Dear KLF, You Brought Papa Back to Life!

Of all the sensations and experiences I might have had in the four decades of my life, the most disturbing was the touch of my palm against the soles of Papa's lifeless, cold feet. In a blurred moment I saw some people bent upon him perhaps trying to revive him or figure out if there was just a tiny ray left; but I knew! I knew with my hands pressed against his feet that he was no more. My larger than life father, with his outspoken demeanor and intimidating gaze would never rise again. 

I'm a writer; it's in my genes. I find solace in the beautiful leaves of a journal scribbling away with a pencil, its scraping sound against the pages as soothing for my nerves as the cooing of the pigeons on my windowsill. I write to pour my heart out, I write to survive, I write to be able to live fully, to fight, to find courage, to shed my tears where no one will judge me. I write because for the first three decades of my life that's all I knew. But I could not write about him. I could not share even within the silent pages of my journal the grief, the void. So I withdrew, and put up so many facades that I lost track of Papa's little princess. She once was, but not anymore. The veil of indifference with occasional emotional outbursts of emotions expressed everything except a single word about that fateful night when he became one with the earth.

I went to the 8th Karachi Literature Festival last evening, the first time since it started many years ago. Over the years many asked me why despite such strong literary roots do I never attend it, why am I never part of it. I found many excuses to hide behind - large crowds, prejudice, indifference, lack of time; every single time finding a new, rather untrue reason for resistance. I went there yesterday because I knew I needed to; a voice inside drawing me to it, telling me to go find myself in a crowd of hundreds. I went there to salvage the ties to my family, revisit my roots, hear a friend speak, and to admire a woman who against all odds had built OUP and KLF to what they are. I went because I could not resist anymore yet did not expect what I found there. I found my father! I heard him in the speeches, in the humour by Mustansir Hussain Tarrar, and in the silky smooth Urdu by Arfa Sayeda Zehra; I saw him sway in delight at the couplets being recited occasionally, and smiling proudly at the statement by Arfa Sayeda that "those who are living under the notion that Urdu is a diminishing language could not be more wrong". I saw crowds around him greeting him with respect, and his old friends and acquaintances amused at his one liners. I saw him pleased, and proud, and just so happy, and I realized this was home to him; and he was there, all around me. I had been mourning a death for 16 years that never happened...

Demons in Words

I feel like I'm playing a role in a horror movie, or rather, I'm stuck in one. Wherever I look there are words everywhere - hollow, stark, staring at me with a demonic glare. Everywhere I look, they are always there! My laptop, the phone, the book I was reading, documents strewn across my desk, every notebook I open, they seem to be all over. How did I produce so many? How do we all produce so many of them? All the messages we write, and countless emails, to-do lists, and contracts. I can feel them crawling towards me in eerie silence, with their creepy antennae feeling for my existence, to take over my being. I take a few steps back but they are surrounding me; I have nowhere to go. I'm their slave, begging for mercy, looking for a thin flimsy ray of light to hold onto. But there is none...

I look around desperately trying to find a fresh, blank canvas, to start over, start afresh, but I see words and letters, more of them, so many of them. If I don't speak much and crawl back into my shell like a hermit, will they let go? Will they step back or are they going to haunt me forever? Words I said and wrote, all the poems swaying like old trees on a windy night, all the pieces of writing calling out for me, to grapple me, trying to submerge in my mind once again. I don't have the capacity anymore! I'm maxed out! No more words for me. No more words of insanity or joy, peace or reality, logic or reason, love or hardships. Not one more word!

I embrace the suppressed desire to be surrounded by light, to be part of that blank canvas I so wish to see. Nothing but white, deathly, yet eternally peaceful....

Evanescence

I place my elbows on the table and prop my forehead in the palms of my hands; the warmth emanating from my skin merges with that of my palms. I close my eyes and wait for the moments to slow down gradually till they come to a standstill, and I heave a sigh.

Once again I find myself transported to the land where dark silhouettes wait with open arms, ready to possess me. Once again, I fall prey to their promise to take me in, to grant me a life that swirls around in the ghoulish corridors of a place unbeknown to many. I let myself drift with them, moving towards the dreariness that marks their land, now my own. I float in the air, almost weightless, feeling further and further away from where my feet could touch the ground. The atmosphere is thick with mystery waiting to unfold but only when I am ready to submerge myself in its dark, dismal clouds. 

But I am! I AM! 

Take me in, for I have left behind the facades that I held in place for what now seems like hundreds of years. I'm ready to let go. I'm ready to let your still unfamiliar to me deathliness, to engulf me like a mother would take her newborn in her arms, with love and care unmatched. Seep in through every pore of my skin till you and I become one, never to be apart again. 

I'm closer now; I can feel a bristly caress on my skin; I can hear the hoarse whispers, inviting me to your world. Is it you? Come forth, show me the ghastly murks that mark your land. I have braced myself to be far apart from the world that witnessed my birth, and the world that tore me apart.  

Hold me tight, never to let go, for I want nothing more than to be a faded shadow of yesterday. 

This world of mortals would never understand; to evanesce, is to live!!!

Walk with me, just walk with me...

Rip apart the dreams that once traced the contours of my soul,
Rip apart the chords that held together the lies and truth yet untold.
Walk with me in the still of the night, laced with cries of death,
Don't turn back! The shrieks you hear are nothing but the demon's breath.
Just walk with me, oh walk with me, on a path that leads nowhere,
Merge your soul with the enchanting song that forms my cloud of despair.

I tread carefully on the path that turns into a narrow strip further down till my eyes can see it; tiptoeing, holding my breath. I feel the eeriness of the night around me swaying wildly to the tune emerging from nowhere. One step, two steps... I move forward slowly. The air heavy with a sinister dullness seems to be almost still all but for the occasional croaking of an old toad left behind, separated from his friends. I look up towards the sky and pause for a moment at the ghostly face of the silent moon, melancholic and lost in its own shadow.
The temptation to turn back is strong; strong enough to make me wonder why I ever changed the path. But the sound of the soulful music from a land far away continues to tug at the strings of my heart. What am I to do? Turn back and trade my soul for momentary delights? Or continue to move towards the grieving cloud far away that stands steadily and still to take me in its warm embrace?
The sound of laughter makes one last effort to lure me into turning back; my feet are glued to the ground; I can neither move forward nor turn back...
But when I do, whichever path I may take, walk with me, just walk with me...

Embrace Me O Lord of Shadows!

The willful dance of death, its shadows moving rhythmically to the beat of my almost silent heart, continues towards the urging dark of the tunnel. The ferocious tentacles of silence closing in to grasp me with a force unbeknown to me. I heave a sigh and let my body go limp, giving up the hope of ever being able to gather the shattered pieces of my soul; hundreds of them, fragmented, scattered all around what is left of me.

The sky is turning a strange colour, dark, with a tinge of orange; the trees swaying, dancing in perfect harmony with the dark cloud approaching me. The hollow sound of laughter dies within at the warmth of the demon's breath on the nape of my neck, moving slowly down my spine, leaving behind a trail of tingling sensations.

I turn around one last time, my eyes woefully trying to absorb the last ray of light forming a thin streak. I try to reach out in hope of being pulled out and engulfed in gentle, warm embrace; but the demons surrounding me laugh and hasten their pace towards me.

I stand alone, arms by my side, head bent, tearing up at the sight of the diminishing light. And I wait... I wait quietly for the shadows to tire from their wild dance and lace their skeletal fingers encircling me till they come suffocatingly close; and I finally embrace the shadows! We are one, the shadows and I...

I Fail, The Mirror Fails!

The rare moment when it dawns upon you that, which never was, and that which will never be. The thought and faith that held you together all this while never existed. There seems to be no room for denial now; the only thing left is amazement at your own blindness. 

I float from room to room looking for a mirror that would show me my own reflection, that had the courage to show me the truth. I fail, the mirror fails. 

I go out in the dark, the silence of the night engulfing my tired soul, my own hollow laugh lashing back at me like shrieks of widows mourning, wailing. And I stand there numb, allowing the breeze to encircle me yet not feeling its coolness against my skin. There seems to be nothing worth standing for outside anymore, not the wind nor the fragrance of the frangipani blooms. Once inside, I stand quietly once again not knowing where to go, what to do. Like a wax doll devoid of life, my motionless silhouette stays within the shadows for a long time, until I muster the courage to walk towards a large mirror again. And then I see it! 

The pale face, dilated, watery eyes staring back at me with no more questions left in them. And in that haze I see so much yet nothing at all. I see the smoke rise, I hear the pigeons cooing away a rhythmic tune, I see the pages of a book fluttering by the wind, and I hear a poem. The poem!

It was there, all of it, yet so far from my reach. I tried placing my hand on the vision that appeared, the tattered yellow pages of that book; was that poem in one one of those pages? I wanted to run after each one of those flying yellow leaves of that book, looking for verses that might have my name, chasing after dreams, trying to capture the memories and place them safely deep within my heart; but they were scattered all over now. I see music notes escaping, words turning dull like they would if you place them in murky waters; I see shrouds of memories whirling away in dust of time; and I see the mirror then right in front of me hoping my reflection would be there. There was nothing; the shadow nor the faint remembrance of an image that was once me...

Chasing Light...

It seemed like the end of the tunnel, the streak of light that she had been chasing all this while, running sometimes stumbling towards it with threadbare shoes and bleeding feet, seemed to have merged with the dark. The music that touched the strings of her heart once was now barely audible; the hope, the mystery, the undeniable pleasure that she found in both were long gone. There seemed to be a strange emptiness lingering in the air, and eeriness like hundreds of widows in black, mourning, wailing out aloud. The mustiness was making it difficult to breathe now, but she continued to move on now crawling through the murky waters.

It was not very long ago that her heart sang with the exuberance of a young girl, making her forget all that marred her past. She had a gift; she was able to block the unpleasant, banish the dark moments of her life, those that were nothing but blood and gore. It had to take a lot of effort on anyone's part to push her to relive those moments one night. It was a night of terror, tears and a heart that refused to beat on. It was a teary night when there was no desire for another morning; but she continued to crawl on, now barely able to get past her own shadow.

Facades! All facades! The laughter, not laughter but just the screeching sound of black shadowy witches circling around the old Banyan tree, celebrating the end!

It had been a while now; she had not been able to stroke the pages with ink forming words that were whirling around in her head all this time. It had been a while....

The woman struggling to find words, and the one with a treasure of words that she was unable to share with the world, the woman crawling through whatever was left of the land in front of her breathing her last few breaths; they were one! they had always been one - chasing light.....

Awakening

Stay still my wild heart!
For the song needs the quiet,
Stay still or lest the fear,
The strings may get entangled.

Go forth and embrace,
What life has brought your way,
The flimsy veils of disguise,
That would make desire sway.

So what if they would judge,
Your moments would still be yours,
Trust him, and he shall,
Guide you to untravelled shores.

Go, sit under the shade,
Of devotion once unknown,
Not many have the courage,
So fond this heart has grown.

The flecks of bronze and gold,
In eyes that touch my soul,
May God be the witness,
Of tales yet to be told.

What a wonder it is how we are so unaware of the different shades of our own personality - vicious, venomous, forlorn, gloomy, dark, pretentious, and then gentle, so full of love and affection, taking us by surprise at times. It is still a blend of a strange sadness and delightful joy, emotions not entirely unfamiliar but this time with a certainty that comes with unintentional and continuous display of devotion and unsaid promises. Many promises in the past were just that, hollow, without substance. Many promises I made to myself, now hazy and frazzled. Promises are nothing, just words that we might think we would be able to live up to, ignoring the fact that the being up there might have other plans for us. What more can one ask for than Him to decide for you what is best. I do wish I could foretell the future, but I can't. So I let Him guide me to a course that He knows is already part of my future for He can foretell! He created it!

Today I'm inspired to write for something that never before had the music in me flowing. I wrote futile stories and poems that were my truth as I saw them, but perhaps they weren't. Moments that froze in my memory were never mine to begin with. Songs that my heart danced to were mere fragments of my imagination. Unsaid words were never spoken because they never existed. Souls parted ways because they did not belong together. What a strange puzzle the Creator has designed, and for so many of us, for thousands of years, witnessing hundreds of thousands of sunsets. And we spend our lives trying to untangle ourselves from these intricacies? Such fools! It is far easier to live in the moment than trying to tailor the future which is not ours to begin with. And when we do, the enchanting music takes us to a world where moments stand still, the memories of which play a smile on the face. The longing to be part of that world increases and the journey continues...

Windows to the Soul

I sometimes wonder why I didn’t pay attention to those clichéd sayings that we tend to come across so often. People say eyes are the windows to the soul; they might be. But the truth is that sometimes you see a reflection of what you feel, in the eyes of another. The damp glimmer that I might have in my eyes is understood and the tears cherished, yes, it’s reflected in another pair of eyes. The silent woes waiting to be told need not be said to be heard anymore for they are intertwined with the strings of the heart of another. The strong desire to hear the enchanting sounds once the dark befalls half the planet, along with another, may not go unnoticed anymore for far across there is another soul quietly absorbing the beauty of the night and gazing inside his soul just like me.

What a strange place this is, silent, soothing, comforting yet the memory of rare moments spent together threaded beautifully like a tapestry, a piece of art. Small joys and the hope of many more memories to make together, contentment at where you are, what you are and what life you carve out for yourself; what are they but signs of a joyous life.

Night arrives again, bringing with itself a familiarity; the humdrum of the night having a soothing effect on nerves. How beautiful is still of the night and how mediocre the hustle and bustle of the day at times. I close my eyes and the fuzzy memory lurking behind the demands of the day emerges in its full glory once again, playing a content smile on my face, my heart filled with satisfaction at being able to bring it to life whenever I want. Staircases are nothing but dull steps of concrete to many, but a sight frozen in those moments on the first few steps a long time ago can make it worth a lifetime; the day you started your life! So I give up and with dampness threatening to escape from the corners of my eyes, decide that yes, I can dedicate one more night to the memory, and another night, and another, and yet another, till the time comes for life and me to part ways….

A Soul Like My Own

The night is quiet yet so full of signs of life, of being, of strange elements that surround us as we breathe on. I can just hear the wind though; no crickets chirping, no children playing night cricket matches, not even the occasional car honking. If I close my eyes for a few minutes like I just did, I can hear my thoughts very clearly. So many of them, most of them with a question mark! So I let myself be. I live in the moment, savouring it, or at least I try. I revel in the quiet that the night brings. I try to be as grateful as I can be for the one who brought light in my life when all I could see around me were dark clouds. And I bask in the memories of rare moments that make me feel more alive than it ever seemed possible. I am scared to open my eyes for the fear of losing the beautifully embedded moments behind the veils of my eyes - my tears treated like precious gems, collected lovingly in the palms of a soul so like my own; my whispers that once were unheard, now tuned into a melodious song by a heart throbbing close to my own; my hair brushed away gently from my face with the grace of silent breeze. 734 days of my life, still with no clear path in sight, yet strolling down under the shade of lush green trees taking me to a land I am not familiar with, yet I can hear faint music coming from a faraway place that awaits me with open arms.

But then there is utter confusion; I wonder what will become of the trail that is a straight path down to the meadows fragrant with dainty blooms. I was headed there, leaving the uncertainty behind; I knew the sun shone brighter there, the lake awaits me so I can sit beside it soaking my feet in the cool water. But it all seems so distant now. The Pied Piper plays a tune that captures my heart as it always has. I look back one last time at the meadow that spreads its arms urging me to stay on. I feel a sharp stab in my heart, guilt emerging at the abandonment. I cannot possibly abandon what has given me shelter and solace. I look longingly at the shadow of the faraway place, my heart now singing the same melody that the Pied Piper played. And then it comes to me! I rip a piece of my heart, embellish it with the best of what I had in me and bury it under the shade of a tree as my everlasting love for the meadow, planting my affection, gratitude and burying my special song that would continue to enchant for many years to come. I gather what is left of me and take the path unknown, following the music, leaving behind everything that I had, my heart now ripped to pieces, my soul battered and bruised, my pride wounded beyond repair, but I carry on with my journey in the hope of capturing the music with my love, not knowing that mine are not the only two feet taking steps to that land..... 

The Magical Mornings

I close my eyes and concentrate on the most melodious sounds in the world - birds chirping in the trees and the tinkle of the bell of an occasional bicycle passing by.

I open my eyes, get up and walk slowly to my desk facing the windows and gaze outside. The trees have started to show signs of the first set of greens, their branches spread out welcoming the feathered guests to perch on them, nest on them. I rest my chin on the palm of one hand and ponder! What is life all about? What a miracle it is! How intriguing that we are able to feel so many emotions in the short span of 24 hours every single day! And how fortunate that we are able to experience our tomorrows, so many of them! "Not everyone gets a tomorrow!"

My chain of thought is broken by the loud noise that 'Logan' the parakeet makes. What is it with this bird? I try to concentrate once again on what I was trying to fathom, trying to put thoughts together, feeling a mixed sense of sadness and happiness, and above all, enjoying the solitude.
I hum along with my happy-go-to-song Joe Dassin's Champs Elysees.
Joe dassin les champs elysees MP3 Download - abmp3.com
I am transported back to the little cafe on Orchard Road, Singapore, where I spent hours till late night, writing, blogging away, trying to express what whirlwind my mind was, trying to find myself.

I switch places again, this time I settle myself on the world's most comfortable couch, one that I have had for the last 18 years. I am a little restless this morning although there is just so much that I am able to accomplish during these few precious hours that are mine. I do what Brian Tracy tells me to do. Early morning hours are the best time to work on projects that demand uninterrupted attention, so just grab a glass of water and start! That is exactly what I do, as tempted as I am to have my leisurely breakfast before I start, I listen to these gurus. And in any case, I am a creature of habit; go out enjoy the morning breeze, check if there any new leaves or buds in any of the plants, come back to my study and start on a work or personal project, have breakfast while reading, and once the kids wake up, head out for the morning show at the cinema. It is almost like a ritual. You move me one inch from my routine especially on a Sunday, and I will not be such a happy, chirpy person.

This is what makes my mornings magical; the cool breeze caressing my face, the hyperactive Logan going absolutely berserk, the weaver bird refusing to leave the nest upon my arrival, the carefully built nest that it has built on my bougainvillea, 'Captain' the one-legged crow that lives outside the kitchen balcony on a tree and comes for food, my children waking up and heading out straight from their rooms to first look for their mom, early morning messages from my SEALA family, the peace and quiet (minus crazy Logan) that the morning brings with it, and most of all the predictability; what a glorious time of the day!

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!