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!