And then my soul saw you and it kind of went "Oh there you are. I've been looking for you.”


You are everywhere

When I shut my eyes to sleep,
you appear like a tear
at the corners of my eyes.

I try to wrestle away your thoughts
by shoving aside our memories,
struggling in vain to distract myself
but I give up
and they stay.

Get out of my mind
come in front
because I’d rather that you
bother me where I can see you.

If I fall asleep, it’s you that I dream of.
If I don’t, then there’s no escape
from the haunting reality;
the shadow that is you.

Like a ghost you follow me
everywhere I go
and no amount of light
can scare you away.

Get out of my mind
come in front
because I’d rather that you
bother me where I can see you.

Like a parasite you cling onto me
or a perfume that doesn’t wear off.
You are Everywhere
and you are Everytime.


تم نے آبشاروں کو چپ ہوتے دیکھا ہے؟ کبھی کبھی اپنی تمام شان و شوکت میں بھی  پانی ساکت ہوجاتا ہے، آوازیں ماند پڑجاتی ہیں۔ پھر وہ بہتا نہیں گرتا ہے۔ ہلکے، ہلکےـ صرف کسی حکم کی تعمیل کرنے کوـ مگر سنو، پانی بےجان نہیں ہوتاـ یہی بوندیں جب پتھروں پہ پڑتی ہیں تو انہیں توڑ کررکھ دیتی ہیں۔۔۔ سوراخ کردیتی ہیں ان میں۔ پانی خاموش ہوتا ہے مگر اسکی بوند بوند بلا کا شور پالتی ہےـ ایسا کہ جاننے والے پر ہیبت طاری کردے۔
تم نے پتھروں کو ٹوٹتے دیکھا ہے؟

Tum ne aabsharon ko chup hotay dekha hae? Kabhi kabhi apni tamaam shaan-o-shokat mai bhi paani sak’t hojata hae, awaazain maand parjati haen. Phir wo behta nahi, girta hae. Halkay, halkay. Sirf kisi hukam ki taameel karny ko. Magar suno, paani be-jan nahi hota. Yehi boondain jab patharon pe parrti haen tou unhay torr ke rakh deti haen… Sorakh kardeti haen inn me. Paani khamosh hota hae magar iski boond boond bala ka shor palti hae. Aesa ke ‘jannay waly’ par haibat tari karday.
Tum ne patharon ko toot’ty dekha hae?


The body pulls towards itself; to keep intact, to breathe, to live.

The soul is inclined to reach your doorstep.

The skin itches.




Leading Lady.

Lights off/curtains down
darkness spreads/a sharp sound

stage breaks/people shout
helter-skelter/they run about

fire starts/audience leaves
amidst flames/the lady weeps.


I think of you
during nights
when there is no sleep.
And I
count our memories
on stars,
taking your name
on my fingertips
until it leaves me





I was
still am
always will be.”

His eyes were red. They emitted fire. His hair was all messed up. Like his life. He would pull his hair, kick his bed, his door, and cry. Tears wouldn’t stop for even a minute – nor would he make any effort of that kind. He was too weak, so helpless, that any effort to push back the inevitable seemed useless.

He kept pacing around the small room with a mind too full or blank. I am not sure he knew what he was doing or what he could, because he didn’t seem to show that in his ways.

Between his wails a name unknowingly escaped his lips. Her name. His secret. He sat down suddenly on the floor and began staring his palms. Her name was his object, and how he worshiped it. It was his everything. She was his everything!

But nothing was same anymore. His secret was the talk of the town then. Everybody was curious about her; how she had died. How she had been killed. How anyone like her so young, pretty, freecould be killed?!

She was free, as they knew, but there are always things which you think you know though you don’t, no? She was enslaved too. He was her master. Like she was his mistress, his diva.

He got up weakly and went towards the small table on his bedside. A crumpled ball of yellow sheet laid there on the floor;  rejected, thrown. He picked it up and unfolded the creases carefully to not bring any more damage. It was his last hope. He began reading…


I was
still am
always will be.”

It were just those four lines, those few words that brought him to tears again. He started to scream violently, repeating her name again and again as if it were his medicine. As if she would return if he would call her now. But some things just don’t return to normal once you hurt them, do they?

He had killed her. He was his master, and his murderer. And he thought he loved her…


Startled by a bell, he looked at the door. A man in uniform stood there. He asked him a few unnecessary questions, stole a quick inspective glance at his room, and patted his shoulder. Told him he understood his pain, his own wife had died not too long ago. Asked him to please hold on, to not give up. To God we belong and to Him shall we return.


He sat down on his bed, alone again, and rubbed his eyes. A sudden throbbing pain in his head started all of a sudden, forcing him to shriek. He clenched his fist and hit his forehead multiple times the pain didn’t leave, of course.

“Yours – I was”
yes, she was his.
Since ever. She had always lived for him. He was her first prayer. Her first and only sawaal, minnat, dua. And last.

“Yours – I still am”
“Are you? Are you still?” he asked. “Come back! Will you come back?” he cried. The memories of her falling on his feet flashed back that instant, and he could see again how he had done it. How he had killed a begging diva...

Shouts. Cries. Clarifications. Slowly his mind began to lose its power to comprehend each voice and with each next note added a different melody. He touched her side of the bed rather helplessly as tears rolled down his eyes when he shut them close. It was then that a silver figure walked gracefully to his side and placed her hand gently on his head, to put him to sleep.

Yours I always will be, she whispered.

Maria Imran.

LOVE. Lost and found.


I love it to bits, Pamela.

Some connections are just meant to be. And no borders, orders, or fences can help separate those. This is one such and I am EXTREMELY grateful!
Thanks a million, and another million! YOUR EIDI MADE MY DAY. <3

Originally posted on Resonner's Blog:

A Hindu married a Muslim,
And two sisters grew in the womb,
Little then did they know,
They will build each others tomb…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Borders are like birds,
They will fly wherever they want to.
Nations are like clouds,
They will drift wherever they like to.

But people are the skies,
They will have to stay back,
To witness all birds and clouds,
Good-bad, light and dark.

Soldiers, wars, battles, gun fights,
Matters trivial, wrongs and rights…
One after the other, shot after shot,
The opportunity for love- lost.
Mountains, rivers, valleys and snow.
What do we fight for,
Do we really know?

We are warring over the Indus,
So much blood, so much loss!

View original 489 more words

Morning paper weeps
slaughtered: a father of five
kohl washes away.

Eid Mubarak, though.


Originally posted on Palestine Rose:

drawing-by-Shahd-Abusalama-in Gaza

—Sad eyes suffocate— pleading for an end—
—of the massacre and siege—
—on Gaza—

View original


TemptationI tried looking for you.

I won’t say I traveled far and wide or climbed those hills and things. No, but I met people and studied them to study you. I stopped to look at your personal things, and I tried sketching out your details.I wanted you back.

But I guess I am tired now.

And I guess I no longer understand you.

You are too grand, too far, too complex. I am too vain.

Young death

He had returned home after playing with his friends in the locality, and now his body rested before them in a still, lifeless state. How his mother would have cried on undressing his young dead son and how they would have put on a kafann… how the strong smell of kaafoor would have filled up the entire hall and his birth day would have played vividly like a film in his mother’s mind. How his first smile, first cry, the way he had so strongly clasped her finger, his first step, first sound, first meal, first everything would haunt their dreams from now onwards.

Dreams. He must’ve weaved a lot of them. Now that he had completed his second year at college, he might have planned the wildest and most unique of dreams. Things he would have blurted out energetically to gain encouragement but would’ve been told were impossible, and how we would have then promised himself to prove the world nothing was ever far from a man who tries…

And how his siblings would have begged his motionless body to please return; to tease, to play, to fight, to laugh, to stay.

How his father would have put on a strong yet imperfect cover on his feelings to look at his son, and to attend his guests and relatives. How he would have hugged his other children and tried unsuccessfully to console his wife, and how his lips would have trembled on the words of Imaam: Inna lillahi wa Inna Ilaihee Rajiiyuun.


It is not true when they say some people die before their time. Nobody dies before time. Death has no time, no time at all.

[Rest in peace Hammad.]



‘I was worried for you.’

“You needn’t be. I am okay by myself.”

“I know you are not. Nobody with red, swollen eyes is.”

“Oh, stop. That’s called sleep deprivation.”

“It’s called a hopeless-struggle-to-put-on-a-mask, silly!”

“Not even a term”, I replied.


The mad man.

The traffic is high
the night is dark
but the mad man
doesn’t care.

He runs madly
and carelessly
by the roadside;
his feet bare.

A bottle in his hand
and tears in his eyes
he drinks as he runs,
amidst anyone’s stare.

He is mad, so he is free
and no one questions
his authority.

He can kill- if he likes
he may not, if he mustn’t
No chains bind him at all;
of reason nor responsibility.

Tears block his vision,
so for a moment he stumbles
but this doesn’t make him stop
or go against his decision.

The mad man keeps running
and the world begins to fade
the traffic soon dissolves
in a hazy, unknown shade.

No one knows where he ended
what his quest was, what he wanted
but they say in a planet of madness
only he had life comprehended.

- Maria Imran.

Related post: (In)sanity.


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