as a  result is another story, the details of which are definitely NOT worth sharing. 

I would suggest however, that if time permits, do take out a few minutes from your schedule and just take a stroll where these plants await with all their lushness and beauty. No house is too small for a gentle doze of greenery. You don't have to be a knowledgeable gardener to be able to enjoy them and keep them alive. There are plenty of plants that are hardy and very low maintenance - cacti, succulents, papyrus (umbrella plant) and many more. I of course do not claim to be the authority on horticulture, for that my dear readers, there's always good ol' Pasha, my friend! But well, we can all try even if we are not celebrity gardeners or have acres of land just for our green patch. Container gardening rocks too!

And now for some eye candy!

The few plants I bought which were quite enough to appease my voracious appetite for this month despite the lack of space. Silversand, Song of India, a Croton variety popularly known as Limo Croton and my Goosefoot plant (Singonium) peering through 

Rows of delight

The orange trumpets that we used to wear on our fingers as little girls and pretended we were witches :) Then we grew older and didn't have to pretend anymore ;)

The latest addition to the family

It was right over our heads and I found it beautiful. What's anyone gonna do about that?

My dream pathway with my favourite Tekoma plant with its lovely trumpet shaped orange blossoms

The End is Near...

I reach out...

But there's nothing there!

I look around but there's just this dark, brooding void enclosing around me. Shadows are lurking in the corners, queer, gigantic spheres of terror. The familiar faces are there no more. The promises that were yet to be made, broken already. The acts of love, the silent comforting embraces, are nothing but unfulfilled dreams now. How strange that one hears what one hears, one feels what one feels, one bears what one bears, yet picking up the pieces and moving on is the only choice one has. And choices! Ah! What choices we make! And what outcomes they have. 

But we need not worry. There is always one beautiful element in life that is left there by choice. And perhaps some beautiful memories too. And hope! Still hope! Of good days to come! Of love and new memories!  But when those we turn to for comfort turn their backs, you cringe, you cry, you hurt inside with such intensity that at that particular moment you feel nothing but that pain, twisting and turning sadistically inside you like a sharp, cruel dagger; yet you get up the next morning and do what you have to do. The disappointments multiply and you continue to live but deep within, you long for the end. What is it that would bring the end closer, nearer? What would make the test easier? I try and find the answer within....

Naya Purana Jaisa bhi, Sirf Hamara Pakistan!

I was never raised to vote. I was never encouraged to vote. I was never motivated to vote.

Once I started thinking for myself, and I must confess that it was very late in my life that it was possible to do so, I thought to myself, "Why stand in long queues in scorching heat and elect the same set of corrupt and incompetent people". All that was till we weren't given an option. The option to choose and elect someone different, someone who might or might not be able to meet our expectations or really try to turn things around, but nevertheless different! It was worth a shot. And then ofcourse the fact that kept pinching me that what sort of a Pakistani am I if I am not willing to go out there and do my bit. It's not just my right to vote, it is also my duty to vote. To sit at home and complain about the system being corrupt is not the solution. To go out there and vote for a change IS! 

It was a somewhat eventful day; one that taught me many things about myself and people in general, and one that brought a unique experience with it. I work for Karachi. I work for my people in my own capacity. I work to preserve and restore our cultural and architectural heritage from the platform of a Social Entrepreneurship and Equity Development company - SEED. The heritage preservation initiative 'Reimagining Karachi' was initiated by Faraz Khan, CEO SEED. Working on this project gave me a new perspective. It encouraged me to explore those parts of Karachi that we don't frequent. Faraz's passion for his country, city and people motivated me to get out of my shell, live the tough life, walk on foot, go to densely populated areas of the city, and it brought a revolutionary change in me. Heat didn't matter, congested roads, traffic, smoke from the vehicles, unkempt buildings; nothing mattered anymore. What mattered was the story behind all of these stone structures. What mattered was the welfare of the people, the progress of the project, dreams that were to be fulfilled, a better Karachi, a better Pakistan. 

May 11 started for me quite early. Unfortunately the day began with me spraining my ankle while working in my balcony garden. But the pain and the slight limp did not dampen my spirits. I chose to still go and vote. I stood in a long queue for four hours surrounded by a huge crowd because it was my duty to vote. I did not complain or feel infuriated by women pushing me or elbows jabbing me or constant chatter. You know why? Because out there I saw elderly men and women waiting to vote. I witnessed young girls dressed in tees and skinny jeans handing chilled bottled water to complete strangers out of goodwill. I was amazed by a really old, frail and completely hunched lady still coming to vote. My eyes were delighted at the sight of enthusiasm reflected in elderly people on wheel chairs trying to be part of the change, by young mothers with babies in their arms acknowledging that every vote counts, by young boys and girls volunteering to help those who did not have their serial numbers, by the number of people present. And also because I have no right to be striving to save the architecture and heritage of my city and country if I do not want to cast a vote. I'm still young and energetic; just a sprained ankle and my discomfort in large crowds is no excuse when people had come all the way from North Nazimabad to vote and when elderly women who could barely walk were there so full of excitement and patriotism. 

I chose to vote because this is my Pakistan, our Pakistan! 

Naya Purana Jaisa bhi, Hamara Pakistan! Sirf Hamara Pakistan. 

Hum Sindhi nahi, Punjabi nahi, Pathan nahi, Baloch nahi, Mohajir nahi! 

Hum se milye, hum sirf Pakistani hain!

Potpourri

My attempt to keep the past alive is getting stronger by the day. I hope to one day achieve what I call a fusion of past and present in me; the best of both worlds, old and new. I look up to glance at myself in the mirror as I write, and fail to recognize the real me behind the façade. Who am I? The quest to find myself continues.

A sudden early exit from the office today on the presumption of my failing health (if I may dare to be over-dramatic) had me ending up at a friend’s mom’s place. Things take their toll; demons, sins, life, and the fact that I chose to tear a part of me away for good, a part of me that was beautiful; a part of me leaving which I still fail to understand. A part of me that understood the real me like no one else. Anyhow, I was sick, car-less and stranded. With none of my friends available to give me a ride back home, I thought of Pinky’s mom who loves me enough to come and collect me. I often want to sink deep in the dark abyss of ingratitude. I try, believe me I try. But so many wonderful people around me, so much beauty and goodness, so much compassion in people just wouldn’t let me. I keep coming across people who are so full of love and I keep making new friends. Whoever said you could only make lifelong friends till a certain age and that is quite youngish. I refuse to believe that! Based on my own experience, I keep bumping into people who become very close friends in a very short span of time. The world is full of such wonderful people. I’m amazed to be writing what I’m writing and for believing all that I do, at a time like this. I should be sinking lower and lower in sorrow and grief. I have to admit that it stays, but so does hope.

And my past! My brother once asked in astonishment how I could just block certain things out and not even remember them. I didn’t have a reply to that. I believe that so much of my quiet, lonely yet content childhood had taken over my mind that there was no place left for any tormenting memories. My first most wonderful memories are those of my grandparents and not of my mom or dad. My parents both worked and it was my nana who raised me for the first few years. The first child in the family twenty years after my khala, I was, in their eyes, the most precious, the most adorable creature who was bestowed upon them only to be cherished. Yes, I was a princess in that house and for the longest time I believed that I was, in fact a real princess. The fact that our bloodline connected straight to Raja Rana Sanga further endorsed this belief. Papa always called me a ‘Raj Kumari’ a Rajput princess. I was nana’s Baata, Papa’s Laali, baray mamu’s Bulloo, and everyone else’s Tadoo. None of these nicknames fail to embarrass me, but at the same time they remind me of the immense and unconditional love that these people had for me. Nana is long gone, so is Papa, and unfortunately not many who used to call me Tadoo remain. But baray mamu is around and has a special place in his heart for me even today. Baray mamu, whom I called mama was quite something. Tall and handsome once, he is now just a shadow of what I remember him as. My many 'firsts' were because of him. First time I had an ice lolly, first view master (yes, it was a gadget), first few picnics at the beach, first fresh gigantic cone from Spinzer and many more.

And then there was my khala whom I called Adda, and later, so did everyone else including her siblings. With her ivory skin and ebony curls, she stood out amongst her siblings. She took care of me most of the time. A clean freak, she was the most immaculate person I knew. And she was so simple at heart. I adored her. She was my aunt, my sister, my friend, my confidant. Long gone after succumbing to cancer, she still lives in my memories. When the sabzi wala would come in the gali, she would lower a lovely wicker basket tied with a rope for him to put her desired vegetables in it and would draw it back again. That tradition is nowhere to be seen anymore but how I miss it and how I loved watching her do that.

And the goodies we had to eat. Til ke laddoo, gurya ke baal and batashay! Oh I loved batashay! The flat shell-like sweetness that just melted in my mouth once I was done crunching it. 

I had some strange habits. I liked to sit on the stairs and chat endlessly with choti khala, I would lie on the takhat in the verandah upstairs, my legs flailing, watching the sky through the open space, I hid in corners playing with my imaginary friends who were always over for tea, and I always had a favourite spot to hang out, somewhere in the house. I still do. Today, in my house, I have two reading corners, one where I read early morning, one where I read at night; I have a spot where I like to have an orange or two every single day till the season lasts; I have a favourite corner to sulk and one to sob if need be; and my most favourite spot is right in front of the balcony door where I can see the neem tree across my house and my evergreens right in the centre of the balcony.

I realize my world is very small, very limited, interlaced with old memories and some new ones as they are formed; but I like living in my small, simple world. I know nothing about science and technology, but I know how the civilizations began and what led to their downfall. It may not put me in the league of super smart people like my brother or my boss for instance, but it keeps me content and strong inside. It keeps me going. It keeps me interested in life and all the little things about it. It helps me move on. I want to stay fully connected to my past because all I remember are beautiful things about it. I want to stay within my small world because this is the real me, this is who I am. 

Footsteps of Insanity

I'm on the roll these days, writing away like someone whose life depends on it, and it does!Under the veil of composure I can sense the dark shadows of insanity and loss creeping towards me. I try to buy time, I look the other way, I lose myself in laughter, yet I can hear its menacing hiss.
Laughter comes easily to me. What is it but merely a sound!It is so easy to produce that sound. I came across a strange laughter a year back and for some odd reason I did not find it contagious. It was high-pitched, hearty, constant, as if someone had promised a reward at the end of it. But I wondered. It was so similar to my own laughter. High, hollow! I laugh! I laugh all I want! I laugh at the silly jokes cracked and I laugh to drown the voice inside my head. I laugh to forget and I laugh to live. But the dark shadows keep coming closer and closer.
And then the desire to have a dreamless night. Did I just deserve those first few nights of sleep? Why are the dreams back? Why are they interwoven with nightmares? Last night I wondered if I had been cursed. Why is it that I have been waking up at 3:36 am every night for so many days? Why not 4:00 am or 6:00 am? Is there a significance of this hour that I don't know of? What time would it be there? Is that the time when I come alive in another mind? Is this when Bosphorus is imagined together? Why that particular hour? Nightmares kept me up most of the night. I'm content with life or whatever is left of it. But that contentment comes with a price. A very heavy price! But then everything does! I prayed last night after the first nightmare that I don't feel afraid. but the less afraid I was, the more nightmares there were. Is it a test? Why are some lives nothing but a test?
There was a dream last night. It was dark. It was difficult. But I had someone to hold onto. And we both saved each other from disappearing into nothingness and held hands till the end. What is the significance of that dream? I fail to understand. I don't need a saviour. I don't need anything to hold onto. I don't think much during the day. My mind is occupied with other things: work to do, friends to meet, books to read. I chose not to leave any slots in my mind for things of the past. Why then would the recurring dreams not leave me alone? I wasn't the only one! I wasn't important! I was never important! Why am I cursed then? I chose the easier path. I chose it out of the sheer need of being given the feeling that I exist. I chose it out of fear of loss. I chose it because it was my right to do so. I chose it to keep the demons at bay. I chose it because there was no other way.I chose it because of things I heard, and because of things I did not hear. I chose it because, well, just because...And I'm happy! I'm happy as I have never been happy before. I wake up telling myself I'm happy and I go to bed telling myself the same. And yes, at times I AM happy, more than I deserved perhaps. But happiness also comes at a price. What doesn't? So I move on and close the doors even tighter, never to open them again. Nothing will make me open them again, absolutely nothing! I make my way through each day, determined not to give up, losing myself in words, colours, laughter. And i know I will soon be forgotten, replaced by another, but it's quite alright. I wish I could too. Or perhaps I don't. My ties with everything beautiful in the past are very strong, stronger than most people. And to forget the most beautiful, wonderful thing in my past would be my loss. I might not have moments or word or promises to look back upon, but I share the mind that has the same dreams and I share the heart that sings the same song. The song of heaven! So I continue to let it live on in my mind and in my heart, singing the melodious yet melancholic song along with another, for as long as I live!

Nani Jan ka Aangan

The first four blooms in my Jasmine plant brought a strange sense of calm this morning. A night that was laced with nightmares, waking me up every few minutes and an extremely early morning on a Sunday which could have been avoided sleeping cozily till 9, became blurred with the beauty and fragrance of the white flowers. I had been checking every morning for the last four days, waiting for the delicate buds to uncurl and give birth to one of my favourite local flowers. They take me back to where the story started from - nani jan ka aangan. I remember the little girl gazing open-mouthed at the frangipani tree right outside, the clear blue skies, the friendly Christian neighbours talking outside the gate. I remember the sunny afternoons when everyone would be asleep but that girl would stay up during the warm afternoons, carefully filling up her smock with the white blossoms strewn on the pakka farash of the courtyard. The rows of evergreens on two wrought-iron stands, the Quaid-e-Azam look-alike (in her opinion) grandfather keeping an eye on her from the verandah out of sheer over-protectiveness , the house sparrows chirping gaily and often perching skeptically on the edge of the wall and the Jasmine bush! Oh the Jasmine bush! The delicate ivory blooms, the heavenly fragrance, the divinity! Her world was so complete - phool, chiyya, Tadoo, ghar! Chiyya being the birds she was friends with, Tadoo the Godforsaken nickname given to her which she did not find very flattering later. All those wonderful people who doted on her, left one by one. Some gave in to sickness, some to old age and others just to relieve themselves of the pains that life inflicted upon them. She often wondered, how is it that this particular family saw more death than many others she knew. But then she was told that it was only a select few who are so dear to God that God likes them with Himself on the skies, so she was content knowing the fact that her loved ones who were gone, were happy with God, in a special place.
Nani's aangan had a special meaning to her. It was her playground, her adventure park, her happy place. There was always so much to do in that square piece of land: setting traps for the sparrows, setting them free after a few minutes of triumphant pleasure; running after the occasional frog, then shrieking hysterically when it would leap near her foot; lying flat on her back watching birds fly past, playing hopscotch on a crude hand-drawn chalk grid and making garlands. Yes, every evening she would pick Jasmine flowers from the bush that now reached the upper floor, and carefully run a needle through them, turning them into a fragrant gajra for nani. Nani was a petite figure, always wrapped in a pristine cotton sari and a neat plait. She once roamed the aangan keeping it immaculate as herself. Now confined to her takhat and a wheelchair, she still had an authoritative air about her. She was a nani straight out of a storybook , with her paandan and takhat with white chandnis and gao takyas (bolsters). And then she had countless stories to tell. The first brush with koh qaaf ka jaadoogar, alif laila, uran qaaleen, and the likes was all due to nani. And then there were fact-based (according to her) tales of pacchal peirees a.k.a. churails, that chased either her or her friends or some cousin back in India. She was born in Gorakhpur, a name that fascinated the little girl till she finally got to visit the little town at the age of seven, maybe eight. To say she remembered vaguely would not be correct. She remembered most of it. The cycle-rikshaws, the pigs roaming around, the Hindu and Sikh girls from the mohalla whom she had befriended. And when it would rain, which was almost everyday as the trip had been taken during the monsoon season, the girls in the neighbourhood would arrange for a huge swing on one of the trees. The swing could accommodate about half a dozen girls in one go. Her mother's aunt, nani's sister, owned the fields right behind the house. Often she would accompany pappal nani as she chose to call her for some odd reason. The monkeys that used to sit on the walls, visiting frequently because of the guava tree in pappal nani's aangan were never forgotten. And so the little girl's story went on from one nani's aangan to another nani's aangan till one day she grew too big to be playing in either of them. She did however reminiscence often and dared to share her romantic associations with aangans with the only one who would understand.
The rest remained in her memories, her dreams, her heart, and perhaps another heart that shared her passion for ties with the past...

Because you dared to reimagine...

What good is this life if we don't dare to dream, if we don't have the courage to move past all hurdles, if we don't reimagine?
You dared...
The little girl who liked looking out the car window at the balconies in the old area of Saddar, reimagining them in pristine condition, died a slow death; or so you thought. Perhaps she never met her death but was in deep slumber. Perhaps she just needed to be awakened with gentle love. Perhaps she chose to close her eyes till the day came when she could open her eyes to a sight worth seeing. And awakened she was! And the sight was everything she ever dreamed of. But it wasn't for her; it wasn't hers. Was it a delusion?
People appear what they aren't and you know that. You know what they really are. People warn you, they tell you to be wary; but the world seems like a better place with them and you ignore all warnings, all signs. As you move forward with them, you realize you are not really moving forward at all but are stuck in one spot. But the illusion, oh so beautiful! There is no way forward, no end in sight, nothing to hold onto; yet you grasp onto a tiny shred of hope with all your might and just don't want to let go. You know deep down you are not the first, you know you will not be the last, you know you were not the only one; yet you hang on. You know what people tell you is true, yet you hold on. You know there is nothing special about you, yet you hang on. You know no one will ever return, yet you hang on. It's humiliating, heart-breaking, like someone twists a dagger through your heart each morning and wrenches it every night. Your mind and heart are in a constant battle everyday. You spend your days with a new hope and nights with a rapidly deepening sense of hopelessness and sorrow. Till one day you decide to make a choice, bury the dreams and close all doors as tight as possible. You move forward with a vengeance, refusing to let anything dampen your spirits. You try to build new dreams, but all you see is haze. You still move ahead with a determination never to look back! You banish all memories from you mind to the darkest place in your heart. You refuse to acknowledge the face that lingers in you mind. You turn to your heart and urge it to sing a new song, full of hope and love. You peep into your heart and gather happy moments to fill it with. You make yourself  believe that you were justified in making the choices that you did. You continue to blame others for treating a poor heart like a plaything. But you move ahead. You keep your pace. Your stance changes however. You lose the chirpiness, the patience, the composure you were once known for. But you do move ahead. You put on a brave front and go through your daily motions almost mechanically. And you try to find joy in brief moments with a few special ones. And you try to let go... yes, you try hard. You try to erase the familiar face from your thoughts, your mind, your heart...you try so hard! What went wrong? Or was it wrong from the very beginning? Did it even exist? So you die with countless unanswered questions?
And all because you dared to reimagine life....

There's always a catch...

The choices we make in life, good or bad, all come with a price. And life itself? I call it crazy, twisted but it's so much more than that. Like a big black hole that just sucks everything in.
Sometimes I feel it's all one big game for Him. He places us where he pleases, then just sits back and has His fun. But then He can! What are we but mere puppets! For He chooses to make us play the role of puppets. And one after another, He springs surprises upon us, watching us smile, cry, hurt, writhe in pain. And then with everything that we are granted, there is always a catch! Nothing is granted just like that. There are always two sides to everything; what we see, and what He sees...
What if we look at life from another perspective? From His perspective. Can we?
I sometimes feel that I have left my physical form and just floated out of my body and am able to see a different view of the world. We all experience that at some point in our lives whether we realize it or not. Or perhaps we do realize it but are not willing to acknowledge it.
I witness so many bizarre happenings around me. Strangers become soul mates and once soul mates, become strangers. It's almost as if those hundreds of days never existed between the two. You spend more than a decade figuring out the real meaning of life and then just give up. You feel tired, your feet refusing to take another step and you just let yourself go with the flow, knowing there is no end in sight, yet hoping there will be one. What other choice is there? He wrote the script; He pulls the strings; He runs the show. And you thought you made all those choices? What fools? So just move with the rhythmic motion and let Him take you where you're destined to end up. What good is fighting it? Go with the flow, let yourself be taken into what the future holds for you. Let fate decide! There will always be a catch! There always is! Every time you think you have conquered the world, stop right there! It is He who has made you believe that you are in charge; but you're NOT!!! The world at your feet is a delusion! You being in control merely a figment of your imagination. The correct choice infact is not the correct choice, but if it makes you happy for now, so be it! It has its price, and you will pay! What you left behind was not the correct choice either. There IS no correct choice! There never IS! So be content with what is there, and brush aside what isn't there. Be content, be content my heart! You have a long, long way to go. Do not let the demons pull you in abyss! Fight them with all your might! Let them know that you have the will to banish them to the deepest darkest corners of your mind. Let them howl and wail all they want. Be strong my poor heart! For you have a long way to go!

Dreams tucked away...

Sometimes it's best to wrap away your most special dream in your trusty old trunk and put a big padlock on it. And once you do that you get your first night of dreamless sleep in ages. Sleep still doesn't come easily, but when it does, you for the first time, do not see that familiar face that you did every single night, and what's even better is that you don't see the baby boy who pops in for a surprise visit every now and then. You do wonder however, the significance of the dreams that have been part of your nights for such a long time. Will they still come and haunt you? Blocking out thoughts has never been more difficult, but it is still achievable like everything else in the world. But will it be difficult at the other end also? For the sake of easing pain for others, one can only hope it is. But then a small part of this selfish heart also desires for a tiny shred of memory to remain in the other's heart.
What a crazy twisted thing this life is! And what surprises it bears! And the difference in desires. Some desire  wealth, some desire fame; a few wish for nothing but love and yes I do mean JUST love! All the money and fame in the world cannot make them let go of this desire. And when they do get it, sometimes like a fool they don't know how to take care of it and let go; at other times they grasp it with both hands and cherish it forever. These fools usually always have one thing in common - they always want reciprocation. They want the same amount of love in return if not more. They want their own love to be acknowledged and cherished. They want to hear things and they feel the need to be held quietly with no words spoken sometimes. They need to be loved! And when they don't get that, they get shattered, in thousands of tiny pieces which cannot be put together. But the strong ones put up a brave front, gather the shards, put them all together, taking the sharpest one and piercing it through the heart to remember what they had done and what they had stepped on to eventually find happiness and go on with their lives; finding peace and happiness in the moments of companionship and pushing back tears when alone, for those tears were never meant to roll down the cheeks when one has passed on that heartache to someone else in order to buy happiness.
So here I am today, gently wrapping away all the dreams and desires that I had cherished for so long; the desire to dance in the rain, to be dragged out when it snows; the dream of Bosphorus together and that of the city with the smoke signals. I wrapped away my dream of finding a five leaved clover and wish for just one thing that I wanted more than anything else; I gave up my dream of walking hand in hand down the beach quietly. I released the fireflies, free to attain their dreams and not be part of mine. And yes, I wrapped away many dreams I never dared to share; the one where I'm taken to the winding streets of Cambridge and I gape at the the architectural marvels and someone mischievously leaves me there till I realize that I'm alone and am in tears till I see a familiar face at a distance with that beautiful smile and I run to be held in a warm embrace, never to let go. I gave up on the dream of visiting Toledo with someone equally mesmerised by things that intrigue me. I shed no tears while I put away all my dreams and desires in the dusty old trunk. I did so with a heavy heart, tight-lipped but without a single tear. I tore away a piece of my heart and put it with those dreams to keep them warm but I didn't shed a single tear. I tore a piece of another's heart and put it inside to keep my heart company, but I did not shed a single tear. I felt a strange numbness spreading all over and felt grateful for it and I remembered how I had been praying for the last few weeks that may God take me down the road that turns out to be the best for me and my children in the long run. No need to shed tears. I took the safer route. No need to shed tears! Tears are for weaklings! No need to shed tears when you are at peace most of the time and have love to find solace in. No need to shed tears because no one asked you to burn that trunk; it's safely tucked away. There was a bonfire though; to burn all the art to be enjoyed together and the books to be read together and moments that were spent together, but let's just make room in the trunk for all those too. I might not dare to open that trunk but the other might someday.

Of dreams and desires

I realized two days back that I have never seen fireworks; at least in real life. I now wonder what it must be like. The deafening sound and the sight; like hundreds of stars have shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. It is these small, probably insignificant experiences that I want now. Not to say that I have had any great, significant experiences in my life. Never climbed a mountain, NO Sir! Never went bungee jumping, are you kidding me? Never jumped off a plane for what they call sky diving though I did dream of it once and it was beautiful. Never went cruising or jet skiing or snorkeling. This makes me seem like such a sorry little creature doesn't it? But I'm not. I have an excuse for every single one of these. Bungee Jumping? Oh I have Vertigo. Sky Diving? I'm afraid of heights. Snorkeling? I won't be able to breathe, in my head at least. Jet Skiing? What if my hands get tired and I'm not able to hold the rope like thing, whatever it is. Cruising? Umm, sea-sickness! Mountains? I'm no climber! See! It's an endless list of excuses and I'm very good at cooking up some.
I have been for para gliding once and went on a banana boat ride which in my world, was heroic. But that is the extent of my adventures and I did pat myself on my back after I accomplished these arduous tasks. Oh and I have also killed a teeny tiny baby gecko once with a wiper and then screamed my lungs out even though it should have been the gecko screaming. I have also had the not so delightful experience of riding a camel and well, umm I recited the first kalma loud and clear for all the onlookers or bystanders, whatever you want to call them, throughout the ride. What!!! I told you I was afraid of heights and in my defense, I was very young and the camel has a very unpleasant manner of attempting to stand and to sit for that matter.
Anyways, back to the experiences that I WANT to have. I want to be able to dance in the rain again, to explore the ruins of the Ottoman Empire, to join the large crowds on foot at one of the most important cities of the world that just one person was able to guess, to feel the adrenaline rush when I finally witness a heritage building being restored to its former glory, to be able to go on a very long drive with someone I can talk to without uttering a single word. I want to be able to finish reading all the books on my very long bucket list; I want to stay up all night gazing at the night sky lit up with the twinkle of the stars. I want to walk down the beach for hours, quietly, and to sit under the shade of a tree and read in peace. I want to travel the world and see it as I have imagined it to be and to admire the architecture of the eras long gone. I want to run like a little girl trying to catch butterflies and feel the tiny fire flies enclosed in my hand. I want to see the rainbow and walk through the clouds. I want to sing the whole day while sitting by the lake in Skurdu as I did two years back. I want to lose myself in colours and music and love. I want to write up a storm and leave lots of stories behind. And yes, I want to die knowing that I have done all of these insignificant little things in life because I wanted to. For I want to live my life!

When it snowed...

She had never seen snow before. She wasn't expecting to see it now. She was already living her dream, being where she was and with whom she was. Growing up, she never once thought of going to a place where it snowed. She liked warmer climates; they were so much more comfortable and she hated the cold anyways. But all of that changed. It's always about who you are doing things for and who you are doing things with. Things you had never wanted to do before, places you never desired to see, dreams you never dared to dream; all of that changes. But here she was, and it was beautiful! Like a fragment of the most beautiful piece of imagination, like a moment that one wishes for to freeze.
Sometimes she wondered why people wasted so much time over-planning special moments. Special moments are scattered all around us; in tender embraces, in silent companionship, in moonlit walks, in gentle whispers. And then sometimes you get this entire sphere of special moments altogether; like that day when she first saw snow. Watching the white flakes fall from the sky was not special; watching the white flakes fall from the sky with him WAS! He dragged her out excitedly to feel the powdery softness of the snowflakes. It was heaven. Tiny white specks on his hair brought out a tenderness and warmth in her that she had never felt before. But she needed a quiet moment, away from him; just a few minutes to absorb all that she was experiencing; the overwhelming feeling of being with him, the butterflies when he wanted to see the look of wonderment on her face, the gratitude, the sadness, the reality. She looked at him and he understood. He let go of her hand and she quietly walked away, her head bent low, hands in her pockets. She went further away from him till she could barely make out his silhouette; drew in her breath and turned around. As she reached closer to where she had been with him, she saw him standing, looking at her, waiting quietly for her to return; as he always did and always will. Her face lit up, she ran to him, losing herself in the warm embrace that said more than he had ever said to her in words. She felt loved, secure, cared for. She always complained that he didn't express what he felt. She didn't need those words anymore. His still being there said everything. They walked in the snow hand in hand, never to let go of each other or that moment again.

This piece of writing is a fragment of the writer's imagination and and is purely fictional. Resemblance to anyone would be purely coincidental.

My Ordinary Life!

I am no ordinary woman; I am even more ordinary than the ordinary woman! While she would like to shop for designer lawns and try out every new, hip restaurant in town; I would spend that same time wrapping a tatty old table's legs in rope and decoupaging it to turn it into a coffee table. I live a somewhat simple life or so I would like to believe, and I'm striving to make it even more simpler. I have seen the highs and lows as we all have, and I know there are many more to come. During the lowest point in my life I am constantly reminded of all the beauty and goodness that I am surrounded with. The plants that I tend to, the brief period in the morning when I water them; the amazing works of writing and art that people prolifically produce and I'm able to enjoy; the feathered visitors that come regularly to take a dip in the little pond out there in the balcony, the special moments with my children, the most amazing line of work that I am in, the wonderful people I'm surrounded with, the talent that inspires me, the steaming cup of tea every morning that Mushtaq the tea boy makes, the silence of the night, my quiet time, the crickets chirping outside, a few beautiful memories, my plant stake windmills whizzing away in the breeze, the delectable flavours that my taste buds are often enticed with, the sound of the bamboo wind chimes, the fragrance of Jasmine, the sight of my office every morning and how it excites me when I'm just a few minutes away; the list is endless.
I spend my mornings watching the sunrise and pampering my plants; my day working on something that gives me more pleasure than any other work could have, and my evenings enjoying the little anecdotes that my children come up with. Nights are another story though. That is my time that I love to spend reading or doodling on my notepad while trying to figure out what I want to work on more, a graphic fact-based fiction piece on parenting or one on a group of patriotic, optimistic, courageous youngsters. So I scribble and I doodle and I write and then doodle some more. Somehow the crude sketches always turn out better in my head than on paper. Then the writing bit - I don't really write much, I type; so I doodle on the notepad, then scribble two lines, then feel overly exhausted by the strenuous task of scribbling those two lines and then just take the easy way out and type away on my laptop that really truly needs a break. If I think about it, I don't do much apart from what I have mentioned above. My modes of entertainment? Cinema, theatre, books, art, friends and a little music. It just makes me realize how limited my world is and how similar all my interests are. I would love to be a more diversified kind of a person but I'm just not. But you know what, I'm satisfied with my ordinary life because I get to do what I truly want and enjoy. So this one is to my ordinary yet content life :)

When whispers are unheard...

Words seem so hollow, gestures futile...
Time flies by with no regard for what I might be losing on the way. It wouldn't slow down, wouldn't let me take a breather.
The once familiar faces are somewhat blurred now; the gentle voices fading away. Those who wanted to be part of the days to come, have been ripped away by the merciless hands of ego and foolishness; yet have somehow managed to remain in memories. And the shadows of the ones who were never there haunt me at night and will continue to do so.
Life is playing its crazy, mindless games, showing an occasional ray of light and snatching it away before one can blink. The sweet murmurs that once were, sound like howls of infuriated wind blowing angrily at night. Tenderness in eyes has now been replaced with two gold flecks of hatred cloaked by indifference. It's almost as if they were always strangers; never together.
What does one really want? Is it different for everyone, or is there a similar need inherent inside each one of us? How can we tell when there's a perfect match? How can we tell when we are chasing fast disappearing shadows? Are they ever meant to slow down for us or will they continue their pace? And what about the ones we have left behind? What if there was no justification for that?
Life has become a huge box that is full to its brim with questions. I wonder what all will be lost on the way while I seek the answers to those...

A Forlorn Existence

Saturday, January 19! A day that reminded me of potpourri. A potpourri of emotions; one that brings with itself a strange blend of highs and lows. An early start with a feeling of chirpiness, positivity and eagerness; mid morning laced with anticipation; an afternoon entwined with a sense of hopelessness and rejection and the evening...
Yes it was the evening that brought with it what scared me the most.. loneliness! A deep sense of forlorn existence.
Work was not as fun as it usually is. Of course the fact that I started much earlier than usual and finished most of it by mid noon also had something to do with it. Taking half the day off seemed like the best thing to do at that moment. A plan to go to the movies with friends at work didn't materialize so I went off for the next best thing; an hour at the bookstore. But while roaming around the mall after I was done with my humble shopping of two paperbacks, I experienced this feeling of being all alone in the mall, wandering around, not being able to absorb anything around me, the world in my imagination taking over the reality, blurring everything around me. Where had all the people disappeared? It's a Saturday for heaven's sake! The mall is supposed to be crowded. But all I could see was haze; whirling around me, trying to swallow me. I needed to see a familiar face.. I needed to feel the comfort of being watched over. I needed certainty.
I realized that I had consciously chosen this path for with it comes hope. It leads to the world of happiness, sunny days and laughter. It brings with it serenity and peace. It's just the road leading to it that is long, dusty and lonely. The destination may be very far but with patience and conviction, I can reach it, and I WILL! And once I'm there, there will be raindrops and rainbows, all waiting for me with open, welcoming arms and ready to magically erase the forlorn existence.